Evangeline gripped Aelin's hand tightly as they walked towards the portal. It was huge, swirling and frothing with unchecked power, and a ripple of fear pushed through her. Aelin, with that remarkable sense of hers, seemed to notice and squeezed Evangeline's fingers.
"Don't worry," the Queen said in her soothing timbre. "I'm right here."
The knot of fear eased.
#
Aelin was pissed as hell.
Three days. Three fucking days since the war with Erawan and Maeve and the gods' drama and blablabla. They all needed to find hobbies that were less destructive than world domination. Feelings aside, the battle had gone much smoother than anyone had predicted. Turned out, Aelin had a hell of a lot more magic than everyone had originally thought. Enough to burn the world to a crisp. It had bubbled to the surface in a fit of anger (no surprise there, really), and she'd wiped out damn near half the continent. It was a good thing, Gavriel had said, they'd been standing on the other half.
Too bad, though, that Aelin's power decided to make a cameo at the end of the battle, after Maeve's armada had wiped out half of the Whitethorns' and blood slicked the once-green grass of the killing field. Too bad that it was after Evangeline had been stuck through by an arrow. It shouldn't have been a problem really; the blunt stone head wasn't sharp enough to get anywhere that would do real damage. But something strange had happened when they'd cut the shaft and pulled the head. The wound had not healed, not even when tended to by Rowan and Aelin both.
No one had known what to do when ebon decay began to creep up Evangeline's arm, replacing smooth, healthy flesh with rotting black. One sweat-soaked sleep later, and the rot had spread from the wound's mouth at the shoulder, all the way down to the bicep. Finally, after three days of pacing and yelling and running hands through hair, Rowan had pulled Aelin aside and mentioned a possible solution: a tale from when he was a boy, of another realm, one where Fae and human were separated by a wall of adamant and strange magics thrummed through the land.
Aelin, being Aelin, had ignored his warnings of danger and probable failure, and scoured the libraries endlessly. It had taken less than a day to find the book she was looking for: The Walking Dead. And there, at the bottom of a nameless page, written in swirling Wyrdmarks, was the key.
Prythian, the place was called. More specifically, Velaris. How to get there exactly, she was not sure. That was something to worry about after the whole "making-it-through-the-portal" thing.
As they edged towards to the portal, Evangeline so close she was near stepping on Aelin's feet, it took only a glance at the limp, coal-black arm for the rage to return. Damn Maeve's archers for having such rutting good aim. Damn her magic for not working. Damn whatever strange substance had been on that arrow. She struggled to hide the irritation she knew would only further worry the girl. This particular habit, Rowan liked to call "negative-ruminations."
She could almost hear his scolding voice...
You're doing it again, Aelin. Just breathe. And think about how irrational your line of thinking is.
"The rutting buzzard can go to hell," Aelin muttered.
The tightening grip around her hand made her aware that Evangeline was in fact still there.
"What did you say?" the girl asked.
"Um..." She struggled to find a suitably evasive answer. "Oh, look! A portal!" Aelin yanked suddenly on Evangeline's arm and stumbled, sending them hurtling forward into the blinding light.
#
She couldn't help but feel she was missing something.
The world was black, then stark-white. Vaguely, Aelin thought of the unadulterated white of the Stag's fur, of Terrasen, of peace... That was why she started when a plethora of blurred rainbow colors pierced the foamy calm. Consciousness brought about a pounding headache, and with it, the sound of voices.
"Should we shoot?"
A male.
A second said, "Not until the High Lord gets here."
"But our orders—"
"Were to wait for the High Lord's command," the second interrupted harshly.
If Aelin hadn't felt as drunk as that one night as Dorian's, she might've told the bossy male just where he could shove his attitude. Blinking rapidly, she groaned and ran a hand through her snarled locks of hair and frowned at the dirt that smeared across her palm.
And no bathtubs in sight.
"She's awake, sir!" the first male said, voice pitched high.
"I can see that, moron." Dripping sarcasm.
A jolt went through her as she realized what her initial unease had been caused by. "Evangeline," she murmured under her breath.
"She's speaking!" The voice had far surpassed the bar of "male tenor," and Aelin thought perhaps he would've made an impressive opera soprano in another life.
"Yes, I can see that as well—"
Patience worn thin, Aelin glanced up sharply, pushed into a seated position, and said irritably, "Would you two shut up?"
They did so, promptly. But it didn't matter much, as the swell of gathered soldiers were parting around the hulking shape of a man in gleaming armor.
Fae, she corrected herself as his face came into view. Delicately pointed ears, a mane of golden hair framing a sharp jaw and emerald eyes.
Aelin found herself nodding vaguely as he assessed her in much the same way. "Not bad," she said. "Not bad at all." A tilt of the head as she squinted. "Though, you could do to lose a few inches on the hair. It makes your nose look wider than it actually is."
The Fae blinked. His lips tightened, but he took no notice of her comment.
She didn't like that.
"I am Tamlin," he said in a honey-dripping timbre. "The High Lord. And you are trespassing on my territory."
Don't trust him.
The voice was fleeting, a brush against her ear, and she kept her face blank even as wary surprise curled in her breast. Instead, she gave him a sweet smile, refusing to give in, to even stand up in front of the brute. "Oh, really?" she asked. "And just what is this territory?"
He straightened, and it reminded her of a bird puffing its plumage during courtship. "The Spring Court," he said proudly.
"Spring?" Aelin snorted. "That's not very original, is it? I mean, you might as well name your sword Wind-cleaver, or something equally as stupid."
Tamlin spluttered. "I am High Lord—"
He has the one you seek.
"Of the Spring Court, I know." She waved a hand in front of her face. "Now," finally she stood, "If you'll excuse me, I do have somewhere else I need to be."
I'll be waiting, the tendril of dark touched her consciousness again. I will protect her.
You'd better, Aelin growled back, even though she was positive the thought fell on empty ears.
It took much longer than she'd anticipated for Tamlin to come to his senses. Longer still for his sentries to process his command to "Seize her!"
Aelin took specific delight in fleeing a mob set on killing her, and only her. There was something so much more invigorating as opposed to other kinds of mobs. Perhaps it was the fact that she was the lone target, that she had to keep an eye over her shoulder for stray arrows, or maybe it was that the surprise on their faces was so much more pronounced when they were beaten.
With a wild grin, Aelin pivoted on her booted heel and let out a shrill laugh. The frontal line of men skidded confusedly at her abrupt halt, then seemed to come to the unanimous conclusion that they were fighting an idiot, and there was no reason to question good luck. As they approached, her grin only broadened, and some had the good sense to look nervous.
Her magic burst forth in a furious explosion. Fire licked at the edges of open forest, and a wall of solid flame hurtled towards the oncoming traffic. They didn't have time to scream before her crackling power met their flesh, scorching bone and peeling skin. She was in Fae form suddenly, sprinting back the way she'd come, through the chaotic rows of shrieking males and past a blur of golden hair and tanned skin.
"Get her!" Tamlin boomed, but Aelin only smiled wider.
#
Somewhere deep in the forest—that is, deeper in the forest—an ashen-haired Fae male rested his aching everything in the safety of a tree. It had certainly been a pain to climb to even the lowest branch, what with his aching everything. The male ran a hand through his hair, scanned the horizon with onyx eyes.
The jump to another world had been terribly painful, near fatal if his battered body was anything to judge by. Deep fatigue had settled in his bones, but he fought it desperately. Danger could be anywhere, and though his arms were limp, his heart sputtering to keep up with the amount of energy drawn—
Fenrys grunted as he leapt from the tree.
His Queen needed him.