Manon shut the door with a backward kick.
Too small—the room was too small for two people, especially when one of them was ancient and dominated the space just by breathing. Elide slumped onto the cot, if only to put more air between her and Manon.
The Wing Leader stared at her for a long moment, and then said, “You can choose, witchling. Blue or red.”
“What?”
“Does your blood run blue or red? You decide. If it runs blue, it turns out I have jurisdiction over you. Little shits like Vernon can’t do as they will to my kind—not without my permission. If your blood runs red … Well, I don’t particularly care about humans, and seeing what Vernon does with you might be entertaining.”
“Why would you offer this?”
Manon gave her a half smile, all iron teeth and no remorse. “Because I can.”
“If my blood runs … blue, won’t it confirm what Vernon suspects? Won’t he act?”
“A risk you’ll have to take. He can try to act on it—and learn where it gets him.”
A trap. And Elide was the bait. Claim her heritage as a witch, and if Vernon took her to be implanted, Manon could have the grounds to kill him.
She had a feeling Manon might hope for that. It was not just a risk; it was a suicidal, stupid risk. But better than nothing.
The witches, who lowered their eyes for no man … Until she could get away, perhaps she might learn a thing or two about what it was like to have fangs and claws. And how to use them.
“Blue,” she whispered. “My blood runs blue.”
“Good choice, witchling,” Manon said, and the word was a challenge and an order. She turned away, but glanced over her shoulder. “Welcome to the Blackbeaks.”
Witchling. Elide stared after her. She had likely just made the biggest mistake of her life, but … it was strange.
Strange, that feeling of belonging.
26
“I’m not about to keel over dead,” Aedion said to his cousin, his queen, as she helped him walk around the roof. This was their third rotation, the moon shimmering on the tiles beneath them. It was an effort to keep upright, not from the steady throb in his side, but from the fact that Aelin—Aelin—was beside him, an arm around his waist.
A cool night breeze laced with the plume of smoke on the horizon wrapped around him, chilling the sweat on his neck.
But he angled his face away from the smoke, breathing in another, better smell. And found the source of it frowning up at him. Aelin’s exquisite scent soothed him, awakened him. He’d never get sick of that scent. It was a miracle.
But her frown—that was not a miracle. “What?” he demanded. It had been a day since she’d fought in the Pits—a day of more sleeping. Tonight, under cover of darkness, was the first he’d been able to get out of bed. If he were cooped up for another moment, he’d start tearing down the walls.
He’d had enough of cages and prisons.
“I’m making my professional assessment,” she said, keeping pace beside him.
“As an assassin, queen, or pit-brawler?”
Aelin gave him a grin—the sort that told him she was debating kicking his ass. “Don’t be jealous that you didn’t get a shot at those Valg bastards.”
It wasn’t that. She’d been fighting Valg last night, while he’d lain in bed, unaware she was in any sort of danger at all. He tried to convince himself that despite the peril, despite how she’d returned reeking of blood and injured from where one of them had bitten her, she’d at least learned that Morath was where the people with magic were being turned into Valg vessels.
Tried to convince himself, and failed. But—he had to give her space. He wouldn’t be an overbearing, territorial Fae bastard, as she liked to call them.
“And if I pass your assessment,” Aedion said at last, “will we go directly to Terrasen, or are we waiting here for Prince Rowan?”
“Prince Rowan,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You keep needling me for details about Prince Rowan—”
“You befriended one of the greatest warriors in history—perhaps the greatest warrior alive. Your father, and his men, all told me stories about Prince Rowan.”
“What?”
Oh, he’d been waiting to drop this particular gem of information. “Warriors in the North still talk about him.”“Rowan’s never been to this continent.”
She said it with such casualness—Rowan. She really had no clue who she now considered a member of her court, who she’d freed from his oath to Maeve. Who she frequently referred to as a pain in her ass.
Rowan was the most powerful full-blooded Fae male alive. And his scent was all over her. Yet she had no gods-damned idea.
“Rowan Whitethorn is a legend. And so is his—what do you call them?”
“Cadre,” she said glumly.
“The six of them …” Aedion loosed a breath. “We used to tell stories about them around fires. Their battles and exploits and adventures.”
She sighed through her nose. “Please, please don’t ever tell him that. I’ll never hear the end of it, and he’ll use it in every argument we have.”
Honestly, Aedion didn’t know what he would say to the male—because there were many, many things to say. Expressing his admiration would be the easy part. But when it came to thanking him for what he’d done for Aelin this spring, or what, exactly, Rowan expected as a member of their court—if the Fae Prince expected to be offered the blood oath, then … It was an effort to keep from tightening his grip on Aelin.
Ren already knew that the blood oath was Aedion’s by right, and any other child of Terrasen would know, too. So first thing Aedion would do when the prince arrived would be to make sure he understood that little fact. It wasn’t like in Wendlyn, where warriors were offered the oath whenever their ruler pleased.
No—since Brannon had founded Terrasen, its kings and queens had picked only one of their court to swear the blood oath, usually at their coronation or soon after. Just one, for their entire lives.
Aedion had no interest in yielding the honor, even to the legendary warrior-prince.
“Anyway,” Aelin said sharply as they rounded the corner of the roof again, “we’re not going to Terrasen—not yet. Not until you’re well enough to travel hard and fast. Right now, we need to get the Amulet of Orynth from Arobynn.”
Aedion was half tempted to hunt down her former master and rip him to shreds as he interrogated him about where the amulet was kept, but he could play along with her plan.
He was still weak enough that until now, he’d barely been able to stand long enough to piss. Having Aelin help him the first time had been awkward enough that he couldn’t even go until she started singing a bawdy tune at the top of her lungs and turned on the sink faucet, all the while helping him stand over the toilet.
“Give me another day or two, and I’ll help you hunt down one of those demon pricks for him.” Rage slammed into him, as hard as any physical blow. The King of the Assassins had demanded she put herself in such danger—as if her life, as if the fate of their kingdom, were a gods-damned game to him.
But Aelin … Aelin had struck that bargain. For him.
Again, breathing became hard. How many scars would she add to that lithe, powerful body because of him?
Then Aelin said, “You’re not going to hunt the Valg with me.”
Aedion stumbled a step. “Oh, yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “One, you’re too recognizable—”
“Don’t even start.”
She observed him for a long moment, as if assessing his every weakness and strength. At last she said, “Very well.”
He almost sagged in relief. “But after all that—the Valg, the amulet,” Aedion pushed, “will we free magic?” A nod. “I assume you have a plan.” Another nod. He gritted his teeth. “Do you care to share it?”
“Soon,” she said sweetly.
Gods help him. “And after completing your mysterious, wonderful plan, we’ll go to Terrasen.” He didn’t want to ask about Dorian. He’d seen the anguish on her face that day in the garden.
But if she couldn’t put the princeling down, he’d do it. He wouldn’t enjoy it, and the captain might very well kill him in return, but to keep Terrasen safe, he’d cut off Dorian’s head.
Aelin nodded. “Yes, we’ll go, but—you have only one legion.”
“There are men who would fight, and other territories that might come if you call.”
“We can discuss this later.”
He leashed his temper. “We need to be in Terrasen before the summer is out—before the snow starts falling in autumn, or else we wait until spring.” She nodded distantly. Yesterday afternoon, she’d dispatched the letters Aedion had asked her to write to Ren, the Bane, and the remaining loyal lords of Terrasen, letting them know they’d been reunited, and that anyone with magic in their veins was to lie low. He knew the remaining lords—the old, cunning bastards—wouldn’t appreciate orders like that, even from their queen. But he had to try.
“And,” he added, because she really was going to shut him down about this, “we’ll need money for that army.”
She said quietly, “I know.”
Not an answer. Aedion tried again. “Even if men agree to fight on their honor alone, we stand a better chance of having greater numbers if we can pay them. Not to mention feeding our forces, and arming and supplying them.” For years now, he and the Bane had traversed from tavern to tavern, quietly raising funds for their own efforts. It still killed him to see the poorest of his people plunk hard-earned coins into the pans they’d passed around, to see the hope in their gaunt, scarred faces. “The King of Adarlan emptied our royal coffers; it was one of the first things he did. The only money we have comes from whatever our people can donate—which isn’t much—or whatever is granted by Adarlan.”