Thousands. Five, ten, fifteen thousand. More.

Again and again, she stumbled on counting. Twenty, thirty.

Lysandra rose higher into the sky. Higher, because winged ilken flew with them, soaring low over the black-armored troops, monitoring all that passed below.

Forty. Fifty.

Fifty thousand troops, overseen by ilken.

And amongst them, on horseback, rode beautiful-faced young men. Black collars at their throats, above their armor.

Valg princes. Five in total, each commanding a legion.

Lysandra counted the force again. Thrice.

Fifty thousand troops. Against the twenty-five thousand they had gathered.

One of the ilken spotted her and flapped upward.

Lysandra banked hard and swept back north, wings beating like hell.

The two armies met in the snow-covered fields of southern Terrasen.

Terrasen’s general-prince had ordered them to wait, rather than rush to meet Morath’s legions. To let Erawan’s hordes exhaust themselves on the foothills, and to send an advance force of the Silent Assassins to pick off soldiers struggling amid the bumps and hollows.

Only some of the assassins returned.

The dark power of the Valg princes swept ahead, devouring all in their path.

And still, the Fire-Bringer did not blast the Valg to ash. Did nothing but ride at her cousin’s side.

Ilken descended upon their camp in the night, unleashing chaos and terror, shredding soldiers with their poison-slick claws before escaping to the skies.

They ripped the ancient border-stones from their grassy hilltops as they passed into Terrasen.

Barely winded, unfazed by the snow, and hardly thinned out, Morath’s army left the last of the foothills.

They rushed down the hillsides, a black wave breaking over the land. Right onto the spears and shields of the Bane, the magic of the Fae soldiers keeping the power of the Valg princes at bay.

It could not stand against the ilken, however. They swept through it like cobwebs in a doorway, some spewing their venom to melt the magic.

Then the ilken landed, or shattered through their defenses entirely. And even a shape-shifter in the form of a wyvern armed with poisoned spikes could not take them all down.

Even a general-prince with an ancient sword and Fae instincts could not slice through their necks fast enough.

In the chaos, no one noticed that the Fire-Bringer did not appear. That not an ember of her flame glowed in the screaming night.

Then the foot soldiers reached them.

And that cobbled-together army began to sunder.

The right flank broke first. A Valg prince unleashed his power, men lying dead in his wake. It took Ilias of the Silent Assassins sneaking behind enemy lines to decapitate him for the slaughter to staunch.

The Bane’s center lines held, yet they lost yard after yard to claws and fangs and sword and shield. So many of the enemy that the Fae royals and their kin couldn’t choke the air from their throats fast enough, widely enough. Whatever advances the Fae’s magic bought them did not slow Morath for long.

Morath’s beasts pushed them northward that first day. And into the night.

And at dawn the next day.

By nightfall on the second, even the Bane’s line had buckled.

Still Morath did not stop coming.

CHAPTER 23

Elide had never seen such a place as Doranelle.

The City of Rivers, they called it. She’d never imagined that a city could be built in the heart of several as they met and poured into a mighty basin.

She didn’t let the awe show on her face as she strode through the winding, neat streets.

Fear was another companion that she kept at bay. With the Fae’s heightened sense of smell, they could detect things like emotion. And though a good dose of fear would aid in her cover, too much would spell her doom.

Yet this place seemed like a paradise. Pink and blue flowers draped from windowsills; little canals wended between some of the streets, ferrying people in bright, long boats.

She’d never seen so many Fae, had never thought they’d be utterly normal. Well, as normal as possible, with their grace and those ears and canines. Along with the animals rushing around her, flitting past, so many forms she couldn’t keep track of them. All perfectly content to go about their daily business, buying everything from crusty loaves of bread to jugs of some sort of oil to vibrant swaths of fabric.

Yet ruling over everything, squatting in the palace on the eastern side of Doranelle, was Maeve. And this city, Rowan had told Elide, had been built from stone to keep Brannon or any of his descendants from razing it to the ground.

Elide fought the limp that grew with each step farther into the city—farther away from Gavriel’s magic. She’d left them in the forested foothills where they’d camped the night before, and Lorcan had again tried to argue against her going. But she’d rummaged through their various packs until she’d found what she needed: berries Gavriel had gathered yesterday, a spare belt and dark green cape from Rowan, a wrinkled white shirt from Lorcan, and a tiny mirror he used for shaving.

She hadn’t said anything when she’d found the white strips of linen at the bottom of Lorcan’s bag. Waiting for her next cycle. She hadn’t been able to find the words, anyway. Not with what it would crumple in her chest to even think them.

Elide kept her shoulders loose, though her face remained tight as she paused at the edge of a pretty little square around a burbling fountain. Vendors and shoppers milled about, chatting in the midmorning sunshine. Elide paused by the square’s arched entrance, putting her back to it, and fished the little mirror out of her cloak pocket, careful not to jostle the knives hidden there as well.

She flicked open the compact, frowning at her reflection—half of the expression not entirely faked. She’d crushed the berries at dawn and carefully lined her eyes with the juices, turning them red-rimmed and miserable-looking. As if she’d been weeping for weeks.

Indeed, the face that pouted back at her was rather wretched.

But it wasn’t the reflection she wanted to see. But rather the square behind her. Surveying it outright might raise too many questions, but if she was merely staring into a compact mirror, no more than a self-conscious girl trying to fix her frazzled appearance … Elide smoothed some strands of her hair while monitoring the square beyond.

A hub of sorts. Two taverns lined its sides, judging by the wine barrels that served as tables out front and the empty glasses atop them, yet to be collected. Between the two taverns, one seemed to attract more males, some in warrior garb. Of the three squares she’d visited, the taverns she’d spotted, this was the only one with soldiers.

Perfect.

Elide smoothed her hair again, shut the compact, and turned back to the square, lifting her chin. A girl trying to muster some dignity.

Let them see what they wanted to see, let them look at the white shirt she’d donned in lieu of the leather witches’ jacket, the green cape draped over herself belted across the middle, and think her an unfashionable, unworldly traveler. A girl far out of her element in this lovely, well-dressed city.

She approached the seven Fae lounging outside the tavern, sizing up who talked most, laughed loudest, who the five males and two females often turned to. One of the females wasn’t a warrior, but rather clothed in soft, feminine pants and a cornflower-blue tunic that fit her lush figure like a glove.

Elide marked the one who they seemed to glance to the most in confirmation and hope of approval. A broad-shouldered female, her dark hair cropped close to her head. She bore armor on her shoulders and wrists—finer than what the other males wore. Their commander, then.

Elide lingered a few feet away, a hand rising to clutch her cape where it draped across her heart, the other fiddling with the golden ring on her finger, the invaluable heirloom little more than a lover’s keepsake. Gnawing on her lip, she cast uncertain, darting eyes on the soldiers, on the tavern. Sniffled a little.

The other female—the one in the fine blue clothes—noticed her first.

She was beautiful, Elide realized. Her dark hair falling in a thick, glossy braid down her back, her golden-brown skin shone with an inner light. Her eyes were soft with kindness. And concern.

Elide took that concern as invitation and stumbled up to them, head bowing. “I—I—I’m sorry to interrupt,” she blurted, speaking more to the dark-haired beauty.

The stammer had always made people uncomfortable, had always made them foolishly off guard and eager to get away. To tell her what she needed to know.

“Is something wrong?” The female’s voice was husky—lovely. The sort of voice Elide had always imagined great beauties possessing, the sort of voice that made men fall all over themselves. From the way some of the males around her had been smiling, Elide had no doubt the female had that effect on them, too.

Elide wobbled her lip, chewed on it. “I—I was looking for someone. He said he’d be here, but …” She glanced to the warriors, and toyed with the ring on her finger again. “I s-s-saw your uniforms and thought y-you might know him.”

The merriment of the little company had died out, replaced by wariness. And pity—from the beauty. Either at the stutter or what she so clearly saw: a young woman pining for a lover who likely was not there.

“What’s his name?” asked the taller female, perhaps the other’s sister, judging by their same dusky skin and dark hair.

Elide swallowed hard enough to make her throat bob rather pathetically. “I—I hate to bother you,” she demurred. “But you all looked very k-k-kind.”

One of the males muttered something about getting another round of drinks, and two of his companions decided to join him. The two males who lingered seemed inclined to go as well, but a sharp look from their commander had them staying.