Lorcan knew the words were no lie. He had seen her face when they beheld the grassy plain.

“Spoken like someone who has spent long enough on the road,” Nik said. “It always goes either way with our kind: you settle down and never travel again, or you wander forever.”

“I want to see life—see the world,” Marion said, her voice softening. “I want to see everything.”

Lorcan wondered if Marion would even get to do that if he failed in his task, if the Wyrdkey he carried wound up in the wrong hands.

“Best not wander too far,” Nik said, frowning. “Not with what happened in Rifthold—or what’s brewing down in Morath.”

“What happened in Rifthold?” Lorcan cut in, sharply enough that Marion squeezed his knee.

Nik idly scratched his wheat-colored beard. “Whole city’s been sacked—overrun, they say, by flying terrors and demon-women as their riders. Witches, if one is to believe the rumors. Ironteeth, straight out of legend.” A shudder.

Holy gods. The destruction would have been a sight to behold. Lorcan forced himself to listen, to concentrate and not begin calculating casualties and what it would mean for this war, as Nik continued, “No word on the young king. But the city belongs to the witches and their beasts. They say to travel north is to now face a death trap; to travel south is another death trap … So”—a shrug—“we’ll head east. Maybe we can find a way to bypass whatever’s waiting in either direction. Maybe war will come and we’ll all scatter to the winds.” Nik looked him over. “Men like you and me might be conscripted.”

Lorcan bit back a dark chuckle. No one could force him into anything—save for one person, and she … His chest tightened. It was best not to think of his queen.

“You think either side would do that? Force men to fight?” Marion’s words were breathless.

“Don’t know,” Nik said, the scent and sound of the river now overwhelming enough that Lorcan knew they were near the toll. He reached into his jacket for the money Molly had demanded. Far more than their fair share, but he didn’t care. These people could go to hell the moment they were safely hidden deep in the endless plains. “Duke Perrington’s forces might not even want us, if they’ve got witches and beasts on their side.”

And much worse, Lorcan wanted to say. Wyrdhounds and ilken and the gods knew what.

“But Aelin Galathynius,” Nik mused. Marion’s hand went limp on Lorcan’s knee. “Who knows what she will do. She has not called for aid, has not asked soldiers to come to her. Yet she held Rifthold in her grip—killed the king, destroyed his castle. But gave the city back.”

The bench beneath them groaned as Marion leaned forward. “What do you know of Aelin?”

“Rumors, here and there,” Nik said, shrugging. “They say she’s beautiful as sin—and colder than ice. They say she’s a tyrant, a coward, a whore. They say she’s gods-blessed—or gods-damned. Who knows? Nineteen seems awfully young to have such burdens … Rumor claims her court is strong, though. A shape-shifter guards her back—and two warrior-princes flank her on either side.”

Lorcan thought of that shape-shifter, who had so unceremoniously vomited not once, but twice, all over him; thought of those two warrior-princes … One of them Gavriel’s son.

“Will she save or damn us all?” Nik considered, now monitoring the snaking line behind their wagon. “I don’t know if I much like the thought of everything resting in her hands, but … if she wins, perhaps the land will get better—life will get better. And if she fails … perhaps we all deserve to be damned anyway.”

“She will win,” Marion said with quiet strength. Nik’s brows rose.

Men shouted, and Lorcan said, “I’d save talk of her for another time.”

Boots crunched, and then uniformed men were peering into the back of the wagon. “Out,” one ordered. “Line up.” The man’s eyes snagged on Marion.

Lorcan’s arm tightened around her as an ugly, too-familiar light filled the soldier’s eyes.

Lorcan bit back his snarl as he said to her, “Come, wife.”

The soldier noticed him, then. The man backed away a step, a bit pale, then ordered the supplies be searched.

Lorcan jumped out first, bracing his hands on Marion’s waist as he helped her off the wagon. When she made to step away, he tugged her back against him, an arm across her abdomen. He met each soldier’s stare as they passed and wondered who was looking after the dark-haired beauty in the front.

A moment later, she and Molly came around. A dark, rimmed hat was slung over the beauty’s head, half of her light brown face obscured, her body concealed in a heavy coat that drew the eye away from any feminine curves. Even the cast of her mouth was unpleasant—as if the woman had slipped into another person’s skin entirely.

Still, Molly nudged the woman between Lorcan and Nik. Then took the money pouch from Lorcan’s free hand without so much as a thank-you.

The dark-haired beauty leaned forward to murmur to Marion, “Don’t look them in the eye, and don’t talk back.”

Marion nodded, chin dipping as she focused on the ground. Against him, he could feel her racing heart—wild, despite the calm submission written over every line of her body.

“And you,” the beauty hissed at him as the soldiers searched their wares—and took what they wanted. “Molly says if you get into a fight, you’re gone, and we’re not bailing you out of prison. So let them talk and laugh, but don’t interfere.”

Lorcan debated saying he could slaughter this entire garrison if he pleased, but nodded.

After five minutes, another order was shouted. Molly handed over Lorcan’s money and her own to pay the toll, plus more for “expedited passage.” Then they were all back in the wagon again, none of them daring to see what had been pilfered. Marion was shaking slightly against where he kept her tucked into his side, but her face was blank, bored.

The guards hadn’t so much as questioned them—hadn’t asked after a woman with a limp.

The Acanthus roared beneath them as they crossed the bridge, wagon wheels clattering on ancient stones. Marion kept shaking.

Lorcan studied her face again—the hint of red along her high cheekbones, her tight mouth.

Not shaking from fear, he realized as he caught a whiff of her scent. A slight tang of it, perhaps, but mostly something red-hot, something wild and raging and—

Anger. It was boiling rage that made her shake. At the inspection, at the leering of the guards.

An idealist—that’s what Marion was. Someone who wanted to fight for her queen, who believed, as Nik did, that this world could be better.

As they cleared the other side of the bridge, the soldiers letting them pass without fuss, as they meandered past the line on that side, and emerged onto the plains themselves, Lorcan wondered at that anger—at that belief in a better world.

He didn’t feel like telling either Marion or Nik that their dream was a fool’s one.

Marion relaxed enough to peer out the back of the wagon—at the grasses flanking the wide dirt road, at the blue sky, at the roaring river and the looming sprawl of Oakwald behind them. And for all her rage, a tentative sort of wonder grew in her dark eyes. He ignored it.