Manon started. “Eyllwe? If you think to run from this war, I can tell you that it’s found that kingdom as well.” Long had Eyllwe borne the brunt of Adarlan’s wrath. In her endless meetings with Erawan, he’d been particularly focused on ensuring the kingdom stayed fractured.

Glennis nodded. “We know. But we received word from our southern hearths that a threat had arisen. We journey to meet with some of the Eyllwe war bands who have managed to survive this long—to take on whatever horror Morath might have sent.”

To go south, not north to Terrasen.

“Erawan might be unleashing his horrors in Eyllwe just to divide you,” Manon said. “To keep you from aiding Terrasen. He’ll have guessed I’m trying to gather the Crochans. Eyllwe is already lost—come with us to the North.”

The crone merely shook her head. “That may be. But we have given our word. So to Eyllwe we will go.”

CHAPTER 16

Darrow was waiting on horseback atop a hill when the army finally arrived at nightfall. A full day’s march, the snow and wind whipping them for every damned mile.

Aedion, atop his own horse, broke from the column of soldiers aiming for the small camp and galloped across the ice-crusted snow to the ancient lord. He gestured with a gloved hand to the warriors behind him. “As requested: we’ve arrived.”

Darrow barely glanced at Aedion as he surveyed the soldiers making camp. Exhausting, brutal work after a long day, and a battle before that, but they’d sleep well tonight. And Aedion would refuse to move them tomorrow. Perhaps the day after that, too. “How many lost?”

“Less than five hundred.”

“Good.”

Aedion bristled at the approval. It wasn’t Darrow’s own army, wasn’t even Aedion’s.

“What did you want that warranted us to haul ass up here so quickly?”

“I wanted to discuss the battle with you. Hear what you learned.”

Aedion gritted his teeth. “I’ll write a report for you, then.” He gathered the reins, readying to steer his horse back to the camp. “My men need shelter.”

Darrow nodded firmly, as if unaware of the exhausting march he’d demanded. “At dawn, we meet. Send word to the other lords.”

“Send your own messenger.”

Darrow cut him a steely look. “Tell the other lords.” He surveyed Aedion from his mud-splattered boots to his unwashed hair. “And get some rest.”

Aedion didn’t bother responding as he urged his horse into a gallop, the stallion charging through the snow without hesitation. A fine, proud beast that had served him well.

Aedion squinted at the wailing snow as it whipped his face. They needed to build shelter—and fast.

At dawn, he’d go to Darrow’s meeting. With the other lords.

And Aelin in tow.

A foot of snow fell overnight, blanketing the tents, smothering fires, and setting the soldiers sleeping shoulder to shoulder to conserve warmth.

Lysandra had shivered in her tent, despite being curled into ghost-leopard form by the brazier, and had awoken before dawn simply because sleeping had become futile.

And because of the meeting that was moments away from taking place.

She strode toward Darrow’s large war tent, Ansel of Briarcliff at her side, the two of them bundled against the cold. Mercifully, the frigid morning kept any conversation between them to a minimum. No point in talking when the very air chilled your teeth to the point of aching.

The silver-haired Fae royals entered just before them, Prince Endymion giving her—giving Aelin—a bow of the head.

His cousin’s wife. That’s what he believed her to be. In addition to being queen. Endymion had never scented Aelin, wouldn’t know that the strange shifter’s scent was all wrong.

Thank the gods for that.

The war tent was nearly full, lords and princes and commanders gathered around the center of the space, all studying the map of the continent hanging from one of the wall flaps. Pins jutted from its thick canvas to mark various armies.

So many, too many, clustered in the South. Blocking off aid from any allies beyond Morath’s lines.

“She returns at last,” a cold voice drawled.

Lysandra summoned a lazy smirk and sauntered to the center of the room, Ansel lingering near the entrance. “I heard I missed some fun yesterday. I figured I’d return before I lost the chance to kill some Valg grunts myself.”

A few chuckles at that, but Darrow didn’t smile. “I don’t recall you being invited to this meeting, Your Highness.”

“I invited her,” Aedion said, stepping to the edge of the group. “Since she’s technically fighting in the Bane, I made her my second-in-command.” And thus worthy of being here.

Lysandra wondered if anyone else could see the hint of pain in Aedion’s face—pain, and disgust at the imposter queen swaggering amongst them.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she crooned to Darrow.

Darrow only turned back to the map as Ravi and Sol filtered in. Sol gave Aelin a respectful nod, and Ravi flashed her a grin. Aelin winked before facing the map.

“After our rout of Morath yesterday under General Ashryver’s command,” Darrow said, “I believe we should position our troops on Theralis, and ready Orynth’s defenses for a siege.” The older lords—Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood—grunted with agreement.

Aedion shook his head, no doubt already anticipating this. “It announces to Erawan that we’re on the run, and spreads us too far from any potential allies from the South.”

“In Orynth,” said Lord Gunnar, older and grayer than Darrow and twice as mean, “we have walls that can withstand catapults.”

“If they bring those witch towers,” Ren Allsbrook cut in, “then even Orynth’s walls will crumble.”

“We have yet to see evidence of those witch towers,” Darrow countered. “Beyond the word of an enemy.”

“An enemy turned ally,” Aelin—Lysandra—said. Darrow cut her a distasteful stare. “Manon Blackbeak did not lie. Nor were her Thirteen aligned with Morath when they fought alongside us.”

A nod from the Fae royals, from Ansel.

“Against Maeve,” sneered Lord Sloane, a reed-thin man with a hard face and hooked nose. “That battle was against Maeve, not Erawan. Would they have done the same against their own kind? Witches are loyal unto death, and craftier than foxes. Manon Blackbeak and her cabal might very well have played you for desperate fools and fed you the wrong information.”

“Manon Blackbeak turned on her own grandmother, the High Witch of the Blackbeak Clan,” Aedion said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I do not think the iron splinters we found in her gut wound were a lie.”

“Again,” Lord Sloane said, “these witches are crafty. They’ll do anything.”

“The witch towers are real,” Lysandra said, letting Aelin’s cool, unfazed voice fill the tent. “I’m not going to waste my breath proving their existence. Nor will I risk Orynth to their power.”

“But you’d risk the border towns?” Darrow challenged.

“I plan to find a way to take out the towers before they can pass the foothills,” she drawled. She prayed Aedion had a plan.

“With the fire that you’ve so magnificently displayed,” Darrow said with equal smoothness.

Ansel of Briarcliff answered before Lysandra could come up with a suitably arrogant lie. “Erawan likes to play his little mind games, to drum up fear. Let him wonder and worry why Aelin hasn’t wielded hers yet. Contemplate if she’s storing it up for something grand.” A roguish wink at her. “I do hope it will be horrific.”

Lysandra gave the queen a slash of a smile. “Oh, it will be.”

She felt Aedion’s stare, the well-hidden agony and worry. But the general said, “Eldrys was to thin our numbers, make us doubt Morath’s wisdom by sending his grunts here. He wants us to underestimate him. If we move to the border, we’ll have the foothills to slow his advance. We know that terrain; he doesn’t. We can wield it to our advantage.”

“And if he cuts through Oakwald?” Lord Gunnar pointed to the road past Endovier. “What then?”

Ren Allsbrook replied this time. “Then we know that terrain as well. Oakwald has no love for Erawan or his forces. Its allegiance is to Brannon. And his heirs.” A glance at her, cold and yet—warming. Slightly.

She offered the young lord a hint of a smile. Ren ignored it, facing the map again.

“If we move to the border,” Darrow said, “we risk being wiped out, thus leaving Perranth, Orynth, and every town and city in this kingdom at Erawan’s mercy.”

“There are arguments to be made for both,” Prince Endymion said, stepping forward. The oldest among them, though he looked not a day past twenty-eight. “Your army remains too small to risk dividing in half. All must go—either south, or back north.”

“I would vote for the South,” said Princess Sellene, Endymion’s cousin. Rowan’s cousin. She’d been curious about Aelin, Lysandra could tell, but had stayed away. As if hesitant to forge a bond when war might destroy them all. Lysandra had wondered more than once what in the princess’s long life had made her that way—wary and solemn, yet not wholly aloof. “There are more routes for escape, if the need arises.” She pointed a tanned finger to the map, her braided silver hair shining amongst the folds of her heavy emerald cloak. “In Orynth, your backs will be against the mountains.”

“There are secret paths through the Staghorns,” Lord Sloane said, utterly unruffled. “Many of our people used them ten years ago.”

And so it went on. Debating and arguing, voices rising and falling.

Until Darrow called a vote—amongst the six Lords of Terrasen only. The only official leaders of this army, apparently.

Two of them, Sol and Ren, voted for the border.

Four of them, Darrow, Sloane, Gunnar, and Ironwood, voted to move to Orynth.

Darrow simply said, when silence had fallen, “Should our allies not wish to risk our plan, they may depart. We hold you to no oaths.”

Lysandra almost started at that.