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Marion told him of the Ironteeth host, of the Wing Leader and the Thirteen, of the armies camped around the mountain Keep, of the places where only screaming echoed, of the countless forges and blacksmiths. She described her own escape: without warning, she didn’t know how, the castle had exploded. She’d seen it as her chance, disguising herself in a witch’s attire, grabbing one of their packs, and running. In the chaos, no one had chased her.
“I owe a debt to a friend—someone who helped me get out of Morath. She bade me to find someone named Celaena Sardothien. So that is my first task: learning who she is, where she is. Terrasen seems like a better place to start than Adarlan.”
“And then,” the girl went on, the brightness in her eyes growing, “I need to find Aelin Galathynius, the Queen of Terrasen.”
“Because I am from Terrasen and believed my queen dead. And now she is alive, and fighting, so I will fight with her. So that no other girls will be taken from their homes and brought to Morath and forgotten.”
Lorcan debated telling her what he knew: that her two quests were one and the same.
“You swear it? That you will protect me?” “I didn’t leave you to the ilken today, did I?” She eyed him with a clarity and frankness that made him pause. “Swear it.”
He rolled his eyes. “I promise.” The girl had no idea that for the past five centuries, promises were the only currency he really traded in. “I will not abandon you.”
“And you have some idea around this?” A faint smile danced around her rosebud mouth, despite the horrors they’d escaped, her misery in the woods. “I might.”
The wind had shifted, blowing toward Iskra. Blowing Manon’s scent at her. “Who?” Iskra seethed. “Who of mine did you butcher?”
“You are a liar, Witch Killer.”
Manon’s attention went to the golden-haired heir. To Petrah. She had not seen the Blueblood heir since the day of the War Games, when Manon had saved her life from a sure-kill fall. Saved her life, but was unable to save the life of Petrah’s wyvern—whose throat had been ripped to shreds by Iskra’s bull.
A crown of iron stars sat upon the Matron’s pale brow,
Unlike Petrah’s. Caution—warning shone in her deep blue eyes.
Petrah had always been odd, head in the clouds, but that was the way of the Bluebloods. Mystics, fanatics, zealots were among the pleasanter terms used to describe them and their worship of the Three-Faced Goddess.
Rumor had claimed that losing her wyvern had broken the heir—that she had not gotten out of bed for weeks. Witches did not mourn, because witches did not love enough to allow it to break them. Even if Asterin, now taking up her place by the Blackbeak Matron’s Second, had proved otherwise.
“Three Matrons, to honor the three faces of our Mother.” Maiden, Mother, Crone. It was why the Yellowlegs Matron was always ancient, why the Blackbeak was always a witch in her prime, and why Cresseida, as the Blueblood Matron, still looked young and fresh.
“The Crone’s Sickle hangs above us,” Cresseida intoned. “Let it be the Mother’s blade of justice.” This was not a meeting. This was a trial. Iskra began smiling.
So Manon did. And for the first time in her century of miserable existence, she lied to her elders.
“Because Keelie fought for you as she died. I would not allow her death to be wasted. I could offer a fellow warrior nothing less.”
At the sound of her dead wyvern’s name, pain flickered across Petrah’s face. “You remember her name?” Manon knew it wasn’t an intended question. But she nodded all the same.
A life debt—that was what lay between them. Did Petrah think to fill it by speaking in her favor now?
“The blood shed must be equal,” her grandmother intoned. Her attention flicked over Manon’s shoulder. “So you, Granddaughter, will not die for this. But one of your Thirteen will.”
For the first time in a long, long while, Manon knew what fear, what human helplessness, tasted like as her grandmother said, triumph lighting her ancient eyes, “Your Second, Asterin Blackbeak, shall pay the blood debt between our clans. She dies at sunrise tomorrow.”
The sight of those pointed ears was still a shock, even months after meeting the male. And that silver hair— Not like Manon’s hair, which was the pure white of moonlight on snow.
He wondered what had become of the Wing Leader—who had killed for him, spared him. Not spared him. Rescued him.
that darkness, that violence and stark, honest way of looking at the world … There would be no secrets with her. No lies.
control. Your power is both part of you and its own entity. If left to its own devices, it will consume you, wield you like a tool.”
“The choice is yours how much you allow it into your life, how to use it—but go any longer without mastering it, Majesty, and it will destroy you.”
His magic had felt the bond between Aelin and Rowan—the bond that went deeper than blood, than their magic, and he’d assumed it was just that they were mates, and hadn’t announced it to anyone. But if Rowan already had a mate, and had lost her …
“Your people will have learned by now that you were not among the dead. It is upon you to tell them how to interpret it—if they are to see you as abandoning them, or if they are to see you as a man who is leaving to find help—to save them. You must make that clear.”
“I have known many kings in my life, Dorian Havilliard. And it was a rare man indeed who asked for help when he needed it, who would put aside pride.”
“Aelin is my heart. I taught her what I knew, and it worked because our magics understood each other deep down—just as our souls did. You are … different. Your magic is something I have rarely encountered. You need someone who grasps it, or at least how to train you in it. But I can teach you control; I can teach you about spiraling down into your power, and taking care of yourself.”
“She was … in a very dark place. We both were. But we led each other out of it. Found a way—together.”
“You will find your way, too, Dorian. You’ll find your way out.”
She’d burned him alive. From the inside out.
And Aedion smiled like the wolf he was as he lifted the Sword of Orynth and unleashed himself upon the line of soldiers raising weapons on the left, Lysandra lunging to the right with a guttural snarl, and Aelin rained down flames of gold and ruby upon the world.
The temple complex comprised three buildings around a massive courtyard: the archives, the residence for the long-dead priestesses, and the temple proper, where the ancient Rock was held.
He’d fought beautifully—and she’d made sure to leave some men alive for him to take down. She was not the only symbol here tonight, not the only one watched.
Aelin left her again in falcon form, perched on a rotting beam in the cavernous archives, staring at the enormous rendering of a sea dragon carved into the floor, at last revealed by that razing fire. One of many similar carvings throughout, the heritage of a people long since exiled.
Fire could destroy—but also cleanse.
She’d have to do this the old-fashioned way, then. Aelin mounted the small stairs that allowed pilgrims to gaze upon the sacred Rock—then stepped onto it.
a deep male voice said behind her, “You look younger than I thought.” Aelin stared at the sea, even as her stomach tightened. “But just as good-looking, right?”
“At least my daughter was right about your humility.”
A whisper of wind to her right, then long, muscled legs beneath ancient armor appeared beside hers, sandaled feet dangling into the surf. She finally dared to turn her head, finding that armor continued to a powerful male body and a broad-boned, handsome face. He might have fooled anyone into thinking he was flesh and blood—were it not for the pale glimmer of blue light along his edges. Aelin bowed her head slightly to Brannon.
his red-gold hair shifting in the moonlight.
“I had my friends send you a message to come for a reason, you know.”
She’d had enough of waiting until they dumped their message into her lap. She had her own gods-damned questions.
All Fae may be killed, yet she has outlived even our extended life spans, and her power … no one really understands her power.”
“She’s not Valg, is she?” A low laugh. “No. As cold as one, but no.” Brannon’s edges began to blur a bit.
“Does the power ever get easier to handle?” Brannon’s gaze softened a fraction. “Yes and no. How it impacts your relationships with those around you becomes harder than managing the power—yet is tied to it as well. Magic is no easy gift in any form, yet fire … We burn not just within our magic, but also in our very souls. For better or worse.”
