The world had become only freezing mud, and red and black blood, and the screams of the dying rising to the frigid sky.
Lysandra had learned these months that battle was no orderly, neat thing. It was chaos and pain and there were no grand, heroic duels. Only the slashing of her claws and the rip of her fangs; the clash of dented shields and bloodied swords. Armor that had once been distinguishable quickly turned gore-splattered, and were it not for the dark of her enemy’s colors, Lysandra wasn’t entirely certain how she would have discerned ally from foe.
Their lines held. At least they had that much.
Shield to shield and shoulder to shoulder in the snowy field that had since become a mud pit, they’d met the legion Erawan had marched through Eldrys.
Aedion had picked the field, the hour, the angle of this battle. The others had pushed for instant attack, but he’d let Morath march far enough inland—right to where he wanted them. Location was as important as numbers, was all he’d said.
Not to Lysandra, of course. He barely said a damn word to her these days.
Now certainly wasn’t the time to think of it. To care.
Their allies and soldiers believed Aelin Galathynius remained en route to them, allowing Lysandra to don the ghost leopard’s form. Ren Allsbrook had even commissioned plated armor for the leopard’s chest, sides, and flanks. So light as to not be a hindrance, but solid enough that the three blows she’d been too slow to stop—an arrow to the side, then two slashes from enemy swords—had been deflected.
Little wounds burned along her body. Blood matted the fur of her paws from the slaughtering she’d done amongst the front lines and being torn open on fallen swords and snapped arrows.
But she kept going, the Bane holding firm against what had been sent to meet them.
Only five thousand.
Only seemed like a ridiculous word, but it was what Aedion and the others had used.
Barely enough to be an army, considering Morath’s full might, but large enough to pose a threat.
To them, Lysandra thought as she lunged between two Bane warriors and launched herself upon the nearest Valg foot soldier.
The man had his sword upraised, poised to strike the Bane soldier before him. With the angle of his head as he brought the blade up, the Valg grunt didn’t spy his oncoming death until her jaws were around his exposed neck.
Hours into this battle, it was instinct to clamp down, flesh splitting like a piece of ripe fruit.
She was moving again before he hit the earth, spitting his throat onto the mud, leaving the advancing Bane to decapitate his corpse. How far away that courtesan’s life in Rifthold now seemed. Despite the death around her, she couldn’t say she missed it.
Down the line, Aedion bellowed orders to the left flank. They’d let rest some of the Bane upon hearing how few Erawan had sent, and had filled the ranks with a mixture of soldiers from the Lords of Terrasen’s own small forces and those from Prince Galan Ashryver and Queen Ansel of the Wastes, both of whom had additional warriors on the way.
No need to reveal they had a small battalion of Fae soldiers courtesy of Prince Endymion and Princess Sellene Whitethorn, or that the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert were amongst them, too. There would be a time when the surprise of their presence would be needed, Aedion had argued during the quick war council they’d conducted upon returning to the camp. Lysandra, winded from carrying him, Ren, and Murtaugh without rest from Allsbrook to the edges of Orynth, had barely listened to the debate. Aedion had won, anyway.
As he won everything, through sheer will and arrogance.
She didn’t dare look down the lines to see how he was faring, shoulder to shoulder in the mud with his men. Ren led the right flank, where Lysandra had been stationed. Galan and Ansel had taken the left, Ravi and Sol of Suria fighting amongst them.
She didn’t dare see whose swords were still swinging.
They would count their dead after the battle.
There weren’t many of the enemy left now. A thousand, if that. The soldiers at her back numbered far more.
So Lysandra kept killing, the blood of her enemy like spoiled wine on her tongue.
They won, though Aedion was well aware that victory against five thousand troops was likely fleeting, considering Morath’s full host had yet to come.
The rush of battle hadn’t yet worn off any of them—which was how Aedion wound up in his war tent an hour after the last of the Valg had fallen, standing around a map-covered table with Ren Allsbrook and Ravi and Sol of Suria.
Where Lysandra had gone, he didn’t know. She’d survived, which he supposed was enough.
They hadn’t washed away the gore or mud coating them so thoroughly that it had caked beneath their helmets, their armor. Their weapons lay in a discarded pile near the tent flaps. All would need to be cleaned. But later.
“Losses on your side?” Aedion asked Ravi and Sol. The two blond brothers both ruled over Suria, though Sol was technically its lord. They’d never fought in the wars before now, despite being around Aedion’s age, but they’d held their own well enough today. Their soldiers had, too.
The Lords of Suria had lost their father to Adarlan’s butchering blocks a decade ago, their mother surviving the wars and Adarlan’s occupation through her cunning and the fact that her prosperous port-city was too valuable to the empire’s trade route to decimate.
Sol, it seemed, took after their even-keeled, clever mother.
Ravi, coltish and brash, took after their late father.
Both, however, hated Adarlan with a deep-burning intensity belied by their pale blue eyes.
Sol, his narrow face flecked with mud, loosed a breath through his nose. An aristocrat’s nose, Aedion had thought when they were children. The lord had always been more of a scholar than a warrior, but it seemed he’d learned a thing or two in the grim years since. “Not many, thank the gods. Two hundred at most.”
The soft voice was deceptive—Aedion had learned that these weeks. Perhaps a weapon in its own right, to make people believe him gentle-hearted and weak. To mask the sharp mind and sharper instincts behind it.
“And your flank?” Aedion asked Ren.
Ren ran a hand through his dark hair, mud crumbling away. “One hundred fifty, if that.”
Aedion nodded. Far better than he’d anticipated. The lines had held, thanks to the Bane he’d interspersed amongst them. The Valg had tried to maintain order, yet once human blood began spilling, they had descended into battle lust and lost control, despite the screaming of their commanders.
All Valg grunts, no princes among them. He knew it wasn’t a blessing.
Knew the five thousand troops Erawan had sent, ambushing Galan Ashryver’s ships by Ilium before setting upon Eldrys, were just to wear them down. No ilken, no Ironteeth, no Wyrdhounds.
They had still been hard to kill. Had fought longer than most men.
Ravi eyed the map. “Do we pull back to Orynth now? Or head to the border?”
“Darrow ordered us to Orynth, if we survived,” Sol countered, frowning at his brother. At the light in Ravi’s eyes that so clearly voiced where he wished to go.
Darrow, who was too old to fight, had lingered in the secondary camp twenty miles behind theirs. To be the next line of defense, if five thousand troops somehow managed to destroy one of the most skilled fighting units Terrasen had ever seen. With word now undoubtedly arriving that the battle had gone in their favor, Darrow would likely head back to the capital.
Aedion glanced to Ren. “Do you think your grandfather can persuade Darrow and the other lords to press southward?”
War by committee. It was absurd. Every choice he made, every battlefield he picked, he had to argue for it. Convince them.
As if these troops weren’t for their queen, hadn’t come for Aelin when she’d called. As if the Bane served anyone else.
Ren blew out a breath toward the tent’s high ceiling. A large space, but unadorned. They hadn’t time or resources to furnish it into a proper war tent, setting up only a cot, a few braziers, and this table, along with a copper tub behind a curtain in the rear. As soon as this meeting was over, he’d find someone to fill it for him.
Had Aelin been here, she might have heated it within a heartbeat.
He shut out the tightness in his chest.
Had Aelin been here, one breath from her and the five thousand troops they’d exhausted themselves killing today would have been ash on the wind.
None of the lords around him had questioned where their queen was. Why she hadn’t been on the field today. Perhaps they hadn’t dared.
Ren said, “If we move the armies south without permission from Darrow and the other lords, we’ll be committing treason.”
“Treason, when we’re saving our own damn kingdom?” Ravi demanded.
“Darrow and the others fought in the last war,” Sol said to his brother.
“And lost it,” Ravi challenged. “Badly.” He nodded toward Aedion. “You were at Theralis. You saw the slaughter.”
The Lords of Suria had no love for Darrow or the other lords who had led the forces in that final, doomed stand. Not when their mistakes had led to the deaths of most of their court, their friends. It was of little concern that Terrasen had been so outnumbered that there had never been any hope anyway.
Ravi continued, “I say we head south. Mass our forces at the border, rather than let Morath creep so close to Orynth.”
“And let any allies we might still have in the South not have so far to travel when joining with us,” Ren added.
“Galan Ashryver and Ansel of the Wastes will go where we tell them—the Fae and assassins, too,” Ravi pushed. “The rest of Ansel’s troops are making their way northward now. We could meet them. Perhaps have them hammer from the west while we strike from the north.”
A sound idea, and one Aedion had contemplated. Yet to convince Darrow … He’d head to the other camp tomorrow, perhaps catch Darrow before he returned to the capital. Once he saw to it that the injured were being cared for.
But it seemed Darrow didn’t want to wait for the morning.
“General Ashryver.” A male voice sounded from outside—young and calm.
Aedion grunted in answer, and it was certainly not Darrow who entered, but a tall, dark-haired, and gray-eyed man. No armor, though his mud-splattered dark clothes revealed a toned body beneath. A letter lay in his hands, which he extended to Aedion as he crossed the tent with graceful ease, then bowed.
Aedion took the letter, his name written on it in Darrow’s handwriting.
“Lord Darrow bids you to join him tomorrow,” the messenger said, jerking his chin toward the sealed letter. “You, and the army.”
“What’s the point of the letter,” Ravi muttered, “if you’re just going to tell him what it says?”
The messenger threw the young lord a bemused glance. “I asked that, too, milord.”
“Then I’m surprised you’re still employed,” Aedion said.
“Not employed,” the messenger said. “Just … collaborating.”
Aedion opened the letter, and it indeed conveyed Darrow’s order. “For you to have gotten here so fast, you’d have needed to fly,” he said to the messenger. “This must have been written before the battle even started this morning.”
The messenger smirked. “I was handed two letters. One was for victory, the other defeat.”
Bold—this messenger was bold, and arrogant, for someone at Darrow’s beck and call. “What’s your name?”
“Nox Owen.” The messenger bowed at the waist. “From Perranth.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Ren said, scanning the man anew. “You’re a thief.”
“Former thief,” Nox amended, winking. “Now rebel, and Lord Darrow’s most trusted messenger.” Indeed, a skilled thief would make for a smart messenger, able to slip in and out of places unseen.
But Aedion didn’t care what the man did or didn’t do. “I assume you’re not riding back tonight.” A shake of the head. Aedion sighed. “Does Darrow realize that these men are exhausted and though we won the field, it was not an easy victory by any means?”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Nox said, dark brows rising high with that faint amusement.
“Tell Darrow,” Ravi cut in, “that he can come meet us, then. Rather than make us move an entire army just to see him.”
“The meeting is an excuse,” Sol said quietly. Aedion nodded. At Ravi’s narrowed brows, his elder brother clarified, “He wants to make sure that we don’t …” Sol trailed off, aware of the thief who listened to every word. But Nox smiled, as if he grasped the meaning anyway.
Darrow wanted to ensure that they didn’t take the army from here and march southward. Had cut them off before they could do so, with this order to move tomorrow.
Ravi growled, at last getting the gist of his brother’s words.
Aedion and Ren swapped glances. The Lord of Allsbrook frowned, but nodded.
“Rest wherever you can find a fire to welcome you, Nox Owen,” Aedion said to the messenger. “We travel at dawn.”
Aedion set out to find Kyllian to convey the order. The tents were a maze of exhausted soldiers, the injured groaning amongst them.
Aedion stopped long enough to greet those men, to offer a hand on the shoulder or a word of reassurance. Some would last the night. Many wouldn’t.
He halted at other fires as well. To commend the fighting done, whether the soldiers hailed from Terrasen or the Wastes or Wendlyn. At a few of them, he even shared in their ales or meals.
Rhoe had taught him that—the art of making his men want to follow him, die for him. But more than that, seeing them as men, as people with families and friends, who had as much to risk as he did in fighting here. It was no burden, despite the exhaustion creeping over him, to thank them for their courage, their swords.
But it did take time. The sun had fully set, the muddy camp cast in deep shadows amid the fires, by the time he neared Kyllian’s tent.
Elgan, one of the Bane captains, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, the man’s grizzled face set in a grim smile. “Not a bad first day, whelp,” Elgan grumbled. He’d called Aedion that since those initial days in the Bane’s ranks, had been one of the first men here to treat him not as a prince who had lost his kingdom, but as a warrior fighting to defend it. Much of his battlefield training, he owed to Elgan. Along with his life, considering the countless times the man’s wisdom and quick sword had saved him.
Aedion grinned at the aging captain. “You fought well, for a grandfather.” The man’s daughter had given birth to a son just this past winter.
Elgan growled. “I’d like to see you wield a sword so well when you’re my age, boy.”
Then he was gone, aiming for a campfire that held several other older commanders and captains. They noticed Aedion’s attention and lifted their mugs in salute.
Aedion only inclined his head, and continued on.
“Aedion.”
He’d know that voice if he were blind.
Lysandra stepped from behind a tent, her face clean despite her muddy clothes.
He halted, finally feeling the weight of the dirt and gore on himself. “What.”
She ignored his tone. “I could fly to Darrow tonight. Give him whatever message you want.”
“He wants us to move the army back to him, and then to Orynth,” Aedion said, making to continue to Kyllian’s tent. “Immediately.”
She stepped in his path. “I can go, tell him this army needs time to rest.”
“Is this some attempt to reenter my good graces?” He was too tired, too weary, to bother beating around the truth.
Her emerald eyes went as cold as the winter night around them. “I don’t give a damn about your good graces. I care about this army being worn down with unnecessary movements.”
“How do you even know what was said in the tent?” He knew the answer as soon as he’d voiced the question. She’d been in some small, unnoticed form. Precisely why so many kingdoms and courts had hunted down and killed any shifters. Unparalleled spies and assassins.
She crossed her arms. “If you don’t want me sitting in on your war councils, then say so.”
He took in her face, her stiff posture. Exhaustion lay heavy on her, her golden skin pale and eyes haunted. He didn’t know where she was staying in this camp. If she even had a tent.
Guilt gnawed on him for a heartbeat. “When, exactly, will our queen make her grand return?”
Her mouth tightened. “Tonight, if you think it wise.”
“To miss the battle and only appear to bask in the glory of victory? I doubt the troops would find that heartening.”
“Then tell me where, and when, and I’ll do it.”
“Just as you blindly obeyed our queen, you’ll now obey me?”
“I obey no man,” she snarled. “But I’m not fool enough to believe I know more about armies and soldiers than you do. My pride is not so easily bruised.”
Aedion took a step forward. “And mine is?”
“What I did, I did for her, and for this kingdom. Look at these men, your men—look at the allies we’ve gathered and tell me that if they knew the truth, they would be so eager to fight.”
“The Bane fought when we believed her dead. It would be no different.”
“It might be for our allies. For the people of Terrasen.” She didn’t back down for a moment. “Go ahead and punish me for the rest of your life. For a thousand years, if you wind up Settling.”
With Gavriel for his father, he might very well. He tried not to dwell on the possibility. He’d barely interacted with the Fae royals or their soldiers beyond what was necessary. And they mostly kept to themselves. Yet they did not sneer at him for his demi-Fae status; didn’t really seem to care what blood flowed in his veins so long as he kept them alive.
“We have enough enemies as it is,” Lysandra went on. “But if you truly wish to make me one of them as well, that’s fine. I don’t regret what I did, nor will I ever.”
“Fine,” was all he could think to say.
She shrewdly looked him over. As if weighing the man within. “It was real, Aedion,” she said. “All of it. I don’t care if you believe me or not. But it was real for me.”
He couldn’t bear to hear it. “I have a meeting,” he lied, and stepped around her. “Go slither off somewhere else.”
Hurt flashed in her eyes, quickly hidden. He was the worst sort of bastard for it.
But he continued into Kyllian’s tent. She didn’t come after him.
She was a stupid fool.
A stupid fool, to have said anything, and to now feel something in her chest crumpling.
She had enough dignity left not to beg. To not watch Aedion go into Kyllian’s tent and wonder if it was for a meeting, or because he was seeking to remind himself of life after so much killing today. To not give one inch of space to the burning in her eyes.
Lysandra made her way toward the comfortable tent Sol of Suria had given her near his. A kind, sharply clever man—who had no interest in women. The younger brother, Ravi, had eyed her, as all men did. But he’d kept a respectful distance, and had talked to her, not her chest, so she liked him, too. Didn’t mind having a tent in their midst.
An honor, actually. She’d gone from having to crawl into the beds of lords, doing whatever they asked of her with a smile, to fighting beside them. And she was now a lady herself. One whom both the Lords of Suria and the Lord of Allsbrook recognized, despite Darrow spitting on it.
It might have filled her with gladness had battle not worn her out so completely that the walk back to the tent seemed endless. Had the general-prince not filleted her spirit so thoroughly.
Every step was an effort, the mud sucking at her boots.
She turned down an alley of tents, the banners shifting from the white stag on emerald green of the Bane to the twin silver fish on vibrant turquoise of those belonging to the House of Suria. Only fifty more feet to her tent, then she could lie down. The soldiers knew who she was, what she was. None, if they glanced twice in her direction, called out to her in the way men had done in Rifthold.
Lysandra trudged into her tent, sighing in exhausted relief as she shouldered her way through the flaps, aiming for her cot.
Sleep, cold and empty, found her before she could remember to remove her boots.