Aelin cut through the neatly organized tents, past horses and their armored riders, past foot soldiers around campfires, past the ruk riders and their mighty birds, who filled him with such awe he had no words for it. All the way to the eastern edge of the camp and the plains that stretched past, the space wide and hollow after the closeness of the army.
She didn’t stop until she reached a stream they’d crossed only hours ago. It was nearly frozen over, but a stomp of her boot had the ice cracking. Breaking free to reveal dark water kissed with silvery starlight.
Then she fell to her knees and drank.
Drank and drank, cupping the water to her mouth. It had to be cold enough to burn, but she kept at it until she braced her hands on her knees and said, “I can’t do this.”
Rowan sank to a knee, the shield he’d kept around her while she stalked here sealing out the cold wind off the open plain.
“I—I can’t—” She took a shuddering breath, and covered her face with her wet hands.
Gently, Rowan gripped her wrists and lowered them. “You do not face this alone.”
Anguish and terror filled those beautiful eyes, and his chest tightened to the point of pain as she said, “It was a fool’s shot against Erawan. But against him and Maeve? She gathered an army to her. Is likely bringing that army to Terrasen right now. And if Erawan summons his two brothers, if the other kings return—”
“He needs the two other keys to do that. He doesn’t have them.”
Her fingers curled, digging into her palms hard enough that the tang of her blood filled the air. “I should have gone after the keys. Right away. Not come here. Not done this.”
“It is Dorian’s task now, not yours. He will not fail at it.”
“It is my task, and always has been—”
“We made the choice to come here, and we will stick to that decision,” he snarled, not bothering to temper his tone. “If Maeve is indeed bringing her army to Terrasen, then it only confirms that we were right to come here. That we must convince the khagan’s forces to go northward after this. It is the only chance we stand of succeeding.”
Aelin ran her hands through her hair. Streams of blood stained the gold. “I cannot win against them. Against a Valg king and queen.” Her voice turned to a rasp. “They have already won.”
“They have not.” And though Rowan hated each word, he growled, “And you survived two months against Maeve with no magic to protect you. Two months of a Valg queen trying to break into your head, Aelin. To break you.”
Aelin shook. “She did, though.”
Rowan waited for it.
Aelin whispered, “I wanted to die by the end, before she ever threatened me with the collar. And even now, I feel like someone has ripped me from myself. Like I’m at the bottom of the sea, and who I am, who I was, is far up at the surface, and I will never get back there again.”
He didn’t know what to say, what to do other than to gently pull her fingers from her palms.
“Did you buy the swagger, the arrogance?” she demanded, voice breaking. “Did the others? Because I’ve been trying to. I’ve been trying like hell to convince myself that it’s real, reminding myself I only need to pretend to be how I was just long enough.”
Long enough to forge the Lock and die.
He said softly, “I know, Aelin.” He hadn’t bought the winks and smirks for a heartbeat.
Aelin let out a sob that cracked something in him. “I can’t feel me—myself anymore. It’s like she snuffed it out. Ripped me from it. She, and Cairn, and everything they did to me.” She gulped down air, and Rowan wrapped her in his arms and pulled her onto his lap. “I am so tired,” she wept. “I am so, so tired, Rowan.”
“I know.” He stroked her hair. “I know.” It was all there really was to say.
Rowan held her until her weeping eased and she lay still, nestled against his chest.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
“You fight,” he said simply. “We fight. Until we can’t anymore. We fight.”
She sat up, but remained on his lap, staring into his face with a rawness that destroyed him.
Rowan laid a hand on her chest, right over that burning heart. “Fireheart.”
A challenge and a summons.
She placed her hand atop his, warm despite the frigid night. As if that fire had not yet gone out entirely. But she only gazed up at the stars. To the Lord of the North, standing watch. “We fight,” she breathed.
Aelin found Fenrys by a quiet fire, gazing into the crackling flames.
She sat on the log beside him, raw and open and trembling, but … the salt of her tears had washed away some of it. Steadied her. Rowan had steadied her, and still did, as he kept watch from the shadows beyond the fire.
Fenrys lifted his head, his eyes as hollow as she knew hers had been.
“Whenever you need to talk about it,” she said, her voice still hoarse, “I’m here.”
Fenrys nodded, his mouth a tight line. “Thank you.”
The camp was readying for their departure, but Aelin scooted closer, and sat beside him in silence for long minutes.
Two healers, marked only by the white bands around their biceps, hurried past, arms full of bandages.
Aelin tensed. Focused on her breathing.
Fenrys marked her line of sight. “They were horrified, you know,” he said quietly. “Every time she brought them in to … fix you.”
The two healers vanished around a tent. Aelin flexed her fingers, shaking the lightness from them. “It didn’t stop them from doing it.”
“They didn’t have a choice.”
She met his dark stare. Fenrys’s mouth tightened. “No one would have left you in those states. No one.”
Broken and bloody and burned—
She gripped Goldryn’s hilt. Helpless.
“They defied her in their own way,” Fenrys went on. “Sometimes, she’d order them to bring you back to consciousness. Often, they claimed they couldn’t, that you’d fallen too deeply into oblivion. But I knew—I think Maeve did, too—that they put you there. For as long as possible. To buy you time.”
She swallowed. “Did she punish them?”
“I don’t know. It was never the same healers.”
Maeve likely had. Had likely ripped their minds apart for their defiance.
Aelin’s grip tightened on the sword at her side.
Helpless. She had been helpless. As so many in this city, in Terrasen, in this continent, were helpless.
Goldryn’s hilt warmed in her hand.
She wouldn’t be that way again. For whatever time she had left.
Gavriel padded up beside Rowan, took one look at the queen and Fenrys, and murmured, “Not the news we needed to hear.”
Rowan closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “No, it was not.”
Gavriel settled a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “It changes nothing, in some ways.”
“How.”
“We served her. She was … not what Aelin is. What a queen should be. We knew that long before we knew the truth. If Maeve wants to use what she is against us, to ally with Morath, then it changes things. But the past is over. Done with, Rowan. Knowing Maeve is Valg or just a wretched person doesn’t change what happened.”
“Knowing a Valg queen wants to enslave my mate, and nearly did so, changes a great deal.”
“But we know what Maeve fears, why she fears it,” Gavriel countered, his tawny eyes bright. “Fire, and the healers. If Maeve comes with that army of hers, we are not defenseless.”
It was true. Rowan could have cursed himself for not thinking of it already. Another question formed, though. “Her army,” Rowan said. “It’s made up of Fae.”
“So was her armada,” Gavriel said warily.
Rowan ran a hand through his hair. “Will you be able to live with it—fighting our own people?” Killing them.
“Will you?” Gavriel countered.
Rowan didn’t answer.
Gavriel asked after a moment, “Why didn’t Aelin offer me the blood oath?”
The male hadn’t asked these weeks. And Rowan wasn’t sure why Gavriel inquired now, but he gave him the truth. “Because she won’t do it until Aedion has taken the oath first. To offer it to you before him … she wants Aedion to take it first.”
“In case he doesn’t wish me to be near his kingdom.”
“So that Aedion knows she placed his needs before her own.”
Gavriel bowed his head. “I would say yes, if she offered.”
“I know.” Rowan clapped his oldest friend on the back. “She knows, too.”
The Lion gazed northward. “Do you think … we haven’t heard any news from Terrasen.”
“If it had fallen, if Aedion had fallen, we would know. People here would know.”
Gavriel rubbed at his chest. “We’ve been to war. He’s been to war. Fought on battlefields as a child, gods be damned.” Rage flickered over Gavriel’s face. Not at what Aedion had done, but what he’d been made to do by fate and misfortune. What Gavriel had not been there to prevent. “But I still dread every day that passes and we hear nothing. Dread every messenger we see.”
A terror Rowan had never known, different from his fear for his mate, his queen. The fear of a father for his child.
He didn’t allow himself to look toward Aelin. To remember his dreams while hunting for her. The family he’d seen. The family they’d make together.
“We must convince the khaganate royals to march northward when this battle is over,” Gavriel swore softly.
Rowan nodded. “If we can smash this army tomorrow, and convince the royals that Terrasen is the only course of action, then we could indeed be heading north soon. You might be fighting at Aedion’s side by Yulemas.”
Gavriel’s hands clenched at his sides, tattoos spreading over his knuckles. “If he will allow me that honor.”
Rowan would make Aedion allow it. But he only said, “Gather Elide and Lorcan. The ruks are almost ready to depart.”