The snows had come early.
Even for Terrasen, the first of the autumnal
flurries had barreled in far ahead of their
usual arrival.
Aedion Ashryver wasn’t entirely sure it
was a blessing. But if it kept Morath’s legions
from their doorstep just a little longer, he’d
get on his knees to thank the gods. Even if
those same gods threatened everything he
loved. If beings from another world could be
considered gods at all.
Aedion supposed he had more important
things to contemplate, anyway.
In the two weeks since he’d been reunited
with his Bane, they’d seen no sign of
Erawan’s forces, either terrestrial or airborne.
The thick snow had begun falling barely three
days after his return, hindering the already-
slow process of transporting the troops from
their assembled armada to the Bane’s
sweeping camp on the Plain of Theralis.
The ships had sailed up the Florine, right to
Orynth’s doorstep, banners of every color
flapping in the brisk wind off the Staghorns:
the cobalt and gold of Wendlyn, the black and
crimson of Ansel of Briarcliff, the
shimmering silver of the Whitethorn royals
and their many cousins. The Silent Assassins,
scattered throughout the fleet, had no banner,
though none was needed to identify them—
not with their pale clothes and assortment of
beautiful, vicious weapons.
The ships would soon rejoin the rearguard left at the Florine’s mouth and patrol the coast
from Ilium to Suria, but the footsoldiers—
most hailing from Crown Prince Galan
Ashryver’s forces—would go to the front.
A front that now lay buried under several
feet of snow. With more coming.
Hidden above a narrow mountain pass in
the Staghorns behind Allsbrook, Aedion
scowled at the heavy sky.
His pale furs blended him into the gray and
white of the rocky outcropping, a hood
concealing his golden hair. And keeping him
warm. Many of Galan’s troops had never seen
snow, thanks to Wendlyn’s temperate climate.
The Whitethorn royals and their smaller force
were hardly better off. So Aedion had left
Kyllian, his most trusted commander, in
charge of ensuring that they were as warm as
could be managed.
They were far from home, fighting for a queen they did not know or perhaps even
believe in. That frigid cold would sap spirits
and sprout dissent faster than the howling
wind charging between these peaks.
A flicker of movement on the other side of
the pass caught Aedion’s eye, visible only
because he knew where to look.
She’d camouflaged herself better than he
had. But Lysandra had the advantage of
wearing a coat that had been bred for these
mountains.
Not that he’d said that to her. Or so much
as glanced at her when they’d departed on this
scouting mission.
Aelin, apparently, had secret business in
Eldrys and had left a note with Galan and her
new allies to account for her disappearance.
Which allowed Lysandra to accompany them
on this task.
No one had noticed, in the nearly two months they’d been maintaining this ruse, that
the Queen of Fire had not an ember to show
for it. Or that she and the shape-shifter never
appeared in the same place. And no one, not
the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert, or
Galan Ashryver, or the troops that Ansel of
Briarcliff had sent with the armada ahead of
the bulk of her army, had picked up the slight
tells that did not belong to Aelin at all. Nor
had they noted the brand on the queen’s wrist
that no matter what skin she wore, Lysandra
could not change.
She did a fine job of hiding the brand with
gloves or long sleeves. And if a glimmer of scarred skin ever showed, it could be excused
as part of the manacle markings that
remained.
The fake scars she’d also added, right
where Aelin had them. Along with the laugh
and wicked grin. The swagger and stillness.
Aedion could barely stand to look at her.
Talk to her. He only did so because he had to
uphold this ruse, too. To pretend that he was
her faithful cousin, her fearless commander
who would lead her and Terrasen to victory,
however unlikely.
So he played the part. One of many he’d
donned in his life.
Yet the moment Lysandra changed her
golden hair for dark tresses, Ashryver eyes for
emerald, he stopped acknowledging her
existence. Some days, the Terrasen knot
tattooed on his chest, the names of his queen
and fledgling court woven amongst it, felt like
a brand. Her name especially.
He’d only brought her on this mission to
make it easier. Safer. There were other lives
beyond his at risk, and though he could have
unloaded this scouting task to a unit within
the Bane, he’d needed the action.It had taken over a month to sail from
Eyllwe with their newfound allies, dodging
Morath’s fleet around Rifthold, and then these
past two weeks to move inland.
They had seen little to no combat. Only a
few roving bands of Adarlanian soldiers, no
Valg amongst them, that had been dealt with
quickly.
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