ANDER:
Gods, Ander was so sick of travel that he never wanted to see another ship again.
He'd spent about a week out of the past three months not travelling. He'd spent the last near-month on the ocean on a royal vessel which moved painstakingly slowly, then a scant handful of days in Varese being shuttled from one spontaneous diplomatic meeting to another, then finally the last near week-and-a-half venturing deeper and deeper into Wendlyn's wilderness, on near-forbidden roads, largely alone, because Illia had spent too long in other people's company and had retreated into bird form.
"Don't waste it," Father had said. Yes, well, it was hard to take romantic advantage of a situation when the girl's royal cousins were involved, and then she grew feathers, and proceeded to seduce him by dropping small rodents at his feet.
How swoonworthy.
It was spring but the woods were cold and damp and he was cold and damp and dirty and he missed his books and frankly, Ander decided, kicking wildly at a collection of stones on the not-even-a-little-bit-of-a-road, that this would be the end of the travel for a while was simply for the best.
He glanced skywards. Illia was high above, a silhouette. Distant as ever.
The space forced between them had stretched again. Something turned uneasily in his stomach at the thought of all that history suddenly getting dredged up again. They were hiking into territory unvisited by a Galathynius since Aelin herself was nineteen. There were parallels here he was scared to breach again after so long without incident-after so long of being royals, and not wholly themselves. He was all too aware of the history tracing every step-of how much of it was his own.
Ander tripped for the thousandth time, cursed, and dropped down onto the nearest rock. "I am not moving until I get warm, dry, or fed," he shouted, half at the sky.
A glance of irritation flickered down the bond.
Ander tugged off his boot. Several small stones tumbled out. For shit's sake. Cursing and grumbling like a seventy year old man, Ander yanked off his other boot, vaguely aware of Illia landing by his side as he muttered "stupid fortress in the middle of gods-damned nowhere-"
"Your royal is showing."
Ander started, glancing up, and found his breath utterly stolen as Illia half smiled down at him. Herself.
"Your face is back," he managed.
Illia flicked his forehead. She was startlingly beautiful, and strikingly inhuman, traced in silver from the change.
He'd never wanted to kiss her so badly. He'd thought that every damn day since they'd left, and it never got any less true.
"I didn't know if the wings would be as welcome." She sat down next to him in one graceful movement. She was in close-fit pants and boots and a closely fitted shirt with long sleeves, disguising the distinctive lines of her tattoo. She tilted her head, watching him. "I am sorry we haven't had a fire."
"Well, if even your father isn't fond of skinwalkers, then I'd rather be cold than dead."
"My cousins say the woods are largely empty of them now."
"But some beings are attracted to power."
She smiled wanly at him. Their eyes had met again. Too close. Too connected. Too distant.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "We're nearly there."
Ander swallowed. Then looked down at his boots again.
"So how does it feel, to be going back to where it all began?" he asked.
"Illicit."
"Well," he said, giving his boots a final tug, "you have lied to Galan and told neither of your parents that we're here."
"It's too close," she said simply. Too close to the bad memories that outweighed the good ones. This place, this history, belonged to a world infinitely different than the one they had grown up in.
Mistward had become a haven for any fae and demi-fae on their way in and out of the recently liberated Doranelle. After Erawan and Maeve fell, one of Illia's own cousins had taken up command, and they'd established a far more open system. Fae and demi-Fae frequently crossed the sea and came through Wendlyn, or went back through the other way, all in the name of learning about magic, consolidating resources, and building a world where Fae cousins could come and go freely.
Illia's parents distantly ensured that the Faerie Queen of the East was on the same page as the Faerie Queen of the West, sending delegates and family members in their place, but never setting foot in Doranelle themselves again. Ander himself knew about Doranelle just by nature of having grown up around Orynth. These were not secret places, or even forbidden ones-but there were reasons they'd told no one they were here, and would go unnoticed. As long as Illia was careful, she should go unrecognized, and keep her presence here safe from her cousins in Doranelle. After all, no one had seen either Rowan or Aelin around here in well over thirty years.
"What will we do about a story?" Illia asked, tugging clothes out of her pack.
"I'll think of something."
The fortress was the bridge. The first stop. A good place to stay out of sight, and a better one to further research their terrain. Ander watched Illia fasten a tunic over her shirt, then a cloak over that, her weapons well concealed. As he watched she dimmed slightly-all glow vanishing from her eyes, and she began, he knew, to mimic his movements slightly. Breathing more, blinking more, being purposely aware of her own body.
It was exhausting to be such a predator as to have to disguise yourself, just to avoid having weapons drawn on sight.
"Perhaps it's better if I don't speak very much," Illia said.
Ander nodded. On occasion she picked up Rowan's accent-especially whenever she cursed. It was not an accent native to anywhere around here.
"Are you warm, safe or fed?" Illia asked, with a half smile.
Ander hauled himself to his feet. "If I walk enough today, I will be tonight." He waved a vague hand in the air. "Or I'll throw a fit."
"Royalty's dark side strikes again."
"This place better hand-deliver food to our door."
Illia shook her head, but she was smiling as they walked the final hours of their journey together.
The wards met his skin first. All wards set Ander's spine tingling differently, playing and poking at his magic. Amongst all the powerhouses back home, it was easy to forget his own power-to the point where he now kept the well satisfied almost completely subconsciously. Ander couldn't remember the last time he was the most magical person in the room, and honestly, the accompanying lack of pressure had probably granted him most of his sanity.
He glanced towards Illia. She came across as one of the sanest people in his life, which was what marked her as one of the most dangerous. Ander recalled the first time he'd gotten a full sense of her power. It had been another aftereffect of the trauma, but this one echoed his own steps.
Of course when Illia passed through the wards it triggered a flurry of movement along the fortress walls. Sentries started and scattered, presumably dashing off to find whoever was in charge-or whomever could move against such a significant force. Ander kept his weapons in easy reach as they continued unhalted up the path. Illia did not move."My mother says you don't need a weapon at all when you're born one," she often said.
Various people, humans and demi-Fae, were scattered across lush green gardens, moving through the routine tasks required to keep such a place running. Some raised heads and hands and smiled as they noticed the newcomers, but few stopped, quietly contented in the work softly lit by sunlight and deep green foliage. As Ander walked up the path, his hand hovering instinctually at Illia's back, a tall brown-haired male, wide across the shadows and bearing an easy grin, came from the front doors, nodding to a sentry who remained standing warily at the entryway as the male descended the path towards them.
"Afternoon, friend," he said. Demi-fae, if Ander were a betting man.
"Afternoon," Ander replied, smiling easily, displaying a clear lack of pointed teeth. "No trouble, but we hear this is the resident haven for weary travellers."
"It is," the male said, still smiling easily. "Where have you come from?"
"Varese. My wife has kin in Doranelle."
The male smiled to Illia, who smiled, close-mouthed, back.
Ander said, "We generally make a more threatening first impression than we can help."
"You wouldn't be the first," the male said. Ander suspected the wards would haven't let anyone with harmful intentions set foot in the place. The male gave them one further scan-travel weary and barely armed-and then broke into an even wider grin.
"Welcome to Mistward," he said."I'm Luca."
Illia blinked. The name registered with Ander a second later. Aelin absolutely loved to tell the story of how Rowan almost killed her, which got more dramatic every Yulemas it was recounted. The story involved Mistward, a certain underground lake, a mythical beast-and, Ander realized slowly, the demi-fae who now stood before him.
Luca was young in those stories, and Ander had always pictured him young, but the man before him now was as old as Ander' father, perhaps even a few years older. He had a full grown beard and dark hair just barely tinged with grey and laughing eyes, deep with smile lines. "So, kin brings you to Mistward?" he asked, opening the door for them.
"My wife and I are visiting her relatives in Doranelle," Ander said easily. Illia glanced her irritation at the word 'wife' down the bond for a second time. Ander kept on smiling.
"Wonderful," Luca said. "How long will you be with us?"
Ander glanced casually towards Illia. "Not too long, but we may wait out the rainier days."
Luca turned to Illia with his signature smile, then blinked. "Do I know your family?" he asked.
"My name is Evalin Cortland," Illia said, in a carefully measured accent.
"I'm Chaol," Ander said.
"Chaol?"
"Towers. Ev doesn't speak very much common tongue, but you might know her family. The Whitethorns are distant cousins of hers."
Luca nodded. "That explains it. I knew Rowan Whitethorn," he said, casually. "His wife, too. Come in, and make yourselves at home."
"One of these days," Illia said quietly, in one of the distant languages of their travels, as they followed Luca further into the bustling stone halls of the fortress, "you have to stop making jokes of the names."
"It's not a joke, it's a reference," Ander replied.
"Maybe I should be the one to tell your godsfather that you use his wife's family name."
"Chaol would just use it as an excuse to offer to take Yrene's name. Again."
Illia smiled. "Besides, Evalin," Ander said. "You have fun with the names, too."
"Evalin is one of my names."
"I never asked-where is the Cortland from?"
Illia was quiet for a moment, long enough that he may have thought she wouldn't answer, and then she said, "Someone I would have liked to have been able to thank."
"This way," Luca offered up ahead. "These are common rooms, here-we have anywhere between thirty and a hundred residents living here at any time, but we've a few empty rooms left. Mistward is welcome to all," Luca said easily, "under the Whitethorn reign in Doranelle. We train, educate, live. Our only clause is we'll put you to work."
"Perfectly reasonable."
Luca paused before a second floor doorway. "This one's available." Stone but comfortable, the room was warm, roofed, and not trees. And that was enough for Ander. He moved towards the double bed, eyeing the simple attached bathing room as he dropped his bags, Illia examining the space with quiet intention.
Luca swept a hand towards the grounds visible through the small window. "It's planting season, if you're not shy of the gardens. Kitchen is always ready for aid-that's how I started. I don't suppose either of you are good with horses?"
"Try turnips," Ander offered.
"Is that part of your magic?"
"No," Illia said, as if to herself, though accented carefully. "He's always been winter."
Ander suspected the demi-Fae male before them had marked both of their magical abilities the instant they walked in, had the wards not done it for him. While there was wariness in the warm brown eyes, there was also open curiosity.
Ander said, "I can keep your ice supply well at hand, but I'm not overly practical, I'm afraid."
"Ice would make our kitchen master's day," Luca grinned.
"I'll work in the kitchens," Illia said.
Ander blinked at her.
"It is better," she said. "Less words."
Luca nodded. "You're in good company. Just an hour or two of chores and the place keeps on running. If you come to dinner, we have marvellous storytellers. We're rather short of books, but we're never short of stories."
"We'll be there," Ander promised.
Luca grinned warmly at them both, then let himself out with a wave.
"I love him," Illia said.
"I can't believe you want to scrub dishes."
Illia said, "That was what she did." Her eyes fell upon the window and the vivid green of the grounds beyond. "I can see her here," she whispered.
"Like a memory?"
Illia shook her head. As if something is pulling me back towards that story.
Another force?
"History likes to repeat itself with me," she said. "Let's see what it has to show for itself this time."
Dinner came with the story of the hawk who followed an ember across the sea. A tricky story for the masquerading daughter of the protagonists to listen to without notice. A trickier story still for Ander to hear when his own was so very similar. He focused instead on the room, blurring out the words.
It was easy to see the longstanding residents amongst the travellers. Luca, it seemed, spread word quickly, for they all approached Ander and some greeted Illia in well meaning, overly loud tones.
Ander watched Luca for part of the story. A female rested her head on his shoulder, his arm pulling her close, wedding bands and the smile he gave her linking them together forever-no questions asked. No kingdoms in the way. No trouble. There was even a pair of children, nearing Reve and Mila's ages, scattered across the room bearing a mix of Luca's warm eyes and his wife's soft smile.
They had a forever here, and Ander, surrounded by the gentle stir of people who did not know he was, suddenly ached with the force of his longing.
"I had an idea," Illia said in their secret foreign language, as they wound back up to their room.
"Frightening."
"That story. It was history again."
"So it was."
"These mountains are full of history. I was thinking perhaps some of our answers lie hidden within them."
"Anyplace we would know of?"
"I could think of a few offhand. Before we venture into Doranelle-I want to try those places first."
Ander nodded. "I trust you."
They were standing at the door to their room.
Safe, warm, and fed. A fire crackling within. And, notably, only one bed.
Oh gods, could he really spend all night touching her but not touching her the way he wanted to? Not telling her everything pressing up against his chest? Hiding behind hesitation he didn't fully understand?
Illia watched him.
He wanted to hold her. He wanted to do a lot of things. He thought suddenly of Luca and his wife, of their quiet, steadfast certainty. How badly he wanted that. Her. A life with her. Keeping each other safe from their nightmares. Waking to those eyes.
If he could steal this piece of that-he would.
"Let's go to bed," he said softly.
A soft smile traced her features, and she led him inside.
Illia was singing.
It had been so long since Ander heard that sound that he had to stop in the hallway and remember what it was to breathe.
He leaned against the doorframe, listening to the soft clatter of dishes and splashes of water, his heart thudding against his chest. The words were in the language they'd been speaking, a tongue they'd learned before they met Sanders, rich with vowels and flowing like rivers. She gave the words lightning as they passed over her tongue.
"Anchors and seas, burden and sway/ ne'er my sailor did venture to stay/ stars over waves and sands over shore/he fell to the cliffs then sang no more…"
A sad song with a cheerful melody-a tragedy wrapped in a smile. Bright and lively and as haunting as Illia herself.
He fell in love with her again, standing in that hallway with her arms full of firewood and splinters under his fingernails, with the whirl of the kitchens around them.
"Ah, Chaol."
Ander started as Luca appeared with a cat in his arms. "Are you by chance good with prying claws out of kittens?" he asked peevishly.
Ander just managed to shake his head.
"My daughter loves this cat, but it's determined to drive me insane," Luca sighed, and promptly dropped it on the hall floor. "Be free, beastie. Are you coming in?"
Ander nodded, and followed the male into the kitchens.
It was their second morning at Mistward, the day before having been largely occupied by getting to know the place and sleeping. Ander had been splitting firewood, hunting what few books on the area remained here, and making absolutely fascinating conversation with everyone he came across. Illia had been here, in the warm central hub of the kitchen, making quieter friendships.
He felt he'd barely seen her, but he'd slept better by her side than he had in weeks.
Illia was still singing, her back to them as she washed dishes. She looked up instantly as he came in, turning to both of them with a smile, and Ander watched Luca blink spastically.
Well, Illia did look very much like her parents.
"You're singing again," Ander managed, in the same language she'd been using.
Illia's eyes were on his as she said, "I wanted to feel like me again. They didn't live here-they didn't grow together-they didn't walk through it all for me to stand here in darkness."
"You are the opposite of darkness," he said.
He didn't know why he said it, but he was so glad he did, because she smiled, a full smile that exposed the flash of canines, and she ducked her head again.
Luca glanced in clear confusion between the pair of them. "I'm sorry, but I've never heard that tongue before."
"It's from the far south," Ander offered. "We're travellers by nature. I met Evalin there."
"I've heard wild things."
"The wild are born of wild," Illia replied, in careful accent. "Firewood here, please, Chaol."
Ander obeyed, dropping the load he had nearly forgotten at the hearth.
"You seem to have learned your way around," Luca said kindly. Illia nodded. "Everyone is lovely," she said, with the clear ring of truth.
"I'm rather fond of everyone myself. Oh, Chaol," Luca said, turning to Ander. "I've tracked down a few more books. There was a box upstairs."
"Oh, wonderful."
Luca smiled. "It's far less treacherous territory here than it once was, but be careful. Legends still hide amongst the rocks. Ah, Curtis, tell me about our pantry," and Luca fell into easy conversation with his kitchen master.
"Maybe the newer books will have some maps," Ander offered.
Illia nodded. "I'll have a look this afternoon."
Ander did not have research. He proceeded to spend his afternoon sunning himself unabashedly on the rocks down by the creekbed. Gods, he missed Rifthold. It could always be counted upon to get hot in Rifthold.
Hours faded until familiar footsteps sounded down the path."There you are," Illia exclaimed, in their own tongue. Ander lifted his head and blinked up at her. Her hair was snatched back messily, silvery blonde hair spilling in strands down her back and around her face, and she was waving a book about.
"Maps!" she near shouted.
"Maps!" Ander shouted back. She was so fun when she was excited. Illia dropped down next to him, simple skirt billowing up around her as she shoved the book at him. "This is a guide to our entire area, written by one of the first settlers of Doranelle."
"Well, shit. Where did this come from?"
"Luca's box of books. Ander, this is perfect. I know exactly where I want to start." She glanced at him, as if just realizing he'd been sunning himself without a shirt. Her eyes fell on the now-healed line of the injury that had marked their bond all over again.
Both of them were very silent for a long few moments.
"Illia," he said, near-whisper, and then she was on her feet in a brush of wind and said, tight, "I'm going to read."
She vanished as quickly as she'd come, ever the spectre haunting him.
Sometime after dinner Illia got caught up with some of the children. Ander watched her summon spheres of glowing blue light-phantom lightning, the rare stuff of legends that bobbed over landscapes in the tales of the Fae these children were raised on. The spheres danced harmlessly above their head, little more than light, no link to the lightning in Illia's veins-though once again Ander caught Luca blinking suspiciously at her.
He wandered over, weaving through the comfortable press of the supper crowd. "How are you, Luca?"
"Well as ever," he replied, turning a smile onto him.
"I wanted to thank you for the books. They're perfect."
"Serving you well, are they?"
Ander nodded. "Wherever did they come from?"
Luca considered. "They'd been stored-but I believe… your room originally, funnily enough."
"We love that too, by the way."
Luca waved a hand. "No mention, friend. That chamber has never had a permanent resident."
"Really? What are the books from?"
"Oh, decades ago," Luca said, watching a small girl leap up at one of the dancing orbs of light. "I think-well. It must have been Rowan Whitethorn who brought them over."
Ander stilled. "That was Rowan's room?"
"When he stayed here," Luca said. "Which wasn't all too often. If memory serves he brought the more utilitarian volumes over for work. The novels in that box date back to when Aelin of the Wildfire lived with us."
"This is a masterpiece," Aelin exclaimed, prancing around the dining room table waving a brightly coloured volume. "It has everything-a dashing prince, a foreign impostor-"
"Fireheart, I do not read romance," Rowan said, his head in one of his hands as a six year old Elena played a determined rhythm on his arm with her spoon.
"Because you're a cranky immortal buzzard with no taste."
"I read three books of yours last month."
"But this one is better. Dorian sent it."
Rowan nodded to Ander, who was inhaling sweet rolls without chewing. "And here I thought Ander was here to visit, not ferry romance novels."
"I'm a mule," Ander said, mouth full. Illia choked on her water. Aelin had laughed out loud, kissed his hair and said, "Maybe, but you are our favourite mule. Rowan, darling Ander did not carry that book across the whole world for your rejection."
Rowan looked skyward. Then, "This is the last one, Fireheart."
It seemed the books dated all the way back to when the pair of them met.
Luca was tilting his head at Illia again. Ander jumped in hastily, even as his mind spun. "Do you have many legends through here?"
"Only the odd one," and Luca began telling him stories.
He was, shortly, a masterful storyteller. Ander found himself instantly entranced, drawn from word to word, joined slowly by others, until the moon rose and he realized Illia had already gone upstairs.
Where was her mind today? Where did they stand? Why was it all so complicated? He trudged up the steps-their light was on, and he eased in carefully, though she would have scented him long ago.
Illia was in her nightdress, sitting cross-legged on the bed surrounded by books and papers, a pen beneath her teeth. "I have a plan," Illia said.
"Oh, no."
"This book is full of the most brilliant maps."
"It would be. It belonged to your father."
Illia blinked.
"This was Rowan's room," Ander said.
Illia stared at him.
"It's like you said," he offered.
"History is determined to repeat itself," she whispered.
They studied one another. The moon cut long shafts of silver light through their room and set her aglow.
It was incredibly hard to fall asleep that night.