Crouched beside the brook, empty skins forgotten on the mossy bank, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius extended a scarred hand over the rushing water and let the song of the early-morning storm wash over her.
The groaning of breaking thunderheads and the sear of answering lightning had been a violent, frenzied beat since the hour before dawn—now spreading farther apart, calming their fury, as Aelin soothed her own burning core of magic.
She breathed in the chill mists and fresh rain, dragging them deep into her lungs. Her magic guttered in answer, as if yawning good morning and tumbling back to sleep.
Indeed, around the camp just within view, her companions still slept, protected from the storm by an invisible shield of Rowan’s making, and warmed from the northern chill that persisted even in the height of summer by a merry ruby flame that she’d kept burning all night. It was the flame that had been the difficult thing to work around—how to keep it crackling while also summoning the small gift of water her mother had given her.
Aelin flexed her fingers over the stream.
Across the brook, atop a mossy boulder tucked into the arms of a gnarled oak, a pair of tiny bone-white fingers flexed and cracked, a mirror to her own movements.
Aelin smiled and said so quietly it was barely audible over the stream and rain, “If you have any pointers, friend, I’d love to hear them.”
The spindly fingers darted back over the crest of the rock—which, like so many in these woods, had been carved with symbols and whorls.
The Little Folk had been tracking them since they crossed the border into Terrasen. Escorting, Aedion had insisted whenever they spotted large, depthless eyes blinking from a tangle of brambles or peering through a cluster of leaves atop one of Oakwald’s famed trees. They hadn’t come close enough for Aelin to even get a solid look at them.
But they’d left small gifts just outside the border of Rowan’s nightly shields, somehow deposited without alerting whichever of them was on watch.
One morning, it had been a crown of forest violets. Aelin had given it to Evangeline, who had worn the crown on her red-gold head until it fell apart. The next morning, two crowns waited: one for Aelin, and a smaller one for the scarred girl. Another day, the Little Folk left a replica of Rowan’s hawk form, crafted from gathered sparrow feathers, acorns, and beetle husks. Her Fae Prince had smiled a bit when he’d found it—and carried it in his saddlebag since.
Aelin herself smiled at the memory. Though knowing the Little Folk were following their every step, listening and watching, had made things … difficult. Not in any real way that mattered, but slipping off into the trees with Rowan was certainly less romantic knowing they had an audience. Especially whenever Aedion and Lysandra got so sick of their silent, heated glances that the two made up flimsy excuses to get Aelin and Rowan out of sight and scent for a while: the lady had dropped her nonexistent handkerchief on the nonexistent path far behind; they needed more logs for a fire that did not require wood to burn.
And as for her current audience…
Aelin splayed her fingers over the stream, letting her heart become as still as a sun-warmed forest pool, letting her mind shake free of its normal boundaries.
A ribbon of water fluttered up from the stream, gray and clear, and she wended it through her spread fingers as if she were threading a loom.
She tilted her wrist, admiring the way she could see her skin through the water, letting it slip down her hand and curl about her wrist. She said to the faerie watching from the other side of the boulder, “Not much to report to your companions, is it?”
Soggy leaves crunched behind her, and Aelin knew it was only because Rowan wanted her to hear his approach. “Careful, or they’ll leave something wet and cold in your bedroll next time.”
Aelin made herself release the water into the stream before she looked over a shoulder. “Do you think they take requests? Because I’d hand over my kingdom for a hot bath right about now.”
Rowan’s eyes danced as she eased to her feet. She lowered the shield she’d put around herself to keep dry—the steam off the invisible flame blending with the mist around them. The Fae Prince lifted a brow. “Should I be concerned that you’re so chatty this early in the morning?”
She rolled her eyes and turned toward the rock where the faerie had been monitoring her shoddy attempts to master water. But only rain-slick leaves and snaking mist remained.
Strong hands slid over her waist, tugging her into his warmth, as Rowan’s lips grazed her neck, right under her ear.
Aelin arched back into him while his mouth roved across her throat, heating mist-chilled skin. “Good morning to you,” she breathed.
Rowan’s responding grumble set her toes curling.
They hadn’t dared stop at an inn, even after crossing into Terrasen three days ago, not when there were still so many enemy eyes fixed on the roads and taprooms. Not when there were still streaming lines of Adarlanian soldiers finally marching out of her gods-damned territory—thanks to Dorian’s decrees.
Especially when those soldiers might very well march right back here, might choose to ally themselves with the monster squatting down in Morath rather than their true king.
“If you want to take a bath so badly,” Rowan murmured against her neck, “I spotted a pool about a quarter mile back. You could heat it—for both of us.”
She ran her nails down the back of his hands, up his forearms. “I’d boil all the fish and frogs inside it. I doubt it’d be very pleasant then.”
“At least we’d have breakfast prepared.”
She laughed under her breath, and Rowan’s canines scratched the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. Aelin dug her fingers into the powerful muscles of his forearms, savoring the strength there. “The lords won’t be here until sundown. We’ve got time.” Her words were breathless, barely more than a whisper.
Upon crossing the border, Aedion had sent messages to the few lords he trusted, coordinating the meeting that was to happen today—in this clearing, which Aedion himself had used for covert rebel meetings these long years.
They’d arrived early to scope out the land, the pitfalls and advantages. Not a trace of any humans lingered: Aedion and the Bane had always ensured any evidence was wiped away from unfriendly eyes. Her cousin and his legendary legion had already done so much to ensure the safety of Terrasen this past decade. But they were still taking no risks, even with lords who had once been her uncle’s banner men.
“Tempting as it might be,” Rowan said, nipping her ear in a way that made it hard to think, “I need to be on my way in an hour.” To scout the land ahead for any threats. Featherlight kisses brushed over her jaw, her cheek. “And what I said still holds. I’m not taking you against a tree the first time.”
“It wouldn’t be against a tree—it’d be in a pool.” A dark laugh against her now-burning skin. It was an effort to keep from taking one of his hands and guiding it up to her breasts, to beg him to touch, take, taste. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re a sadist.”
“Trust me, I don’t find it easy, either.” He tugged her a bit harder against him, letting her feel the evidence pushing with impressive demand against her backside. She nearly groaned at that, too.
Then Rowan pulled away, and she frowned at the loss of his warmth, at the loss of those hands and that body and that mouth. She turned, finding his pine-green eyes pinned on her, and a thrill sparked through her blood brighter than any magic.
But he said, “Why are you so coherent this early?”
She stuck out her tongue. “I took over the watch for Aedion, since Lysandra and Fleetfoot were snoring loud enough to wake the dead.” Rowan’s mouth twitched upward, but Aelin shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
His jaw tightened as he glanced to where the amulet was hidden beneath her shirt and the dark leather jacket atop it. “Is the Wyrdkey bothering you?”
“No, it’s not that.” She’d taken to wearing the amulet after Evangeline had looted through her saddlebags and donned the necklace. They’d only discovered it because the child had returned from washing herself with the Amulet of Orynth proudly displayed over her traveling clothes. Thank the gods they’d been deep in Oakwald at the time, but—Aelin wasn’t taking any other chances.
Especially since Lorcan still believed he had the real thing.
They hadn’t heard from the immortal warrior since he’d left Rifthold, and Aelin often wondered how far south he’d gotten—if he’d yet realized he bore a fake Wyrdkey within an equally fake Amulet of Orynth. If he’d discovered where the other two had been hidden by the King of Adarlan and Duke Perrington.
Not Perrington—Erawan.
A chill snaked down her back, as if the shadow of Morath had taken form behind her and run a clawed finger along her spine.
“It’s just … this meeting,” Aelin said, waving a hand. “Should we have done it in Orynth? Out in the woods like this just seems so … cloak-and-dagger.”
Rowan’s eyes again drifted toward the northern horizon. At least another week lay between them and the city—the once-glorious heart of her kingdom. Of this continent. And when they got there, it would be an endless stream of councils and preparations and decisions that only she could make. This meeting Aedion had arranged would just be the start of it.
“Better to go into the city with established allies than to enter not knowing what you might find,” Rowan said at last. He gave her a wry smile and aimed a pointed look at Goldryn, sheathed across her back, and the various knives strapped to her. “And besides: I thought ‘cloak-and-dagger’ was your middle name.”
She offered him a vulgar gesture in return.
Aedion had been so careful with his messages while setting up the meeting—had selected this spot far from any possible casualties or spying eyes. And even though he trusted the lords, whom he’d familiarized her with these past weeks, Aedion still hadn’t informed them how many traveled in their party—what their talents were. Just in case.
No matter that Aelin was the bearer of a weapon capable of wiping out this entire valley, along with the gray Staghorn Mountains watching over it. And that was just her magic.
Rowan played with a strand of her hair—grown almost to her breasts again. “You’re worried because Erawan hasn’t made a move yet.”
She sucked on a tooth. “What is he waiting for? Are we fools for expecting an invitation to march on him? Or is he letting us gather our strength, letting me return with Aedion to get the Bane and raise a larger army around it, only so he can savor our utter despair when we fail?”
Rowan’s fingers stilled in her hair. “You heard Aedion’s messenger. That blast took out a good chunk of Morath. He might be rebuilding himself.”
“No one has claimed that blast as their doing. I don’t trust it.”
“You trust nothing.”
She met his eyes. “I trust you.”
Rowan brushed a finger along her cheek. The rain turned heavy again, its soft patter the only sound for miles.
Aelin lifted onto her toes. She felt Rowan’s eyes on her the whole time, felt his body go still with predatory focus, as she kissed the corner of his mouth, the bow of his lips, the other corner.
Soft, taunting kisses. Designed to see which one of them yielded first.
Rowan did.
With a sharp intake of breath, he gripped her hips, tugging her against him as he slanted his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss until her knees threatened to buckle. His tongue brushed hers—lazy, deft strokes that told her precisely what he was capable of doing elsewhere.
Embers sparked in her blood, and the moss beneath them hissed as rain turned to steam.
Aelin broke the kiss, breathing ragged, satisfied to find Rowan’s own chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. So new—this thing between them was still so new, so … raw. Utterly consuming. The desire was only the start of it.
Rowan made her magic sing. And maybe that was the carranam bond between them, but … her magic wanted to dance with his. And from the frost sparkling in his eyes, she knew his own demanded the same.