A/N: I FINALLY sat down and outlined this whole thing, because while outlining doesn't usually work for me, clearly not outlining was not working, either. So, for anyone interested in technical details like updates, length, etc: read on. For those who just want the recap and the chapter, read that. For those that just want the chapter, read that, too. Idk. I always ramble so much during these A/Ns that I feel the need to Warn when I'm particularly lacking pithiness.
Length-wise, the story is going to have ~40 chapters, with one of them being an epilogue, and two more parts, because I lied (SHOCKER) when I said Part III was The End. It's not. 40 chapters sounds like a whole hell of a lot, considering we're only on chapter 24, until you realize that the battle chapters are going to be like 4k, and then it's really not that much. I'm pledging right now that I'm going to do updates every Wednesday and Sunday, because my goal is to get this cranked out before Tower of Dawn when it's still technically canon (ANYONE ELSE PUMPED FOR CHAOL? Hopefully he's not as whiny as he was in QoS bc I will fight if so lol). So. That's that, I guess? REGULAR UPDATE SCHEDULE THAT FORCES ME TO GET MY SHIT TOGETHER! *pumps fist*
RECAP: Raiden is now an amputee, hunkering down in Nox's cottage after the catastrophe of his encounter with Maeve. Nox and Emery are brother and sister, and for some reason were not on speaking terms before Emery showed up with a half-dead body, which probably has something to do with their dead sister. Fenrys is in Maeve's clutches.
Syeira is possessed by one of the Valg; Kasper is unconscious. It was recently revealed that Dallie goes "quiet" around Orion, which means she can't see the future or any of that terrifying nonsense when he's present.
Calynn is being sent to the Crochan Kingdom with Sorrel. Leta is being sent to Eyllwe with Vaughan. Lysandra and Aedion are being sent to Wendlyn with Bevyn and Channon.
Lorcan, Gavriel, and Elide were sent to watch over Orynth in Aelin and Rowan's absence. There's something going on between Gavriel and a newly-widowed Evangeline.
As always, thanks oodles to all reviewers! You guys are the best! *hugs*
Part IV
Ring Around the Rosie
(Pockets Full of Posies)
CHAPTER 24
RAIDEN
Raiden's father used to say that his son had too much spirit, too much spunk, too much fire. "You're volatile," his father had said. "A match is made to light a candle. You're made to burn the whole roof down."
"We're in a castle," Raiden had pointed out. "The roof is made out of stone. Not exactly flammable."
His father had glared. "That," he said, "is not my point."
Despite Raiden's smart-ass attitude, he'd understood. His father liked straightforward things: rules and strictures, a yes or no. He did not comprehend white lies, or gray half-truths. He could not reconcile moral ambiguity and the moments when the rules bent.
Or perhaps he did understand those things—had been forced to, when the curtain had been drawn back on the old king, revealing him for a demon-possessed husk; when the fire-breathing bitch queen rose from the dead in an assassin's cowl. Perhaps his father simply preferred a world where that gray did not exist. Black and white, right and wrong, left and right, up and down: these were the things Chaol Westfall knew.
And Raiden envied his father, always had, for Chaol's self-assurance. Chaol never seemed to doubt anything, least of all himself, and Raiden was a festering brown at the core of a wilted apple.
The lines had long since blurred for Raiden. They'd begun to smear the moment he'd stepped into the Crochan heir's bed the first time. Now, he was no longer sure the lines existed at all.
His father had once faulted him for too much fight, too much life.
He would be happy now, Raiden thought.
There was nothing left inside of him at all, save for two holes. One in place of his arm, and one where Fenrys had been.
—
Raiden stared down at the mug of tea, watching the steam billow and curl, unfurling and crumpling and furling again.
"Raiden?" Emery said tentatively. She was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, her hair pulled back with a kerchief.
Her brother—Nox—leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He was wiry and elegant, soot-colored hair pulled back with a leather cord, closeted eyes like pounded heather ground beneath a pestle. His expression was carefully blank.
Nox looked like the sort of person that would be good at cards, and that, more than anything, made Raiden distrust him. Well, that, and the various deadly substances scattered over the countertops of his kitchen.
"Raiden," Emery said again. "Did you—"
"I heard you," said Raiden. His voice lacked any inflection: it was hollow, empty. Scraped clean. "I suppose I should thank you for the tea."
Nox had been the one to find Raiden, curled up on the couch and staring out into space. He'd dragged Raiden into the kitchen, where Emery was, stirring something in a pot dangling over the fire. "Sit," Nox had said, gesturing toward a table.
Raiden had eased himself into a seat as Emery stared at him, paling, and mumbled a hasty introduction—Raiden, this is my brother, Nox; Nox, this is Raiden—and turned back to the pot, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around the handle, easing the kettle onto the counter.
"Fenrys," Raiden had said, his first words. "Where is he?"
Emery flinched, recoiling perceptibly. She would've spilled the pot's contents had Nox not caught her elbow. "Rai—"
"Maeve took him," Nox said shortly.
Side-by-side, Raiden could see the family resemblance between Nox and his sister. They both had the same sort of bone structure; wide mouths and elegant, almost aristocratic, cheekbones. It was their coloring that varied: Emery was browned, from her skin to her dishwater hair to her murky eyes, and Nox was shaded in monochrome; blacks, whites, grays.
Thinking about this helped, if only for a moment, to distract from the silence in Raiden's head.
Maeve.
He'd known, of course—known the moment that Fen hadn't come running when Rai had called his name. He'd known the moment that Fenrys wasn't there when Raiden woke up, because Fen would have never left his side, not when Rai was injured.
But that word, that affirmation, somehow broke something inside of him anyway. He felt numb and yet exquisitely fragile, as if there were an empty birdcage made of glass notched to a rib inside his chest, swinging where his heart should be.
Tea. The contents of the pot had been tea. Painkilling tea, Raiden surmised, glancing around the atypical kitchen. It was halfway between an apothecary and a poisoner's cabinet: in place of sundry cookware were bottles and jars of odd, mysterious things—butterflies' wings, the crooked legs of ants, ravens' beaks; catfishes' whiskers. In place of cinnamon and sugar were arcane herbs that Raiden had never seen before in his life; buds of flowers like scattered raindrops and vivid, bright blue grass that smelled overpoweringly of cat piss.
Now, Raiden found himself looking down at his tea again, watching the steam ebb and swirl.
"What do you want from me?" Raiden said at last.
"A thank-you for saving your life would be a start," Nox said, slightly edged.
Raiden rose his gaze to meet a wall of unbreaking gray.
Emery had run—she'd run. And Raiden couldn't fault her for it, not really. What could she have possibly done? More like than not, she'd have been taken away to be used like chattel among Maeve's entourage, either as a slave or something worse.
But at the same time, he could not find it within himself to thank her. Not when he woke up with a missing arm and a broken heart, and she had run away.
"Nox," Emery said. "He doesn't have to."
"The hell he doesn't," said Nox. "You would be dead right now if not for us. You realize that, right?"
Raiden looked back at Emery. "What," he repeated, "do you want from me?"
"Maeve took Fenrys," she said, even as Nox glared at them both. "Don't you want to get him back?"
"Of course I do," Raiden snapped. "But what are we supposed to do about it?"
Emery didn't answer for a moment. Instead, she traced a water ring on the table's surface. Then, she said, "Raiden, what kind of vengeance were you and Fenrys seeking against Maeve? Why did you go looking for her?"
"We didn't want to take her on," he said. "We just wanted to find her."
"But why?" Emery prompted. "I've been quiet before, but—" She took in a deep, shuddering breath. "When I was little, I saw my sister die right in front of me." Across the room, Nox flinched so violently that his head collided with the cabinets. "I almost saw someone else die when Maeve came riding out from those woods. And—I want to know why. What you got me into."
"You ran," Raiden pointed out. "I'm sure that you could've turned your back on the bloody scene."
Emery closed her eyes, a shudder wracking her body. "You're right," she said, and though he was sure she tried to keep her voice steady, it quavered anyway. "I did run. But I came back—for you. I did what I could."
"And here I am," said Raiden. "With Fen—" He choked on the name, the single syllable scorching the back of his throat like liquid fire.
"You're alive," Nox interrupted. "And you wouldn't be, if she'd stayed in the crossfire. If she hadn't come back."
"Please, Rai," Emery said. "I need to know."
Raiden curled his hand into a fist. He could feel his missing arm, somehow: the ache of the void, the kiss of a phantom limb.
"Fenrys and I," he said, "went to avenge Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and her son, Kasper Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius."
"Impossible," Nox said, cursing as he detached himself from the wall. Afternoon shafts of sunlight caught his hair, glinting off the black. "Aelin Galathynius died in Terrasen decades ago."
"No," said Raiden. "She didn't. She survived—managed to escape. Lived hidden for years, and finally came back to reclaim her throne." He narrowed his eyes, studying Nox. "It's unusual for people to have knowledge of Erilea's politics this far east, however outdated."
"Nox is from Erilea," Emery said, ignoring her brother's scowl. "He was born there."
Raiden lifted his brows. "How long has it been since you were last in my lovely homeland, then?"
"Two decades," Nox answered, glowering at Emery. "Somewhere around there."
Raiden exhaled. "A lot's happened since then." He rubbed his forehead and looked at Emery. "There's a story I need to tell you. Not all of it's pretty," he warned. "And I can't promise that it'll satisfy your need for answers."
"Is it the truth?" she said. "All of it?"
Raiden nodded.
"Then go on," she said. "I want to hear it."
—
LETA
They made the camp in silence, Leta pitching bedrolls, Vaughan gathering tree boughs for a fire, creating a niche for themselves in the plains of Fenharrow.
They could've stopped in Bellhaven, Leta supposed; could've rented a room at an inn in the city that reeked of fish. But neither of them wanted to draw attention to their journey south, and they weren't exactly inconspicuous, what with Leta's wraithlike appearance and Vaughan's warrior's build.
She supposed that they also could've gone west, seeking the cover of the southern stretch of the Oakwald Forest. But that stretch was west of Morath, and neither of them felt up to braving the ghosts that stretched between those peaks.
She curled up on her bedroll, propping her chin on her knees. Vaughan struck two pieces of flint together in silence, the kindling flickering with a bruised, golden-red flame.
Neither of them had spoken much since they'd set off from Rifthold that morning, about two or three days after Syeira had been kidnapped. Leta still didn't know why she'd agreed to Vaughan as her escort—she'd almost fallen out of her chair when her mother had suggested it.
Then again, Leta had almost fallen out of her chair when her mother had suggested that she go to Eyllwe in the first place. Leta hadn't wanted to go—she'd never been to Eyllwe before; never been anywhere in Erilea save for Terrasen and now Adarlan. Something in her ached viciously at the thought of leaving Kas's side when all that was keeping him alive was the draughts healers eased down his throat.
But that was what princesses did, Leta supposed. They swallowed their grief for the greater good.
"I need you to talk to Haneul," her mother had said. "Find out if his reports have any credence. We're running out of time."
Leta had nodded, if barely. Yes. Fine. Sure.
But still, she'd said, incredulously, "You want me to take Vaughan?"
"I think he'll protect you," her mother said, swiping a hand across her features. Aelin looked exhausted, worn and thin. "Manon said that he'd lay down his life for you, and whatever my other opinions on him, I'm inclined to agree."
That—well, that—
That had been true once, Leta thought. She wasn't sure if it still was.
Now, gazing at the newborn fire as Vaughan shucked off his boots, sitting down on his own bedroll, she still didn't know what she'd been thinking. She'd agreed to come to Eyllwe because it was her duty; fine. But she had no idea why she'd come with Vaughan.
Weak, she thought. Stupid, stupid girl.
On the other side of the fire, Vaughan said, "What are you thinking about?"
She jumped, a bit startled. The firelight turned his skin a burnished gold, shadows playing out over his stubbled jaw. "I was thinking," she said, "about the last time we were in this situation. Just the two of us and a campfire."
"Campfires," he said, "tend to give us lapses in judgment, I think." He tilted up his head to the sky. "Looks like it's going to rain. That should help."
She smiled a bit. "It'll snow—it's wintertime." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe it's just the camp setting in general. Though you did manage to get to the Pits in an opium haze all on your own."
He winced. "Low blow."
"Sorry."
Some of the tension diffused around them, easing back into a comfortable, familiar rhythm.
Vaughan stretched out on his back, and Leta followed suit. The night sky was clear above them, and crisp with winter. Spring was coming soon: shoots were poking up through the soil, thawed and uncovered. But for now, the air still held the promise of a chill.
"Do you still look up at the stars?" said Vaughan quietly.
Dangerous territory, she told herself.
"Sometimes," she answered, because she was idiotic. "Not the same way, though." She paused. "I miss it, sometimes. It's strange, but I do."
"Miss what?"
"Not Mohana," she clarified. "Or that stupid cabin. But—being alone, in those woods, in those mountains. I hate cities."
"Hate them?"
"Not hate, maybe," she allowed. "They're lovely for short periods of time, don't get me wrong. But—I don't know. Something in me's meant for wildness. Mountains. Forests that haven't been planted and groomed. Winter wastes and gravel sheets."
Vaughan let out a breath. "Minya used to say that I was made for where the world ends."
Leta laughed, just a little. "I thought I was at the world's end," she said. "At that cabin."
"Maybe that was the world's end," he said. "For you, I mean."
She raked a hand through her hair. "Yeah. Maybe."
"Thank you," he said. "For—defending me. In the throne room, in front of everyone."
"None of it was untrue," she said. "And—you deserved it. I shouldn't have sent you away. The night of my mother's coronation ball, I mean."
"I fucked up. It was understandable."
"That doesn't mean it was the right thing to do," she said. A lump formed in her throat. "I missed you. All the time. Constantly. Kas was there, and Aelin, and Rowan, but—" She trailed off. "I missed you as a friend."
There was nothing, for a moment, save for the whisper and hiss of the fire.
"I missed you as a friend, too," he said lowly. "I don't think I've ever had—friends, like that. The cadre don't count. We were all cold bastards, even your father. He might've been the coldest of us all."
"Dad?" she said, alarmed. "He's not cold. Not that cold, anyway."
"Maybe not now," Vaughan said with a huff. "But trust me. It was some kind of magic Aelin worked on him, to get him to thaw enough to laugh or crack a grin."
She smiled a little. "I've heard stories."
"Leta," Vaughan said. "I want you to know, that whatever I do—whatever happens, with Erawan in general or your family or just between us—I'll always be your friend. Always."
Something stung in her eyes. "Yeah?"
"Of course," said Vaughan. She looked at him through the fire, and found him looking right back, something uncharacteristically soft in his gaze; the set of his mouth. "Get some sleep, love."
Leta closed her eyes, and ignored the part of her that wanted badly, with a force that shook her bones, to lay down beside him and let him carry her through the night.
—
LYSANDRA
Lysandra woke in Aedion's arms, her husband pressed against her back.
She fluttered her eyes. These rooms in Rifthold were familiar: they'd been Aedion's quarters just after the old king fell, when Aelin was comatose and Rowan was wearing a hole in the stone floors of her chambers.
She looked at the diamond-paned windows, at the shafts of warm sunlight filtering in, and wished, more than anything, that she was still asleep.
Lysandra had thought she'd known grief. Her father had abandoned her; her mother had thrown her out of the house and spit on her crumpled form in the street. She'd been groomed as a little girl for whoring, fucked so many times that she'd stopped feeling like a living being, like anything but a commodity, purchased and used up and left weeping.
And then someone had loved her, despite it all—Wes, Wes, Wes—and he'd died. Gone downriver, never to return.
But it was not until she held her daughter's broken body in her hands that she'd fully comprehended grief.
Dallie had always been a colicky baby. Red-faced, yowling. Channon had been the quiet one, though he'd learned to shift before he learned to walk, and given Lysandra a heart attack when she found a kitten curled up in her son's cradle. But Dallie had been brimming with laughter and smiles all her life, burning so brightly that Lysandra had to fight the urge to shade her eyes.
Dallie, Lysandra was beginning to understand, was gone. And she had not been allowed to find peace.
She shouldn't hate Syeira for it. She shouldn't look at the people scrambling for her return and curl her lip.
Yet Lysandra could not help but feel if Dallie had been strung up, little and lovely and laughing, she should at least be allowed to find solace—to be put to rest.
A door creaked.
Lysandra propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring Aedion's muffled noise of displeasure. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulder, the strap of her nightgown slipping down her arm.
"Lys?" Aedion mumbled. "What is it?"
Standing in the doorway to their bedroom, chewing an apple with a bored expression, was Orion Crochan-Havilliard.
"Ever heard of knocking?" Lysandra asked, arching a slender brow.
"Shockingly enough, yes," Orion replied, strolling over and flouncing himself down on one of the plush armchairs. "I just choose not to. So predictable."
Gods almighty. He was a miniature rendition of teenaged Dorian.
Lysandra rubbed her forehead. "Is there a reason that you're here?"
"Other than catching a glimpse of the appallingly lovely sight of you in your underclothes?" Orion said.
Lysandra wasn't sure, but she thought she heard Aedion growl.
"You'd better watch your mouth," she said, more amused than anything else. "Or my husband will kick your ass from here to Antica."
"I hear it's rather sunny there this time of year," Orion said, yawning. "Be my guest."
At that, Aedion finally sat up, shirtless and displeased, hair sticking up in a mess of cowlicks. "What," he said, "do you want?"
"Funny," Orion said. "That's not usually how most dignitaries choose to speak to me."
"That's because I know your father," said Aedion, jabbing a finger in Orion's direction. "And, unfortunately, your mother."
Something dangerously sharp entered Orion's eye. "Careful."
"Get to the point, princeling," Lysandra said, lounging back.
"It's about your daughter," said Orion.
At that, both Aedion and Lysandra jolted, eyes flying wide.
"She's fine," said Orion. "Before you have a heart attack. Better than fine, actually." He paused, examining the glint of his iron claws. "As it turns out, my presence has something of an… effect on her."
"What kind of effect?" Aedion snarled through clenched teeth.
"One that makes her Dallie," said Orion. "And not Daleka."
Lysandra trembled. Shook so violently that Aedion wrapped his arms around her shoulders, strong and stable and there, and even Orion appeared a bit apologetic, eyes flickering with some unreadable emotion.
"Take me to her," she said.
—
CALYNN
Calynn loved the quiet of the mornings. Silence could be the loudest sound in the world—it stripped away reason and logic, and the thoughts that threatened to break her. It made the racket in her head slip into blissful stillness.
Three days since Syeira had been kidnapped, two since Manon had told Callie to follow Sorrel to the Crochan Kingdom. Orion would stay; Bev would accompany Aedion and Lysandra to Wendlyn.
But Callie, for all her magical shortcomings, wasn't stupid, and she understood her mother's true purpose: tying up loose ends, shoving the extra children—extra heirs—out of harm's way.
Callie couldn't find it in herself to be angry with her mother. Callie was too consumed by guilt and grief.
Calynn had spent her entire life trying to make up for her lack of magic, her lack of fire. She strove to sharpen her mind, to accentuate her striking appearance; to be so kind and so charming that people could not help but like her.
But Callie… She didn't mourn Syeira.
The first thought—the instinctual thought—that Callie had when she'd first heard her sister was missing had been, Does this mean I'm the heir now?
And when she had her answer—not yet—she felt only disappointment.
Callie was not a kind person. She was not intrinsically good: she acted kind and sweet to serve her own purposes. After all, people trapped more flies with honey than with vinegar.
The morning of her departure dawned cold and brisk and gray, and Callie could only think that she deserved to be sent away.
She found Sorrel saddling two wyverns in the aerie, tightening straps and adjusting leather. Both of them were bundled in thick furs—they'd be flying westward alone through the Frozen Wastes. Callie tugged on the hem of her fur-lined sleeve, watching Sorrel fiddle with silver buckles.
"Morning," Sorrel said, without turning around.
Callie blinked. She hadn't thought Sorrel had noticed her entrance. "Morning."
Sorrel swiveled halfway, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. Her hair was braided into a thick coil, piled high on top of her head. "This one's yours," she said, jerking her head at a green-scaled wyvern, slightly smaller than the russet one by Sorrel's elbow.
Callie came forward, reaching out and scratching the wyvern's chin. "Boy or girl?"
"Girl," Sorrel said. "Her name is Hadain."
"Hello, Hadain," Callie said. The wyvern simply peered at her, eyes curiously blank. Callie filed that information away for later.
Sorrel continued to adjust the saddles. "Have you ever traveled by the Frozen Wastes before?"
Callie shook her head. "No. Usually we go through the Ferian Gap and head southwest—we snake up the coast."
"That's why," Sorrel muttered, almost to herself. "Well. The south is a bit… precarious at present."
"I figured." Callie let her hand drop from Hadain's cheek. "Have you ever gone through the Frozen Wastes?"
"I was born there," said Sorrel. "For a long time, that's all I ever knew." She gave Callie a wry, almost pitying, smile. "It was the same way for your mother."
Callie blinked. "Oh."
"It's a cold place," said Sorrel, swinging her leg up over her wyvern, "and brutal. That's why the matrons favored the the Wastes—it bred calculating warriors. Not unlike the sort you've got in the Staghorns, up north in Terrasen."
Callie hopped up onto Hadain's back. "Like Leta?"
Sorrel paused, considering this. "No," she said finally. "Not like Leta."
"How so?"
"The Cambrians are a different beast than the Wastes," Sorrel answered. "And Leta's made of different material than the rest of us—her own family included." Sorrel closed her hands over the reins, and Callie followed suit. "But make no mistake, Callie—being born and raised in a place of cold and quiet breaks something fundamental in all of us. It's just a matter of what."
Sorrel snapped her reins, and her wyvern rose. Callie did likewise, turning Sorrel's words over in her mouth.
She thought of all the people she had known that had been tempered by suffering—her father, with his necklace of scars that never quite faded; her mother, so cruel and cunning at first glance; Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, whipped and torn to shreds before being hastily sketched together again; and Rowan Whitethorn, who'd suffered losing a mate and children not once but twice.
There was Aedion, who'd been beaten by the knowledge that he'd failed the only person that had ever mattered to him; and Lysandra, who'd been sold like a piece of meat. Chaol, who'd lost his son perhaps indefinitely; and Nesryn, who seemed so quiet after Raiden had gone.
Lorcan Salvaterre, wrecked by horrors Callie couldn't even imagine; and Elide Lochan, who'd been abused in more ways than one by her uncle, the man that was supposed to be family. Ansel, ripped apart by a child that would never draw breath; and Sorrel, because Callie, if nothing else, could recognize suffering when she saw it.
Leta, who'd been raised alone, who'd only known claws sinking into her skin for fourteen years. Kasper, who'd been whipped in front of his mother just so Maeve could hear Aelin scream. Syeira, Callie had to admit, who'd grown up in a sea of blood and broken bodies.
Suffering, Callie thought, was so very common. Ironic, that the people that seemed to suffer most—the princes and princesses, lords and ladies, kings and queens—were the ones that were supposed to drip and ooze luxury and grace.
Or perhaps, Callie thought, the kings and queens were not the ones that suffered the most at all, but rather the ones that were lucky enough to have their stories told.
It was a sobering thought.
But then again, Callie had heard the tale of Sam Cortland, and she had to wonder if anyone would have cared about the sellsword son of a whore's death if he had not been loved by a one-day queen.
Hadain rose, taking Callie with her, and Calynn realized that the silence of the early morning had faded, leaving too much room for roaming thoughts.
—
EVANGELINE
Hadrian brought home flowers every time he came back from time at sea. Vases of lilac boughs, of roses, of daisies stained blue.
Hadrian had been pale and rosy-cheeked when Evangeline had first met him, but he'd been windburned and browned when he'd died. "The sea leaves its mark," he'd joked. "But at least I'm able to find my lovely wife lovely flowers."
Some of the flowers were exotic—little pink buds he called cherry blossoms; striped, dotted orange petals called tiger lilies. Evangeline would pluck one flower to press between the pages of a book—just one to save, one to cherish, one to look back on after all the rest had wilted.
She thought about her book of flowers now, watching Cat waddle through the snow in the stark, abandoned sunflower gardens.
Cat plopped down in the snow, giggling. "Mama, look!" she cried, flopping down on her back. "I'm a snow butterfly!"
"I think it's a snow angel," Evangeline said, not without amusement.
Cat scrunched up her nose. "I like butterflies better."
Evangeline leaned down to kiss the top of Cat's head. "Then butterflies," she said, "it is."
Cat scrambled to her feet, running off to inspect a naked bush, and Evangeline smiled resignedly. Her daughter was a wild thing, a bit too unbridled for Evangeline's comfort. Cat was Hadrian, through-and-through, and Hadrian's reckless streak had earned him a place at the bottom of the sea.
Evangeline made to follow her daughter, but the sound of voices startled her.
The gardens at Orynth were a winding, convoluted beast, and even in midwinter, the hedges were carved of thorns and branches, a maze of hollowed twigs. At present, the stark hedges surrounding the enclosement hid Evangeline and Cat from the footsteps sounding on the path on the other side—two sets.
"Elide," a rough, gravelly voice said—Lorcan.
"Lorcan," Elide replied. "I'm not telling you that I'm leaving. I'm just—"
"Just what?" Lorcan demanded. "We've been over this."
"I'm giving you an out," Elide finished.
There was quiet, suddenly, on the other side of the hedge.
"I don't want one," said Lorcan. "I don't know how many gods-damned times—"
"I'm getting older, Lorcan," Elide said, and something in the wobbling tone of her voice made Evangeline go still. "And I know—I don't want to hold you back. I'm mortal."
"I don't care," Lorcan growled. "I've said it already, and I'll say it again: I want as long as I've got with you. Understand?"
Someone let out a horrible, snagging breath. Evangeline didn't know if it was Lorcan or Elide.
Evangeline took a step back, suddenly feeling filthy, as if she hadn't bathed for weeks. That had been a conversation she was not meant to overhear—an exchange of words meant for no one other than the speaker and the recipient.
She stumbled, turning around, scouting for Cat.
And that was when she saw it.
Evangeline remembered, ages ago, being with Ren Allsbrook in Suria when a haze of winged, fanged creatures had descended from the sky. Ilken.
There were four of them, but that didn't mean that Evangeline could fight them. Not even close.
She could do nothing as the ilken descended from the sky, savagely fast, and snagged Cat in its claws.
Evangeline screamed.
—
DALLIE
Dallie hadn't wanted to tell her parents.
The snatches of clarity were brief shards of stained-glass, only made possible by Orion at her side.
Three days ago, when she and Orion had landed at the castle, Dallie had said, "Don't tell anyone."
Orion had quirked a brow. "And why not?"
Dallie hugged her arms to her chest. "Because it's crumbly," she said, attempting—and failing—to search for the right words.
"Crumbly?" Orion echoed.
"Unsure," Dallie amended. "You know. Like dirt that crumbles."
Orion had frowned. "Dallie—"
"Please," Dallie said. The word tasted like knives slicing ribbons on her tongue. "Please."
"I don't like it."
"I know," she said. "But thank you anyway."
Dallie had thought that Orion would keep his word. But the night before, he'd found her huddled and shaking in a corner in the aerie, her eyes glowing, scratching sentences into the wooden slats of the walls with bloody, broken fingernails.
It had come suddenly—like a wave that swelled from the bottom instead of curving from the top. Suddenly, Daleka could hear only words—snatches of voices she half-recognized from the future.
Orion had gotten there, and he'd called her name twice before he'd grabbed her wrists, yanking her back to herself.
She'd blinked, tears wet on her face, blood wet on her hands, as Orion had stared at the predictions carved into the wood.
SERVE AS SHADOWS SERVE THE LIGHT
I AM UNWHOLE
BRING HER BACK
SO MUCH DARKNESS FOR SUCH A LOVELY FACE
HAS THE RIVER ALWAYS CALLED TO YOU
MY NAME IS SAM
THE ONLY MISTAKE I MADE WAS LOVING
"Dallie," Orion whispered.
She hadn't responded. She'd been trembling from head to toe, and she'd wrenched her hands from his grip, doubling over and retching.
Orion had pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, waited until she was finished vomiting into the piles of hay, and scooped her up into his arms. He was strong—surprisingly so, as he carried her out of the aerie.
A muscle in his jaw was ticking as she lolled her head back, eyes fluttering shut.
"You're the only one I've never seen," she slurred.
His grip tightened. "Save your strength, Dallie."
"How'd you—" She licked her lips, clearing the lump in her throat. "How'd you know where to find me?"
"You're not that unpredictable," he said, ducking beneath a stone archway, leading her into the castle.
"No one else—ever knows—where to—look."
"Shh," he said. "And it's not a matter of knowing where, darling. It's a matter of knowing how."
She wondered, as she plummeted from consciousness, if many people felt safe in the hands of this boy prince—if people found solace in his sharp claws and white hair, his otherworldly sapphire eyes.
Somehow she doubted that they did.
But for her sake—well, she needed someone with sharp teeth to scare away the demons lurking at night.
When she woke up, she found herself in a cot in the infirmary, her hair brushed and washed, changed into a new shift, her hands bandaged.
There were rather a lot of people in her room, and they were all yelling.
Dallie counted Rowan, Aelin, Manon, Dorian, Lysandra, Aedion, and Orion.
Lysandra was—she was screaming. At Orion.
"You knew?" she shouted, shoving Orion back. "You knew that she was conscious—that there was a way to—to talk to her, to figure this out—and you didn't tell us?"
"Get your hands off me," Orion snapped, before Manon and Dorian had a chance to. "And yes. Dallie asked me not to."
"Bullshit," Lysandra said, chest heaving. "You should have told us. Right away."
"I don't break my promises," said Orion, "without good reason. Unlike some people I could mention, I'm not a liar."
Lysandra's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Use your deductive reasoning skills."
"Orion," Manon said sharply.
"Don't censor me," Orion snarled. "Lysandra, for fuck's sake, instead of prancing around and being pissed at me, why don't you focus on your kid? Who, by the way, I found bleeding in a corner of the aerie. What the fuck kind of parenting do you endorse?"
Aedion took a threatening step forward, fists balled at his sides, and had to be physically restrained by Aelin.
"Orion, that is enough," Dorian said.
"No," he said. "No. I'm sick and tired of how you've all been treating her, like she's a pile of broken glass you're going to cut yourself on. She isn't broken; she's just different. Instead of spending all your energy being furious at Syeira, why don't you try being thankful that you got her back at all? She died. Of course she's going to be different." He glared at Lysandra and Aedion, chest heaving. "You're never going to get your sweet, rosy-cheeked daughter back. Get over it. Start thanking the gods for the daughter that you do have, because this is war, and one day not very far into the future, you might wake up and find yourselves without her—predictions and all. Again."
Silence.
"She's not a monster," said Orion fiercely. "And she's not damaged goods. Fuck you all if you think she is."
"I don't think she's a monster," Lysandra said.
Orion snorted.
"No, you listen to me," she said, jabbing a finger, her eyes bright with tears. "You don't get to come in here and judge me or Aedion for what you know nothing—nothing—about." She swept her wrist across her cheeks. "I am trying my best."
Aedion had gone very, very quiet. Aelin's hands fell from his arms, and he didn't move an inch.
Not until Dallie said, in a voice that cracked and fissured, "Dad?"
Everyone turned to look at her.
Something crumpled in Aedion's face, and then, before she knew what was happening, Aedion swept her up in his arms, crushing her to his chest.
It was uncomfortable—a mess of bones and skin. But Dallie couldn't bring herself to mind.
For the first time, with Orion there in the room, she could touch skin without feeling the bite and hiss of past, present, and future.
Her father smelled like Terrasen: like snow and steel, all the cold, cutting things that somehow came together to form something softer—if not in appearance, than in expression.
And then her father was crying.
It was a strange thing. She'd never seen her father cry before, but he did now: huge, heaving sobs that wracked his whole frame.
She was conscious of people staring as Lysandra knelt at their feet and wrapped her arms around them, her own face wet, but Dallie didn't care.
Because, for the first time since she'd come back to life, she was able to look at her parents and say, "I love you."
—
LETA
They made short work of the continent's length. Leta pushed the winds forward as they flew, soaring over the plains of Fenharrow. As the land changed from dry grass to brown dust, swampland and the shadow of the Bogdano Jungle toward the west, she realized that they'd arrived in Eyllwe.
She and Vaughan still hadn't talked much since they'd dismantled their camp that morning, but the silence was easier, less tense. She'd missed him. Gods, she'd missed him. He seemed to click back into a Vaughan-sized hole in her chest, as if there'd been a mold he was waiting to fill.
Leta didn't know… didn't know what to think about that.
Evening dawned on the horizon, streaking the sky pinks and golds, and Banjali appeared on the horizon.
Her mother had told her fragments about Eyllwe. Aelin had been a handful of times, and she spoke the language—she learned it from a slave in the salt mines, she told Leta, as if Aelin were recounting the weather, or describing a dress.
Leta found solace in remembering that the members of her family were all just as tattered as she was. They shared scars like they shared facial features, their demons swarming in a cloud over their heads.
Aelin had told Leta about Nehemia Ytger, and her sacrifice. Relations between Eyllwe and Terrasen weren't strained, but they were… politely detached. Distance served as a buffer between them.
Banjali was a beautiful city: sandstone and terracotta buildings sprawled over a mess of sand and palm trees, ladders snaking up the side of sun-baked buildings. The palace was a domed monstrosity looming up over the city, ornamented with gold and intricate latticework.
As Leta flew over the city, Vaughan at her side, she caught the scent of citrus, and sun, and sand—the faint whiff of jasmine flowers; lotus blossoms drifting over the wind.
She glanced over at Vaughan. Follow me.
They'd always been able to communicate nonverbally, a language of nods and head inclines.
Leta flew right to the palace, over the gates, and shifted directly before the front doors in midair, flipping neatly down into a crouch.
Guards jumped, hands reaching for their weapons, as Vaughan did the same beside her, smiling with sharp, pointed teeth.
"Who are you?" one of the guards—a burly, ebony-skinned wall of a man—demanded.
"Leta Lyria Evalin Whitethorn Ashryver Galathynius," she said, ticking off her names mentally one-by-one. "Princess of Terrasen. He"—she jerked her head toward the Fae at her side—"is Vaughan Zamil, a former member of Maeve's cadre." She smiled pleasantly. "I've come to speak with King Haneul."
A man appeared at the doors to the palace—slender, perhaps a year or two older than Leta, and devastatingly handsome, with dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, golden irises, and a sparkling smile. "Your Highness," the man said, bowing. "It is an honor. I've heard so much about you."
Beside Leta, Vaughan stiffened.
"Pleased to meet you," Leta said. "Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"
"Prince Tarik," he said, walking forward, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a tunic the color of aquamarine stones. "The pleasure is all mine."
The heir to the throne of Eyllwe.
Leta sunk into a bow herself. "Your Highness."
Vaughan didn't move. He was too busy sizing Tarik up, as if he could somehow find the knives hidden on his person.
Leta cleared her throat, rising. "Pardon my lackey," she said, earning some small satisfaction at the irritated twitch of Vaughan's lips at the word lackey. "He has some difficulty with his manners."
Tarik laughed. "He must be some lackey," he said. "I've heard stories of Maeve's cadre.
Though I suppose you must know more than I, with many of them embedded in your country's government."
"Embedded, perhaps," she said, "is a strong word."
"Wasn't your father her second-in-command?"
"For a time," she said. "But no longer. I say former member for a reason." Her tone had gone sharp, and Tarik noticed.
He inclined his head. "Apologies. I know a little of your… involvements with Maeve."
I don't think you do, she thought. Out loud, she said, "No need to apologize. I would, however, like to speak with your father. Though"—Leta smiled apologetically—"I believe myself and my lackey find ourselves a bit travel-stained."
"Of course," Tarik said, catching her drift. He snapped his fingers at a passing servant. "Asim, show Her Highness and her companion to a set of guest chambers, please. See to it that they have everything that they need."
Asim bowed his head. "Certainly, Your Highness." He peered at Leta and Vaughan, cringing back a bit at the latter's bared teeth. "If you could just follow me, perhaps…?"
"Certainly." Leta smiled dazzlingly at Tarik. "I hope to see you again during our stay."
"Likewise," Tarik murmured, and she felt his eyes boring holes into her back as Asim led them to their rooms.
—
LORCAN
The second Lorcan heard the scream, he didn't stop to think. He acted.
He swung around the hedges, Elide hot on his heels, as an ilken swooped down and snatched Cat Orabel in its claws. Lorcan swore, hurling a dagger—where it sank into the ilken's throat, dropping Cat fifteen feet in the air, tumbling into a pile of snow.
Evangeline shrieked, clambering through the snow to get to her daughter. Lorcan lunged as one of the ilken dropped onto the snow, unhooking his hatchet from where it was permanently wedged on his back and throwing it through the air.
Lorcan had become consummate at hunting these demons, and the hatchet severed the ilken's throat.
He yanked out another hunting dagger from his belt, slapping it in Elide's hands. "Get back to the castle," he snarled. "Now."
"Not a chance."
"Evangeline and Cat need you," he pointed out. "And I need Gavriel. Don't be a martyr, Elide. Do it now."
Elide set her mouth into a thin white line, but ran through the snow as best as she could, Lorcan using a bit of his magic to stabilize her ankle even more than usual. He fashioned an arrow of darkness and sent it plunging for the two ilken still in the sky—it made them both drop, but they were still alive; hulking and fierce.
Elide picked up Cat and ran toward the stone paths, Evangeline behind her, as Lorcan sprinted toward the ilken, yanking up his hatchet and sinking it into another's shoulder. He heard the satisfying crunch of severed bone and muscle, and plunged a knife tucked in his boot into the ilken's throat.
Lorcan was running out of knives—there were only so many weapons that he strapped on his body for a casual walk in the gardens. Dammit.
But just as two more ilken slammed down, right beside the remaining one, a roar sounded, and a mountain cat burst through the snow, sinking its fangs into one of the ilken's necks.
"About time," Lorcan growled, slamming his hatchet into one of the ilken's backs.
Gavriel snarled in reply, and Lorcan focused on this—the sound of breaking bones, the smell of blood against snow, the low grumble of a mountain cat and hiss of steel, the things that Lorcan knew—as the gardens became a haze of blood and cursing.
He was so wrapped up in the makeshift battle that he almost—almost—didn't see the ilken reach out a claw and plunge it directly into Gavriel's ribcage.
Almost.
—
ORION
Orion stood at his father's side, watching Aedion, Lysandra, Bevyn, and Channon depart the castle in a row of carriages, bound for the river docks.
Aedion and Lysandra had wanted to stay desperately. But someone needed to go to Wendlyn immediately—there could be no more delays, no more hemming and hawing. In a way, Orion thought, Dallie's revelation had made things both harder and easier. Aedion and Lysandra left with the knowledge that their daughter still had a bit of humanity left within her, but they also left her all the same, and in a tumultuous, precarious position.
Dallie had to stay. In order to become human, she had to be where Orion was.
The last of the carriages left Orion's line of sight, and he felt his father turn an assessing, contemplative gaze on him.
"Something to say?" Orion said, acid-tongued.
"You're rather too much like me," his father said, "for my own comfort."
Orion snorted. "We're not that similar."
"Not as I am now," his father allowed. "But as I used to be."
"Lysandra and Aedion needed to hear it. I won't apologize for what I said."
Dorian didn't say anything for a moment. "Don't be so quick to judge Lysandra and Aedion. You don't know the whole story—and you don't know them like I do."
"Bullshit."
"Orion, for once, drop the veneer of teenaged angst and look at me," his father snapped. Orion flicked a bored gaze his father's way. "Listen, and listen closely, because I will only say this once."
"I'm all ears," Orion drawled.
"Losing a child is not something you will ever comprehend until you have felt it yourself," his father said. "It is the penultimate sensation of feeling the carpet ripped out from under your feet—only to discover there is no floor beneath, and the walls and crumbling down, and you cannot tell up from down, or left from right. All you can feel is an all-encompassing sense of failure, because that is your job. Your job, as a parent, is to protect your child. And the second that you realize you will never hear your child laugh again, or call you Dad—" His father cut himself off abruptly, breathing raggedly. "It is the second when there is no reason. It is the moment when you realize there will never be a carpet beneath your feet again, or even a floor, and you may never know left from right, or up from down. Not ever again."
Orion didn't say a word. He wanted to—wanted to bounce back with a sharp retort, but he found himself suddenly devoid of words.
"If Syeira came back," his father said, and Orion could see him struggling with the words—physically shoving them from his lips, as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of poison, "and she was not the same—if she did not respond to the name I have always called her, if she was not the daughter that I raised, that I knew, in a fundamentally, fundamentally altering way, I would need time. Not because I do not love her. Not because I think she is a monster. But because I would need time to accept that the way she is—she would be that way, at least in part, because of me. Because I failed her as a parent. As her father."
"Dad—"
Dorian Havilliard only swept a hand over his face, closing his eyes. "Be careful with what you say, Orion," he said. "Because there are things you do not know—sensations you will never be able to guess at until you experience them yourself. And I hope to gods you never do."
Orion stood there, suddenly feeling as if he had an extra limb—an extra toe or finger or arm or leg.
"And," Dorian said, "be careful that when you make impassioned speeches about someone else, you aren't really talking about yourself." He gave Orion a tired, weary smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We're both guilty of that today."
Dorian made to leave, but paused, putting a hand on his son's shoulder. "I've never thought you were a monster," he said. "Not once. Not ever. You are twice—three times, even—the human being most people claim to be. And I love you—unconditionally, irrevocably, no matter what secret gifts you might turn out to have. You know that, right?"
Orion didn't—couldn't—speak. Not past the lump in his throat.
Something in Dorian's eyes flickered, and he hauled Orion to his chest. It was strange—Orion was almost as tall as his father now, if not as broad.
"You'll make a great king someday," Dorian said, and released his son.
Orion didn't say a word as his father left the room—he just gripped the windowsill, watching as the skies opened and it started, somehow, impossibly, to rain.
—
SYEIRA
When Syeira woke, her mind was her own.
The Valg was… gone.
In its place was blessed, empty silence, and the raised, red tissue of scars too fresh to prod and proke.
Her hands clawed at her neck—to find a different collar. Not one of made of that black stone, but one made of iron; one that quenched the bit of her father's magic roaring to get free in her blood.
Senses seeped in slowly. She felt a warm, moist blanket settle over her skin—warmth. Damp humidity, like Rifthold in midsummer, when the stench from the slums' sewers crawled and lingered all the way to the palace.
She heard the caw of birds, but not the songbirds she knew—exotic, feathered beasts, like the fabled parakeets and toucans of the south. The whisper of leaves, sough of branches; buzz of thousands of insects.
Hard, wet stones dug into her back. She felt sticky, sweaty.
She opened her eyes.
And immediately wished she hadn't.
She was in a jungle—a thick webbing of trees arched over her head, knitted together, fingers intertwined. It was overwhelmingly green, from the leaves to the lichen to the moss, interspersed with pops of color: the glint off a reptile's scales, the glow of a panther's eyes, the wings of a butterfly, the petals of a flower; the wings of a bird.
She was sprawled out on the crumbling wrecks of an ancient temple, made of coarse stone and brick. Below her was a Valg army.
There was camp upon camp, tents pinned as far as the eye could see, men striding around with eyes black as granite, their faces pulled into savage grins. They were building something—lugging huge armfuls of stone. Some of them were rebuilding the temple complex, which stretched on for miles, but…
Most of the rebuilding was given to human slaves, with eyes of blue or green or brown, scratched and scarred and hollowed.
Hundreds of them. Hundreds of slaves.
Thousands of Valg. More than… more than Syeira wanted to consider.
"Fuck," she whispered, scrabbling to find purchase, to get to her feet. She had to find a way out—had to, had to—
And then she reached her feet, and the collar around her neck gave a tug as her chain leash grew taut.
"Ah-ah," a sweet, seductive voice said from behind her. "I wouldn't try that. Painful." He made a tsk-tsk sound.
Syeira froze, every hair on her body standing on end.
A hand grabbed her chin in a rough, bruising grip, twisting her toward the speaker.
It was… a man. One that might have once been handsome, with curling, dark hair and ivory skin; a muscled frame and bulging arms, teeth like diamonds.
He smiled at her. "Syeira Sorscha Blackbeak Crochan Havilliard," he said, ticking off each of her names with apparent delight. "A puzzle, to be sure. Not many people can resist the allure of Valg possession—even ones with eyes like those." His hold tightened even further, his fingernails digging into her skin. She fought to keep still, to refrain from flinching back, recoiling.
A different kind of battle. Fight, fight, fight. For Kas, for Dad, for Mom, for Bev and Callie and Orion. For Kas.
"But," the man continued—and she saw, now, the glitter of basalt eyes gone wholly black—"I am nothing if not pragmatic. We can always try ransom. Or, if not…" He paused. "I can take pleasure in hearing your dear mother and father's screams as I rip you apart in front of them. Or send your body back in pieces. I haven't decided yet."
Syeira jerked out of his grip. "Bastard," she spat.
The slap came so quickly she almost didn't see it coming. He backhanded her across the face, hard enough for her to choke on a mouthful of blood as her head hit the stones.
A ringing filled her skull, downing, for a moment, his torrent of words.
"—or," the man was saying, grinning fiercely, "perhaps I'll keep this lovely collar, and delight in breaking you the physical way. Top to bottom."
Her stomach revolted violently. "Stay the fuck away from me."
"Oh, I don't think I will," the man said, and grabbed a fistful of her hair, bringing her ear close enough to his mouth that his lips brushed the sensitive cartilage. She recoiled, trying to get away, as the man whispered, "My name is Erawan, you see."
—
KASPER
Kasper woke in a cot with the aching, persistent feeling of something missing.
He was in the infirmary, tucked into a cot. His head felt cool with sweat, as if he'd only just broken a fever.
Rowan was asleep in a cot at Kasper's bedside, Aelin in Rowan's arms. Both of them looked exhausted, as if they'd had several years stripped off their nearly-immortal lives.
"Mom? Dad?" he croaked. His voice was intelligible, rusty from disuse.
Rowan and Aelin's eyelids fluttered open anyway, both of them jolting when they saw Kasper awake again.
"Oh, thank the gods," Aelin said, and swept him up, just as she had when he was a little boy, and she was bundling him into her arms, as if the mere act of embrace could keep him safe.
Rowan let out a hoarse, shuddering breath, and got a glass of water for Kas from the nightstand. Kasper sucked it down greedily, trying to allay the sense of missing; lacking.
"Where's Syeira?" Kasper asked.
—
RAIDEN
For a long time after he finished his story—after he finished telling the tale of Celaena Sardothien, and her merry band of legends, and all that had happened to her and her legends, and Raiden himself—Nox, Emery, and Raiden sat in silence.
It was, surprisingly, Nox that broke it.
"We're going to Erilea," he said. "Pack your bags. We leave tomorrow morning at dawn."
A/N: Preview of next chapter: fields of dead bodies, prophetic dreams, and King Galan Ashryver in Wendlyn. It's fun. ;)
Review thank-you list time!
mandyreilly
cindykxie (orillie sounds like a type of pasta. LETS GO WITH IT)
Fabulous Purple Princess
EmpressofAlderly18
BookBabbles
WheresAelin (Raiden is missing one arm. :/)
Annimiraye
pomxxx (Syeira and Kasper's reuniting is going to be.. ah,, interesting. Several things will come out, including the asp and mate thing ;))
Guest
Bianca di' Angelo
FireBreathingBitchQueen1
isabelas (Elide and Lorcan are having an Existential Crisis ;P)
pho-hp-tog-mi (Omg I'm sorry organizing sounds terrible. I'm a firm believer in organized chaos... like... I haven't lost a school paper in like 3 years but if you open my locker you might still die? Lol. As far as Tower of Dawn goes... hm. Definitely Yrene appearance (has that been legit confirmed yet?), and probably Chaol trying to bargain for forces from Antica (LITERALLY IM CRACKING UP CHAOL AS A DIGNITARY YES), and probably something heartbreaking to do with Chaol's legs, because SJM seems pretty intent on killing us all. I just finished Lord of Shadows (Cassandra Clare's new Shadowhunters book) today and I was like sobbing for hours? And then I read Caraval? And im? Still not over the Foxhole Court? I'm reading Hemingway now I cant handle more YA fiction that leaves me screeching on the floor, which is all YA fiction)
Dacowluva (NOX AND AELIN REUNION IS GOING TO BE GREAT like seriously though there are some scenes that I just,, am so excited to write,, and that is one of them,,)