Aelin and Rowan shared all of one look before she stepped up to his side, drawing Goldryn. “If you want a prize to give to the king,” Aelin said, “then take me.”
“Don’t,” Chaol gasped out.
The witch and all twelve of her sentinels now fixed their immortal, deadly attention on Aelin.
Aelin dropped Goldryn into the grass and lifted her hands. Aedion snarled in warning.
“Why should I bother?” the Wing Leader said. “Perhaps we’ll take you all to the king.”
Aedion’s sword lifted slightly. “You can try.”
Aelin carefully approached the witch, her hands still up. “You enter into a fight with us, and you and your companions will die.”
The Wing Leader looked her up and down. “Who are you.” An order—not a question.
“Aelin Galathynius.”
Surprise—and perhaps something else, something Aelin couldn’t identify—sparked in the Wing Leader’s golden eyes. “The Queen of Terrasen.”
Aelin bowed, not daring to take her attention off the witch. “At your service.”
Only three feet separated her from the Blackbeak heir.
The witch sliced a glance at Chaol, and then at Aedion and Rowan. “Your court?”
“What’s it to you?”
The Wing Leader studied Aedion again. “Your brother?”
“My cousin, Aedion. Almost as pretty as me, wouldn’t you say?”
The witch didn’t smile.
But Aelin was now near enough, so close that the spatters of Chaol’s blood lay in the grass before the tip of her boots.
The Queen of Terrasen.
Elide’s hope had not been misplaced.
Even if the young queen was now toeing the dirt and grass, unable to keep still while she bargained for the man’s life.
Behind her, the Fae warrior observed every flicker of movement.
He’d be the deadly one—the one to look out for.
It had been fifty years since she’d fought a Fae warrior. Bedded him, then fought him. He’d left the bones of her arm in pieces.
She’d just left him in pieces.
But he had been young, and arrogant, and barely trained.
This male … He might very well be capable of killing at least a few of her Thirteen if she so much as harmed a hair on the queen’s head. And then there was the golden-haired one—as large as the Fae male, but possessing his cousin’s bright arrogance and honed wildness. He might be problematic, if left alive too long.
The queen kept fidgeting her foot in the grass. She couldn’t be more than twenty. And yet, she moved like a warrior, too—or she had, until the incessant shifting around. But she halted the movement, as if realizing that it gave away her nerves, her inexperience. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction for Manon to detect the queen’s true level of fear. “Well, Wing Leader?”
Would the king put a collar around her fair neck, as he had the prince’s? Or would he kill her? It made no difference. She would be a prize the king would welcome.
Manon shoved away the captain, sending him stumbling toward the queen. Aelin reached out with an arm, nudging him to the side—behind her. Manon and the queen stared at each other.
No fear in her eyes—in her pretty, mortal face.
None.
It’d be more trouble than it was worth.
Manon had bigger things to consider, anyway. Her grandmother approved. Approved of the breeding, the breaking of the witches.
Manon needed to get into the sky, needed to lose herself in cloud and wind for a few hours. Days. Weeks.
“I have no interest in prisoners or battling today,” Manon said.
The Queen of Terrasen gave her a grin. “Good.”
Manon turned away, barking at her Thirteen to get to their mounts.
“I suppose,” the queen went on, “that makes you smarter than Baba Yellowlegs.”
Manon stopped, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing of the grass or sky or trees.
Asterin whirled. “What do you know of Baba Yellowlegs?”
The queen gave a low chuckle, despite the warning growl from the Fae warrior.
Slowly, Manon looked over her shoulder.
The queen tugged apart the lapels of her tunic, revealing a necklace of thin scars as the wind shifted.
The scent—iron and stone and pure hatred—hit Manon like a rock to the face. Every Ironteeth witch knew the scent that forever lingered on those scars: Witch Killer.
Perhaps Manon would lose herself in blood and gore instead.
“You’re carrion,” Manon said, and lunged.
Only to slam face-first into an invisible wall.
And then freeze entirely.
“Run,” Aelin breathed, snatching up Goldryn and bolting for the trees. The Wing Leader was frozen in place, her sentinels wide-eyed as they rushed to her.
Chaol’s human blood wouldn’t hold the spell for long.
“The ravine,” Aedion said, not looking back from where he sprinted ahead with Chaol toward the temple.
They hurtled through the trees, the witches still in the meadow, still trying to break the spell that had trapped their Wing Leader.
“You,” Rowan said as he ran beside her, “are one very lucky woman.”
“Tell me that again when we’re out of here,” she panted, leaping over a fallen tree.
A roar of fury set the birds scattering from the trees, and Aelin ran faster. Oh, the Wing Leader was pissed. Really, really pissed.
Aelin hadn’t believed for one moment that the witch would have let them walk away without a fight. She had needed to buy whatever time they could get.
The trees cleared, revealing a barren stretch of land jutting toward the deep ravine and the temple perched on the spit of rock in the center. On the other side, Oakwald sprawled onward.
Connected only by two chain-and-wood bridges, it was the sole way across the ravine for miles. And with the dense foliage of Oakwald blocking the wyverns, it was the only way to escape the witches, who would no doubt pursue on foot.
“Hurry,” Rowan shouted as they made for the crumbling temple ruins.
The temple was small enough that not even the priestesses had dwelled here. The only decorations on the stone island were five weather-stained pillars and a crumbling, domed roof. Not even an altar—or at least one that had survived the centuries.
Apparently, people had given up on Temis long before the King of Adarlan came along.
She just prayed that the bridges on either side—
Aedion hurled himself to a stop before the first footbridge, Chaol thirty paces behind, Aelin and Rowan following. “Secure,” Aedion said. Before she could bark
a warning, he thundered across.
The bridge bounced and swayed, but held—held even as her damn heart stopped. Then Aedion was at the temple island, the single, thin pillar of rock carved out by the rushing river flowing far, far below. He waved Chaol on. “One at a time,” he ordered. Beyond him the second bridge waited.
Chaol hurried through the stone pillars that flanked the entrance to the first bridge, the thin iron chains on the sides writhing as the bridge bounced. He kept upright, flying toward the temple, faster than she’d ever seen him run during all those morning exercises through the castle grounds.
Then Aelin and Rowan were at the columns, and— “Don’t even try to argue,” Rowan hissed, shoving her ahead of him.
Gods above, that was a wicked drop beneath them. The roar of the river was barely a whisper.
But she ran—ran because Rowan was waiting, and there were the witches breaking through the trees with Fae swiftness. The bridge bucked and swayed as she shot over the aging wooden planks. Ahead, Aedion had cleared the second bridge to the other side, and Chaol was now sprinting across it. Faster—she had to go faster. She leaped the final few feet onto the temple rock.
Ahead, Chaol exited the second bridge and drew his blade as he joined Aedion on the grassy cliff beyond, an arrow nocked in her cousin’s bow—aimed at the trees behind her. Aelin lunged up the few stairs onto the bald temple platform. The entire circular space was barely more than thirty feet across, bordered on all sides by a sheer plunge—and death.
Temis, apparently, was not the forgiving sort.
She twisted to look behind. Rowan was running across the bridge, so fast that the bridge hardly moved, but—
Aelin swore. The Wing Leader had reached the posts, flinging herself over and jumping through the air to land a third of the way down the bridge. Even Aedion’s warning shot went long, the arrow imbedding where any mortal should have landed. But not a witch. Holy burning hell.
“Go,” Rowan roared at Aelin, but she palmed her fighting knives, bending her knees as—
As an arrow fired by the golden-haired lieutenant shot for Aelin from the other side of the ravine.