Manon and Asterin whirled, others following suit as the witch sprinted for Glennis’s tent. The crone emerged as the witch skidded to a halt. A scout, no doubt, breathless and hair wind-tossed.
“Terrasen calls for aid,” the scout panted, bracing her hands on her knees as she bent over to gulp down breaths. “Morath routed them at the border, then at Perranth, and advances on Orynth as we speak. They will sack the city within a week.”
Worse news than Manon had anticipated. Even if she’d needed it, waited for it.
The Thirteen closed in, Bronwen a step behind, and Manon didn’t dare breathe as Glennis stared toward the immortal flame burning in the fire pit mere feet away. The Flame of War.
Then she turned toward Manon. “What say you, Queen of Witches?”
A challenge and a dare.
Manon lifted her chin at the two paths before her.
One to the east, to Morath. The other northward, to Terrasen and battle.
The wind sang, and in it, she heard the answer.
“I shall answer Terrasen’s call,” Manon said.
Asterin stepped to her side, fearless as she surveyed the assembled camp. “As shall I.”
Sorrel flanked Manon’s right. “So shall the Thirteen.”
Manon waited, hardly daring to acknowledge the thing that began burning in her chest.
Then Bronwen stepped up, her dark hair blowing in the chill wind. “The Vanora hearth shall fly north.”
Another witch squared her shoulders. “So shall the Silian.”
And so it went.
Until the leaders of all seven of the Great Hearths stood gathered there.
Until Glennis said to Manon, “Long ago, Rhiannon Crochan rode at King Brannon’s side into battle. So has her likeness been reborn, so shall the old alliances be forged anew.” She gestured to the eternal flame. “Light the Flame of War, Queen of Witches, and rally your host.”
Manon’s heart raced, so wildly it pulsed in her palms, but she picked up a birch branch set amongst the kindling.
No one spoke as she plunged it into the eternal flame.
Red and gold and blue leaped upon the wood, devouring it. Manon withdrew the branch only when it had caught, deep and true.
Even the wind did not jostle the flame as Manon lifted it, a torch in the new day.
The Crochan crowd parted, revealing a straight path toward Bronwen’s hearth. The witch was already waiting, her coven gathered around her.
Each step was a drumbeat of war. An answer to a question posed long ago.
Bronwen’s eyes were bright as Manon stopped.
Manon only said, “Your queen summons you to war.”
And touched her flame to that in Bronwen’s hearth.
Light flared, bright and dancing.
Bronwen picked up a branch of her own, a long log burning in the fire. “The Vanora will fly.”
She withdrew the wood and stalked to the next clan’s hearth, where she plunged that kernel of the sacred fire into their pit. Again the light flared, just as Bronwen declared, loud and clear as the breaking day around them, “Your queen summons you to war. The Vanora fly with her. Will you?”
The hearth leader only said, “The Redbriar will fly,” and ignited her own torch before hurrying to the next clan’s fire.
Hearth to hearth. Until all seven in the camp had accepted and ignited the fire.
Then, and only then, did the young scout from the final clan take her burning torch, grab her broom, and leap into the skies. To find the next clan, to tell them the call had gone out.
Manon and the Thirteen, the Crochans around them, watched until the scout was nothing but a smoldering speck against the sky, then nothing at all.
Manon offered a silent prayer on the wind that the sacred flame the young scout bore would burn steadfast over the long, dangerous miles.
All the way to the killing fields of Terrasen.
Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went.
Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame.
But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen.
So hearth to hearth, it went.
To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high.
Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, “Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?”
Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine.
And swords—ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin.
Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time.
Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer. Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people.
Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war.
A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies in their red cloaks, swords strapped to their backs, brooms shedding years of dust with each mile northward.
Witches who bade their families farewell, offering no explanation before they kissed their sleeping babes and vanished into the starry night.
Mile after mile, across the darkening world, the call went out, ceaseless and unending as the eternal flame that passed from hearth to hearth.
“Fly, fly, fly!” they shouted. “To the queen! To war!”
Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.
CHAPTER 66
Aelin awoke to the scent of pine and snow, and knew she was home.
Not in Terrasen, not yet, but in the sense she would always be home, if Rowan was with her.
His steady breaths filled her right ear, the sound of the well and truly asleep, and the arm he’d draped across her middle was a solid, warm weight. Silvery light glazed the ancient stones of the ceiling.
Morning—or a cloudy day. The halls beyond the room offered shards of sound that she sorted through, piece by piece, as if she were assembling a broken mirror that might reveal the world beyond.
Apparently, it had been three days since the battle. And the rest of the khagan’s army, led by Prince Kashin, his third-eldest son, had arrived.
It was that tidbit that had her rising fully to consciousness, a hand sliding to Rowan’s arm. A caress of a touch, just to see how deeply the rejuvenating sleep held him. Three days, they’d slept here, unaware of the world. A dangerous, vulnerable time for any magic-wielder, when their bodies demanded a deep sleep to recover from expending so much power.
That was another sliver she’d picked up: Gavriel sat outside their door. In mountain lion form. People drew quiet when they approached, not realizing that as soon as they passed him, their whispers of That strange, terrifying cat could be detected by Fae ears.
Aelin ran a finger over the seam of Rowan’s sleeve, feeling the corded muscle beneath. Clear—her head, her body felt clear. Like the first icy breath inhaled on a winter’s morning.
During the days they’d slept, no nightmare had shaken her awake, hunted her. A small, merciful reprieve.
Aelin swallowed, her throat dry. What had been real, what Maeve had tried to plant in her mind—did it matter, whether the pain had been true or imagined?
She had gotten out, gotten away from Maeve and Cairn. Facing the broken bits inside her would come later.
For now, it was enough to have this clarity back. Even though releasing her power, expending that mighty blow here, had not been her plan.
Aelin slid her gaze toward Rowan, his harsh face softened into handsomeness by sleep. And clean—the gore that had splattered them both was gone. Someone must have washed it away while they slept.
As if he sensed her attention, or just felt the lingering hand on his arm, Rowan’s eyes cracked open. He scanned her from head to toe, deemed everything all right, and met her stare.
“Show-off,” he muttered.
Aelin patted his arm. “You put on a pretty fancy display yourself, Prince.”
He smiled, his tattoo crinkling. “Will that display be the last of your surprises, or are there more coming?”
She debated it—telling him, revealing it. Maybe.
Rowan sat up, the blanket sliding from him. Is this the sort of surprise that will end with my heart stopping dead in my chest?
She snorted, propping her head with a fist as she traced idle marks over the scratchy blanket. “I sent a letter—when we were at that port in Wendlyn.”
Rowan nodded. “To Aedion.”
“To Aedion,” she said, quietly enough that Gavriel couldn’t hear from his spot outside the door. “And to your uncle. And to Essar.”
Rowan’s brows rose. “Saying what?”
She hummed to herself. “Saying that I was indeed imprisoned by Maeve, and that while I was her captive, she laid out some rather nefarious plans.”
Her mate went still. “With what goal in mind?”
Aelin sat up, and picked at her nails. “Convincing them to disband her army. Start a revolt in Doranelle. Kick Maeve off the throne. You know, small things.”
Rowan just looked at her. Then scrubbed at his face. “You think a letter could do that?”
“It was strongly worded.”
He gaped a bit. “What sort of nefarious plans did you mention?”
“Desire to conquer the world, her complete lack of interest in sparing Fae lives in a war, her interest in Valg things.” She swallowed. “I might have mentioned that she’s possibly Valg.”
Rowan started.
Aelin shrugged. “It was a lucky guess. The best lies are always mixed with truth.”
“Suggesting Maeve is Valg is a fairly outlandish lie, even for you. Even if it turned out to be true.”
She waved a hand. “We’ll see if anything comes of it.”