The river was too wide, too wild, to swim. And if any other ways in existed, Rowan had never learned them.

“We should make a wide sweep of the basin,” Lorcan said, studying the city in the heart of the plain. To the north, the forested foothills flowed to the towering wall of the Cambrian Mountains. To the west, the plain rolled into farmland, endless and open, to the sea. And in the east, past the waterfall, the grassy plain yielded to ancient forests, more mountains beyond them.

His mountains. The place he’d once called home, where that mountain house had stood until it had been burned. Where he’d buried Lyria and had one day expected to be laid to rest himself.

“We need an exit strategy as well,” Rowan said, though he’d already been considering it. Where to run afterward. Maeve would send out her best to hunt them down.

That had once included him. He’d been sent to track and dispatch the Fae who turned too monstrous for even Maeve to stomach, rogue Fae who had no business existing anymore. He’d trained the hunters Maeve would now unleash. Had taught them the veiled paths, the places Fae preferred to hide.

He’d never considered that would someday be used against him.

“We take a day,” Lorcan said.

Rowan leveled a cold look at him. “A day is more than we can spare.”

Aelin was down there. In that city. He knew it, could feel it. He’d been plunging into his power for the past two days, readying for the killing he’d unleash, the flight they’d make. The strain of holding it back yanked on him, on any lingering control.

Lorcan said, “We’ll pay for a hasty plan if we don’t take the time. Your mate will pay, too.”

His former commander’s control was also on a knife’s edge. Even Gavriel, calm and steady, was pacing. All of them had descended into their power, drawing it up from the very dregs.

But Lorcan was right. Rowan would say the same if their positions were reversed.

Gavriel pointed to a rocky outcropping on the hill face below them. “It’s shielded from sight. We camp there tonight, make our assessments tomorrow. Get some rest.”

The idea was abhorrent. Sleeping while Aelin was mere miles away. His ears strained, as if he might pick up her screams on the wind. But Rowan said, “Fine.”

He didn’t need to declare that they wouldn’t risk a fire. The air was chill, but mild enough that they could survive.

Rowan stepped down the hill face, offering a hand to Elide to help her skirt the dangerous, rocky plunge. She took his hand with shaking fingers.

Still she hadn’t balked to come with them, to do any of this.

Rowan found another foothold before turning to assist her. “You don’t need to go into the city. We’ll decide on the escape route and you can meet us there.”

When Elide didn’t answer, Rowan looked up at her.

Her eyes weren’t on him. But on the city ahead.

Wide with terror. Her scent became drenched in it.

Lorcan was there in a heartbeat, hand at her shoulder. “What is—”

Rowan twisted toward the city. The hilltop had been a border.

Not of the city limits, but of an illusion. A pretty, idyllic illusion for any scouting its fringes to report. For what now surrounded the city on every side, even on the eastern plain …

An army. A great army lay camped there.

“She’s summoned most of her forces,” Gavriel breathed, wind whipping his hair across his face.

Rowan counted the campfires covering the dark terrain like a blanket of stars. He’d never seen such a Fae host assembled. The ones he and the cadre had led into war didn’t come close.

Aelin could be anywhere in that force. In the camps, or in the city itself.

They’d have to be clever. Cunning. And if Maeve had not fallen for their diversion …

“She brought an army to keep us out?” Elide asked.

Lorcan glanced at Rowan, his dark eyes full of warning. “Or to keep Aelin in.”

Rowan surveyed the encamped army. What did those dwelling in Doranelle, who rarely saw any sort of forces beyond the warriors who sometimes stalked through their city, make of the host?

“We have allies in the city,” Gavriel offered. “We could try to make contact. Learn where Maeve is, what the host rallied here to do. If there’s been any mention of Aelin.”

Rowan’s uncle, Ellys, the head of their House, had remained when Maeve’s armada had sailed. A hard male, a smart male, but a loyal one. He’d trained Enda in his image, to be a sharp-minded courtier. But he’d also trained Rowan when he could, giving him some of his first lessons in swordplay. He’d grown up in his uncle’s household, and it had been the only home he’d known until he’d found that mountain. But would Ellys’s loyalty skew toward Maeve or to their own bloodline, especially in the wake of the House of Whitethorn’s betrayal in Eyllwe?

His uncle might already be dead. Maeve might have punished him on behalf of all the cousins whom Rowan had begged to aid them. Or Ellys, seeking to reenter Maeve’s good graces after their betrayal, might sell them out before they could find Aelin.

And as for the others, the few allies they might have …

“Maeve is capable of worming her way into a person’s mind,” Rowan said. “She likely knows who our allies are and might have already compromised them.” He braced a hand on Goldryn’s hilt, the warm metal a comforting touch. “We don’t risk it.”

Lorcan grunted his agreement.

Elide said, “Maeve doesn’t know me—or barely does. No one here would recognize me, especially if I can … adjust my appearance. Like I did with spreading those lies about the Valg prince. I could try to get into the city tomorrow and see if there’s anything to learn.”

“No.”

Lorcan’s reply was a knife in the dark.

Elide said to him, cool and unfazed, “You’re not my commander. You’re not in my court.”

She turned to Rowan. But he was.

He outranked her. Rowan tried not to recoil. Aelin had laid this upon him.

Lorcan hissed, “She doesn’t know the city layout, doesn’t know how to handle the guards—”

“Then we teach her,” Gavriel cut in. “Tonight. We teach her what we know.”

Lorcan bared his teeth. “If Maeve remains in Doranelle, she will sniff her out.”

“She won’t,” Elide said.

“She found you on that beach,” Lorcan snapped.

Elide lifted her chin. “I am going into that city tomorrow.”

“And what are you going to do? Ask if Aelin Galathynius has been strutting about town? Ask if Maeve’s available for high tea?” Lorcan’s snarl ripped through the air.

Elide didn’t back down for a heartbeat. “I’m going to ask after Cairn.”

They all stilled. Rowan wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard her correctly.

Elide steadily surveyed them. “Surely a young, mortal woman is allowed to inquire about a Fae male who jilted her.”

Lorcan went pale as the moon above them. “Elide.” When she didn’t reply, Lorcan whirled on Rowan. “We’ll scout, there’s another way to—”

Elide only said to Rowan, “Find Cairn, and we find Aelin. And learn if Maeve remains.”

Fear no longer bloomed in Elide’s eyes. Not a trace remained in her scent.

So Rowan nodded, even as Lorcan tensed. “Good hunting, Lady.”

CHAPTER 22

The snow-crusted plains of Terrasen flowed southward, right to the rolling foothills that spread to the horizon.

Earlier this summer, Lysandra had crossed those foothills with her companions—with her queen. Had watched Aelin ascend one, and stride to the carved granite stone jutting from its top. The marker of the border between Adarlan and Terrasen. Her friend had taken a step beyond the stone, and had been home.

Perhaps it made Lysandra a fool, but she had not realized that the next time she’d see the foothills again, wearing the feathers of a bird, it would be in war.

Or as a scout for an army thousands of soldiers strong, marching far behind her. She’d left Aedion to figure out how to explain Aelin’s sudden disappearance when she’d departed for this scouting mission. To glean where they might at last intercept Morath’s legions—and give the general a lay of the terrain ahead. Fae scouts in their own avian forms had flown to the west and east to see what they might learn as well.

Her silvery falcon’s wings wrangled the bitter wind, setting her soaring with a speed that shot liquid lightning through her heart. Beyond the ghost leopard, this form had become a favorite. Swift, sleek, vicious—this body had been built to ride the winds, to run down prey.

The snow had stopped, but the sky remained gray, not a hint of the sun to warm them. The cold was a secondary concern, made bearable by her layers of feathers.

For long miles, she flew and flew, scanning the empty terrain. Villages they had passed through during the summer had been emptied, their inhabitants fleeing north. She prayed they’d found safe harbor before the snows, that the magic-wielders within those villages got far from Morath’s nets. There had been a girl in one of the towns who had been blessed with a powerful water gift—had she and her family been taken in behind Orynth’s thick walls?

Lysandra caught an updraft and soared higher, the horizon revealing more of itself. The first of the foothills passed below, ridges of light and shadow under the cloudy sky. Getting the army over them would not be a simple task, but the Bane had fought near here before. They undoubtedly knew the path through, despite the snowdrifts piled high in the hollows.

The wind screamed, shoving northward. As if warding her from flying south. Begging her not to continue.

Hills crowned with stones appeared—the ancient border markings. She swept past them. A few hours lingered until darkness fell. She’d fly until night and cold rendered her unable, and find some tree to hunker down in until she could resume scouting at dawn.

She sailed farther south, the horizon bleak and empty.

Until it wasn’t.

Until she beheld what marched toward them and nearly tumbled from the sky.

Ren had taught her how to count soldiers, yet she lost track each time she attempted to get a number on the neat lines stomping across Adarlan’s northern plains. Right toward the foothills that spanned both territories.