The golden-haired witch by the trees was ramrod straight.
But the Wing Leader—Manon—bowed her head. “You’ll tell me when it’s necessary.”
“Go look. Let’s see if it meets my granddaughter’s standards.”
With that, the Matron strode into the trees, the second coven of witches now waiting for her.
Manon Blackbeak didn’t wipe away the blue blood sliding down her face as she walked up the steps of the wagon, pausing on the landing for only a heartbeat before entering the gloom beyond.
It was as good a sign as any to get the hell out. With Aedion and Nesryn guarding their backs, Aelin and Rowan hurried for the spot where Chaol and Lysandra would be waiting. Not without magic would she take on the king and Dorian. She didn’t have a death wish—either for herself or her friends.
She found Lysandra standing with a hand braced against a tree, wide-eyed, breathing hard.
Chaol was gone.
59
The demon seized control the moment the man who wielded the collar returned. It shoved him back into that pit of memory until he was the one screaming again, until he was small and broken and fragmented.
But those golden eyes lingered.
Come find me again, Prince.
A promise—a promise of death, of release.
Come find me again.
The words soon faded, swallowed up by screaming and blood and the demon’s cold fingers running over his mind. But the eyes lingered—and that name.
Manon.
Manon.
Chaol couldn’t let the king take Dorian back to the castle. He might never get this chance again.
He had to do it now. Had to kill him.
Chaol hurtled through the brush as quietly as he could, sword out, bracing himself.
A dagger through the eye—a dagger, and then—
Talking from ahead, along with the rustling of leaves and wood.
Chaol neared the party, beginning to pray, beginning to beg for forgiveness—for what he was about to do and for how he had run. He’d kill the king later; let that kill be his last. But this would be the kill that broke him.
He drew his dagger, cocking his arm. Dorian had been directly behind the king. One throw, to knock the prince off the horse, then a sweep of his sword, and it could be over. Aelin and the others could deal with the aftermath; he’d already be dead.
Chaol broke through the trees into a field, the dagger a burning weight in his hand.
It was not the king’s party that stood there in the tall grass and sunlight.
Thirteen witches and their wyverns turned to him.
And smiled.
Aelin ran through the trees as Rowan tracked Chaol by scent alone.
If he got them killed, if he got them hurt—
They’d left Nesryn to guard Lysandra, ordering them to head for the forest across the nearby temple ravine and to wait under an outcropping of stones. Before herding Lysandra between the trees, Nesryn had tightly grabbed Aelin’s arm and said, “Bring him back.”
Aelin had only nodded before bolting.
Rowan was a streak of lightning through the trees, so much faster than her when she was stuck in this body. Aedion sprinted close behind him. She ran as quickly as she could, but—
The path veered away, and Chaol had taken the wrong fork. Where the hell had Chaol even been going?
She could scarcely draw breath fast enough. Then light flooded in through a break in the trees—the other side of the wide meadow.
Rowan and Aedion stood a few feet into the swaying grass, their swords out—but downcast.
She saw why a heartbeat later.
Not thirty feet from them, Chaol’s lip bled down his chin as the white-haired witch held him against her, iron nails digging into his throat. The prison wagon was open beyond them to reveal the three dead soldiers inside.
The twelve witches behind the Wing Leader were all grinning with anticipatory delight as they took in Rowan and Aedion, then her.
“What’s this?” the Wing Leader said, a killing light in her golden eyes. “Spies? Rescuers? Where did you take our prisoner?”
Chaol struggled, and she dug her nails in farther. He stiffened. A trickle of blood leaked down his neck and onto his tunic.
Oh, gods. Think—think, think, think.
The Wing Leader shifted those burnt-gold eyes to Rowan.
“Your kind,” the Wing Leader mused, “I have not seen for a time.”
“Let the man go,” Rowan said.
Manon’s smile revealed a row of flesh-shredding iron teeth, far, far too close to Chaol’s neck. “I don’t take orders from Fae bastards.”
“Let him go,” Rowan said too softly. “Or it will be the last mistake you make, Wing Leader.”
In the field behind them, the wyverns were stirring, their tails lashing, wings shifting.
The white-haired witch peered at Chaol, whose breathing had turned ragged. “The king is not too far down the road. Perhaps I should hand you over to him.” The cuts on her cheeks, scabbed in blue, were like brutal war paint. “He’ll be furious to learn you stole his prisoner from me. Maybe you’ll appease him, boy.”
Aelin and Rowan shared all of one look before she stepped up to his side, drawing Goldryn. “If you want a prize to give to the king,” Aelin said, “then take me.”
“Don’t,” Chaol gasped out.
The witch and all twelve of her sentinels now fixed their immortal, deadly attention on Aelin.
Aelin dropped Goldryn into the grass and lifted her hands. Aedion snarled in warning.
“Why should I bother?” the Wing Leader said. “Perhaps we’ll take you all to the king.”
Aedion’s sword lifted slightly. “You can try.”
Aelin carefully approached the witch, her hands still up. “You enter into a fight with us, and you and your companions will die.”
The Wing Leader looked her up and down. “Who are you.” An order—not a question.
“Aelin Galathynius.”
Surprise—and perhaps something else, something Aelin couldn’t identify—sparked in the Wing Leader’s golden eyes. “The Queen of Terrasen.”
Aelin bowed, not daring to take her attention off the witch. “At your service.”
Only three feet separated her from the Blackbeak heir.
The witch sliced a glance at Chaol, and then at Aedion and Rowan. “Your court?”
“What’s it to you?”
The Wing Leader studied Aedion again. “Your brother?”
“My cousin, Aedion. Almost as pretty as me, wouldn’t you say?”
The witch didn’t smile.
But Aelin was now near enough, so close that the spatters of Chaol’s blood lay in the grass before the tip of her boots.
The Queen of Terrasen.
Elide’s hope had not been misplaced.
Even if the young queen was now toeing the dirt and grass, unable to keep still while she bargained for the man’s life.
Behind her, the Fae warrior observed every flicker of movement.
He’d be the deadly one—the one to look out for.
It had been fifty years since she’d fought a Fae warrior. Bedded him, then fought him. He’d left the bones of her arm in pieces.
She’d just left him in pieces.
But he had been young, and arrogant, and barely trained.
This male … He might very well be capable of killing at least a few of her Thirteen if she so much as harmed a hair on the queen’s head. And then there was the golden-haired one—as large as the Fae male, but possessing his cousin’s bright arrogance and honed wildness. He might be problematic, if left alive too long.
The queen kept fidgeting her foot in the grass. She couldn’t be more than twenty. And yet, she moved like a warrior, too—or she had, until the incessant shifting around. But she halted the movement, as if realizing that it gave away her nerves, her inexperience. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction for Manon to detect the queen’s true level of fear. “Well, Wing Leader?”
Would the king put a collar around her fair neck, as he had the prince’s? Or would he kill her? It made no difference. She would be a prize the king would welcome.
Manon shoved away the captain, sending him stumbling toward the queen. Aelin reached out with an arm, nudging him to the side—behind her. Manon and the queen stared at each other.
No fear in her eyes—in her pretty, mortal face.
None.
It’d be more trouble than it was worth.
Manon had bigger things to consider, anyway. Her grandmother approved. Approved of the breeding, the breaking of the witches.
Manon needed to get into the sky, needed to lose herself in cloud and wind for a few hours. Days. Weeks.
“I have no interest in prisoners or battling today,” Manon said.
The Queen of Terrasen gave her a grin. “Good.”
Manon turned away, barking at her Thirteen to get to their mounts.
“I suppose,” the queen went on, “that makes you smarter than Baba Yellowlegs.”
Manon stopped, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing of the grass or sky or trees.
Asterin whirled. “What do you know of Baba Yellowlegs?”
The queen gave a low chuckle, despite the warning growl from the Fae warrior.
Slowly, Manon looked over her shoulder.
The queen tugged apart the lapels of her tunic, revealing a necklace of thin scars as the wind shifted.
The scent—iron and stone and pure hatred—hit Manon like a rock to the face. Every Ironteeth witch knew the scent that forever lingered on those scars: Witch Killer.