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“Ugh, I need to lay down and get some sleep,” Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, moaned as her horse clopped along at a steady trot. “Rowan, are you sure there’s no time for rest?”
Her King-Consort rolled his eyes. “You never change, Aelin. And no, Lord Lochan’s message was too urgent for us to stop. Considering who it may be… we have to see this for ourselves.” His stern voice softened, so the columns of Terrasen’s army behind them couldn’t hear.
“Ach, Rowan, just call him Lorcan. Even Elide only calls him that when she has to.” Aelin swept a mass of damp blonde hair off her neck, tying it back with a leather strip. “But there’s no way to forget that message.” Her face sobered as she remembered Lorcan’s message. Need help. Perranth in trouble. King of Adarlan. Valg. Aelin set a stubborn face toward the mountains. “I remember what we’re fighting for.”
When they reached Perranth, it was a silent, barren land. Aelin ordered her troops to wait outside the fortress. She dismounted, her shining gold armor clinking as Rowan accompanied her inside. Aedion, who had been at the back of the company, followed them. Inside, the castle was a mess. Furniture smashed into bits, tapestries torn down, bodies littered stone corridors. Rowan’s brow grew darker and darker as they went further in.
As the three reached the entrance to the dungeons, the bodies grew thicker. Rowan touched Aelin’s shoulder. “Wait.” He cocked his head. A snarling, scratching sound was coming from a corridor to their right. All three drew their swords; Aelin’s Goldryn glinted in the dim light. After about twenty feet, the narrow hall expanded into a small room lined with ironbound cells. Elide Lochan, Lady of Perranth, lay shivering against the outside of a cell, clutching a bloody sword that was much too big for her. Several guards were sprawled around her, all dead from vicious wounds; Elide had a few of her own. Bruises marked her face and throat and her skirts were ominously bloodstained.
Aelin kneeled down beside her cousin, noticing that chunks of her thick black hair had been ripped out. “What. Happened.” She and Aedion tried to lift the young woman up, but her shriek of pain stopped them. “Where is Lorcan?”
Before Elide could respond, a growl sounded from a cell across the room. Rowan grabbed a torch from the wall, stalking toward the sound. Lorcan Salvaterre Lochan stared back at him from behind iron bars, black eyes hate-filled. Dried gore turned his dark hair midnight; Lorcan’s tunic was hanging in shreds. The pieces of three men were scattered around him.
“Traitor!” The Fae male shrieked. “Traitor to the queen! To the cadre! To Gavriel!”
Both Aedion and Rowan flinched visibly. The silver-haired male raised his sword-
“No,” Elide said weakly, between gasping sobs. “It’s the-the Valg. Or Maeve. Or something. He would never do this if he was sane; I know he wouldn’t.”
“He did all this?” asked Aelin in surprise. “How?”
“A few days ago, the watchers spotted a figure walking toward the castle, alone and on foot. When Lorcan saw it, he shut himself up, refusing to come out. The figure just stood there, about half a league away from the castle for two days. Then, before it disappeared, it shouted something at us. That night, I woke up and saw this, this shadow thing covering Lor-Lorcan. I tried to rouse him, but he wouldn’t move.” Elide paused, tearful onyx eyes looking up at Aelin. “The next morning, he went crazy. He attacked everyone, screaming, no one could stop him. We retreated down here, hoping the iron would hinder him, and the last few men who could still stand trapped Lorcan in the cell.”
Face stormy enough to bring down the castle, Rowan turned back to the pacing Lorcan. “We should put him down now. He’s gone. Useless.”
“But where’s Dorian? Lorcan’s message said King of Adarlan, where is he?” Aedion quizzed.
Elide looked confused. “King Dorian was never here. Lorcan sent you a message?”
“He must’ve done it before your shadow left.” Aelin cursed. “Could Maeve or Erawan have some devilry left? Could they still affect Dorian or Lorcan?”
“Aelin, Lorcan was bound to Maeve even deeper than I was for centuries. She very well may have placed anything in his head that only needed the right trigger. And your Adarlanian king was possessed by a Valg for months.” Rowan’s voice was ominous. “He’s a mortal with raw magic that hasn’t appeared since before my time. Unpredictable at best.”
Footsteps of metal on stone thudded down the hall towards them. Aelin got to her feet, holding Goldryn at the ready over Elide. A soldier entered the room and knelt before her. “My queen, a horde approaches from the north. What are your orders?”
Aelin sheathed her sword. “Pull the troops into the castle. Clear out the great hall; we will bed down there tonight. Send two warriors down here; one to watch Lord Lochan, one to assist Lady Lochan.”
The warrior nodded. “As you command, my queen.” She left, metallic steps echoing.
Rowan jerked his torch toward Lorcan. “We’ll need to deal with him.”
As if in response, the huge Fae male hissed. “Gavriel would be so disappointed.”
In a few quick strides, Aedion was facing down Lorcan. “Shut your filthy mouth.”
A cruel grin spread over Lorcan’s face. “That’s right. Aedion Ashryver, the cub of the Lion. The son who couldn’t protect his father.” Aedion would have thrown himself against the cell bars, but Rowan held him back.
“Gavriel knew all when he died. That’s enough.”
Aedion jerked away but didn’t attack again. Two more warriors appeared. One took a ready stance in front of Lorcan’s cell. The other carefully lifted Elide up and bore her into the great hall; Aedion, Aelin, and Rowan followed.
As Elide was tended to by a healer, Aelin went to the main watchtower. Her Fae eyes told her the dark mass approaching was about a hundred leagues away. They could be at the base of the castle’s mountain by morning. Turning around, Aelin saw Rowan sitting on the trapdoor that led back down into the castle. She sat down next to him, leaning back against his tall frame. He wrapped his arms around her torso, a contented humming in his throat.
“Rowan?”
He nuzzled the twin scars on her neck. “Fireheart.”
“I don’t think we’re going back to Orynth without a fight.”
Rowan sighed. “What am I being asked to do?” She whispered in his ear.
As Aelin climbed down the wooden ladder, a white-tailed hawk soared into the sky, heading west.
The next morning, Aedion shook Aelin, who muttered an insult and rolled over.
“Cousin, your Lord Lochan is gone. And his guard is bleeding out on the dungeon floor.”
That got her awake. Aelin sprang to her feet and ran. Before she even entered the room, the scent of fresh blood assaulted her nostrils. A broken body lay in a puddle of blood; the warrior’s dagger hung in the lock of the cell door; his sword skewered sideways through his torso.
Behind the queen, Aedion waited for her to shout, to curse, to blame. Aelin was silent; only a clenching of her fist around Goldryn’s hilt showed her grief and anger. She turned around swiftly on her heel; the Ashryver eyes that they both shared, blue with a ring of gold, were shining with the intensity that had freed kingdoms and destroyed tyrants.
“Watchtower.”
“Aelin, I-”
“Watchtower. Now.”
Aedion assented and followed as his cousin stalked away. The view outside was no more cheering. Ranks upon ranks of soldiers, arrayed in dirty black armor, were camped within a bowshot of Perranth. As the cousins watched, a piercing bird’s cry rang through the sky. A white-tailed hawk dropped from the gray clouds of mid-morning, gliding inside the tower.
“Mission accomplished, my queen.” Rowan gave his wife a mock bow; his sardonic smile crinkled up the tattoos across his cheek. Another cry broke out; this one was deeper, more feral, a beast rather than a bird. The wyvern Abraxos landed with a clatter of claws on the rampart below the watchtower. Iron teeth out and glittering, Manon Blackbeak, the last Crochan queen, smiled grimly up at the Fae.
“You called?”
Aelin matched the smile, grim for grim. “Come inside.”
Their council was pitifully small compared to the ones that had been held in the battles against Erawan. Aedion, Rowan, Elide, Manon, and Aelin clustered around a hastily repaired table that was still missing a leg. Abraxos curled up in a corner, keeping a wary eye on his mistress.
“It’s Valg, I know only that for certain,” Manon reported. “Their scent was exactly the same.”
“But where did they come from?” asked Aedion. “Weren’t all Valg destroyed?”
“That’s what we thought,” Aelin answered him. “Apparently, we aren’t as thorough butchers as I thought. Lorcan’s magic must’ve sensed something when your mysterious figure appeared, Elide. He sent the message to Orynth early because he knew he wouldn’t be in control of himself.”
Aelin sighed. “I think there’s still a Valg in control of Dorian. Somehow, he’s created the army outside. And, I think the only way to free him this time is to kill another monarch.”
“Dorian,” Manon said in a flat voice. “Dorian is responsible for all this…”
Aelin spread her hands exasperatedly. “I don’t know! It’s just a guess; I don’t know!”
Manon’s laugh was full of despair. “It was not a question, Aelin Galathynius. I saw him, flying to this wretched place. He looked straight up as Abraxos passed over…He looks like his father.” She adjusted the clasp of her scarlet Crochan cloak; gold eyes betrayed the emotion she was hiding. “We must be kingkillers once again.”
Rowan nodded in agreement. Aedion looked from face to face. “You’re not being serious? You can’t murder Dorian!”
Aelin placed a hand on his shoulder. “Believe me, Aedion, I don’t want to do this. It seems like every time we’re at peace, war strikes again; our tainted history is playing on repeat. But I’m going to change it, we can change it if we stand up strong and take the lead. Do you want Terrasen razed again? Subject to another Maeve, or Erawan?”
Aedion hung his head. Tears, so rarely seen on the Wolf of the North’s face, dripped down his cheeks. “Please, cousin, don’t do this.”
“Prepare our troops, General Ashryver. We may be the first to fall, but Terrasen will not be shamed.” His queen’s voice was edged in steel. Bowing as befitted a general, Aedion marched off. “Get ready.” Aelin told Manon as she left to prepare herself, with Rowan in tow.
Manon flicked out her claws, casting a careless glance at Abraxos, who dipped his head as if to say, I’m ready to bite some heads off. She looked back at Elide, who was lying on a makeshift bed of chairs. Her pale throat was still mottled with the bruises of Lorcan’s rage. The Crochan moved to sit beside the human woman. “How are you, cousin?”
Elide’s eyes matched the misery in Manon’s. “Will Aelin execute Lorcan too? Is my husband beyond reach, even of his own kind?”
Manon flicked out her nails. She drew them against the table, feeling the thin wood crumble before sharp iron. “For your sake, little one, I hope not.” Manon’s heart ached for Asterin in that moment, her faithful Second, Yielded at Orynth. Asterin would know what to say to the heartsore Elide; Asterin would understand. The crown of stars on Manon’s brow felt heavier than ever.
“Your male is not afflicted by the Valg as Dor-” Manon paused. “As Dorian supposedly is. Perhaps his Fae kindred can mend whatever has broken in him.”
“You love the king, don’t you?” Elide’s voice was hoarse.
Unable to keep herself in check, the other nodded, pressing her iron-tipped hands to her face. She jerked back as a soft hand touched hers. Elide stayed quiet, but Manon could read her expression and it warmed her heart more than centuries of a grandmother’s “love”. Standing in a swirl of red fabric, Manon touched Elide’s shoulder.
“I will argue for your Fae’s life, Elide Lochan.”
Gold flashed and twinkled as the Queen of Terrasen stood before her troops, all arrayed in shining armor. Her High General and King-Consort stood at attention on either side of their monarch: Aedion with his trademark wolfskin, Rowan in silver armor of House Whitethorn. Manon, perched on Abraxos, watched from the side.
“My kindred, you have fought this unhuman race that stands before us today. You know the darkness that is their being, and that darkness we must destroy once more! When I was younger, I was reckless and unafraid. But now, I fear for my people, for my country. If we fall, we leave a wild land. For our heirs to come, be brave!” Aelin raised her sword, pale flame flickering up the blade. “I will be your sword and shield; will you be mine? Terrasen, will you meet me on the battlefield?”
As one, the Fae lifted their swords to their queen; hundreds of voices pledging their loyalty roared in her ears. “OPEN THE DOORS!” cried the Queen of Fire, striding forward with no hesitation. Four soldiers pulled the castle doors wide, revealing the rocky plains surrounding the mountains.
Two figures stood at the head of the dark army before them. One was a bare-chested Lorcan, two enormous swords hefted in his hands. The other was shrouded in a cloak of shadow. As Aelin led her troops forward, it let fall its hood.
Dorian Havilliard, pale as snow, watched his one-time friend advance with death in her eyes. He pulled out Damaris, sword of House Havilliard, blade blackened with Valg filth.
“Hail, queen of Fae.”
Aelin stopped, a hundred yards away. “Hail, king of Adarlan.” His sapphire irises pulsed. She recognized what the action meant. “Everyone, down!” A burst of icy magic shot from the king, freezing the bodies of several Fae who hadn’t managed to duck in time.
“Well done, Celaena.”
Aelin got back to her feet. “I know you, Dorian. We’ve done this before.”
He cocked his head. “Have we?”
Before Aelin could respond, a wyvern’s cry echoed from above. Manon swept down, leaping from Abraxos’s back. Landing with teeth and nails bared for battle, she broke into a run toward her former lover. The Valg in Dorian stopped momentarily, frightened by the gold of her eyes. That was all the time Manon needed. With a Blackbeak war cry, she pounced. Iron nails punctured organs. Razor teeth ripped out flesh. The King of Adarlan fell. When Aelin reached her, Manon was holding Dorian’s body; his blood stained her mouth a bright, sickening red. She was sobbing, mumbling names under her breath.
Turning to order an attack on the Valg soldiers, Aelin saw that they had all fallen and were slowly crumbling into blackish-grey dust. Lorcan, however, was still alive. He was on his knees, voiding the contents of his stomach. When she tentatively approached, he looked up with desolate eyes.
“Forgive me, I-”
She stopped him. “We know. Come back to the castle, you have a mess to clean up.”
“Yes, my queen.”