“Only twenty of them left. I hope to hell they’re ready tomorrow,” Chaol said under his breath as he and Nesryn left a covert gathering of rebels at a run-down inn beside the fishing docks. Even inside the inn, the cheap ale hadn’t been able to cover the reek of fish coming from both the guts still splattered on the wooden planks outside and the hands of the fishmongers who shared the tavern room.
“Better than only two—and they will be,” Nesryn said, her steps light on the dock as they strode down the riverfront. Lanterns on the boats docked alongside the walkway bobbed and swayed with the current; from far across the Avery, the faint sound of music trickled from one of the pretty country estates on its banks. A party on the eve of the summer solstice.
Once, a lifetime ago, he and Dorian had gone to those parties, dropping by several in one night. He’d never enjoyed it, had only gone to keep Dorian safe, but …
He should have enjoyed it. He should have savored every second with his friend.
He’d never realized how precious the calm moments were.
But—but he wouldn’t think about it, what he had to do tomorrow. What he’d say good-bye to.
They walked in silence, until Nesryn turned down a side street and walked up to a small stone temple wedged between two market warehouses. The gray rock was worn, the columns flanking the entrance imbedded with various shells and bits of coral. Golden light spilled from the inside, revealing a round, open space with a simple fountain in its center.
Nesryn climbed the few steps and dropped a coin into the sealed bin beside a pillar. “Come with me.”
And maybe it was because he didn’t want to sit alone in his apartment and brood over what was to come tomorrow; maybe it was because visiting a temple, however useless, couldn’t hurt.
Chaol followed her inside.
At this hour, the Sea God’s temple was empty. A small door at the back of the space was padlocked. Even the priest and priestess had gone to sleep for a few hours before they had to awake ahead of the dawn, when the sailors and fishermen would make their offerings, reflect, or ask for blessings before setting off with the sun.
Two lanterns, crafted from sun-bleached coral, hung from the domed ceiling, setting the mother-of-pearl tiles above them glimmering like the surface of the sea. Nesryn took a seat on one of four benches set along the curved walls—a bench for each direction a sailor might journey in.
She picked south.
“For the Southern Continent?” Chaol asked, sitting beside her on the smooth wood.
Nesryn stared at the little fountain, the bubbling water the only sound. “We went to the Southern Continent a few times. Twice when I was a child, to visit family; once to bury my mother. Her whole life, I’d always catch her gazing south. As if she could see it.”
“I thought only your father came from there.”
“Yes. But she fell in love with it, and said it felt more like home than this place. My father never agreed with her, no matter how many times she begged him to move back.”
“Do you wish he had?”
Her night-dark eyes shifted toward him. “I’ve never felt as though I had a home. Either here, or in the Milas Agia.”
“The … god-city,” he said, recalling the history and geography lessons that had been drilled into him. It was more frequently called by its other name—Antica—and was the largest city on the Southern Continent, home to a mighty empire in its own right, which claimed it had been built by the hands of gods. Also home to the Torre Cesme, the best mortal healers in the world. He’d never known Nesryn’s family had been from the city itself.
“Where do you think home might be?” he asked.
Nesryn braced her forearms on her knees. “I don’t know,” she admitted, twisting her head to look back at him. “Any ideas?”
You deserve to be happy, Aelin had said earlier that night. An apology and a shove out the door, he supposed.
He didn’t want to waste the calm moments.
So he reached for her hand, sliding closer as he interlaced their fingers. Nesryn stared at their hands for a heartbeat, then sat up. “Maybe once all this … once everything is over,” Chaol said hoarsely, “we could figure that out. Together.”
“Promise me,” she breathed, her mouth shaking. Indeed, that was silver lining her eyes, which she closed long enough to master herself. Nesryn Faliq, moved to tears. “Promise me,” she repeated, looking at their hands again, “that you will walk out of that castle tomorrow.”
He’d wondered why she’d brought him in here. The Sea God—and the God of Oaths.
He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.
Gold light rippled on the surface of the Sea God’s fountain, and Chaol offered up a silent prayer. “I promise.”
Rowan was in bed, casually testing his left shoulder with careful rotations. He’d pushed himself hard today while training, and soreness now throbbed in his muscles. Aelin was in her closet, preparing for bed—quiet, as she’d been all day and evening.
With two urns of hellfire now hidden a block away in an abandoned building, everyone should be tiptoeing around. One small accident, and they would be incinerated so thoroughly that no ash would remain.
But he’d made sure that wasn’t her concern. Tomorrow, he and Aedion would be the ones bearing the urns through the network of sewer tunnels and into the castle itself.
Aelin had tracked the Wyrdhounds to their secret entrance—the one that fed right to the clock tower—and now that she’d tricked Lorcan into killing them all for her, the way would be clear for him and Aedion to plant the vats, set the fuses, and use their Fae swiftness to get the hell out before the tower exploded.
Then Aelin … Aelin and the captain would play their part, the most dangerous of all. Especially since they hadn’t been able to get a message in to the palace beforehand.
And Rowan wouldn’t be there to help her.
He’d gone over the plan with her again and again. Things could go wrong so easily, and yet she hadn’t looked nervous as she downed her dinner. But he knew her well enough to see the storm brewing beneath the surface, to feel its charge even from across the room.
Rowan rotated his shoulder again, and soft footsteps sounded on the carpet. “I’ve been thinking,” Rowan started, and then forgot everything he was going to say as he bolted upright in bed.
Aelin leaned against the closet doorway, clad in a nightgown of gold.
Metallic gold—as he’d requested.
It could have been painted on her for how closely it hugged every curve and dip, for all that it concealed.
A living flame, that’s what she looked like. He didn’t know where to look, where he wanted to touch first.
“If I recall correctly,” she drawled, “someone said to remind him to prove me wrong about my hesitations. I think I had two options: words, or tongue and teeth.”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. “Did I now.”
She took a step, and the full scent of her desire hit him like a brick to the face.
He was going to rip that nightgown to shreds.
He didn’t care how spectacular it looked; he wanted bare skin.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, taking another step, as fluid as molten metal. “Lysandra lent it to me.”
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. If he moved an inch, he’d be on her, would take her in his arms and begin learning just what made the Heir of Fire really burn.
But he got out of bed, risking all of one step, drinking down the sight of the long, bare legs; the curve of her breasts, peaked despite the balmy summer night; the bob of her throat as she swallowed.
“You said that things had changed—that we’d deal with it.” Her turn to dare another step. Another. “I’m not going to ask you for anything you’re not ready or willing to give.”
He froze as she stopped directly before him, tipping back her head to study his face as her scent twined around him, awakening him.
Gods, that scent. From the moment he
’d bitten her neck in Wendlyn, the moment he’d tasted her blood and loathed the beckoning wildfire that crackled in it, he’d been unable to get it out of his system. “Aelin, you deserve better than this—than me.” He’d wanted to say it for a while now.
She didn’t so much as flinch. “Don’t tell me what I do and don’t deserve. Don’t tell me about tomorrow, or the future, or any of it.”
He took her hand; her fingers were cold—shaking slightly. What do you want me to tell you, Fireheart?
She studied their joined hands, and the gold ring encircling her thumb. He squeezed her fingers gently. When she lifted her head, her eyes were blazing bright. “Tell me that we’ll get through tomorrow. Tell me that we’ll survive the war. Tell me—” She swallowed hard. “Tell me that even if I lead us all to ruin, we’ll burn in hell together.”
“We’re not going to hell, Aelin,” he said. “But wherever we go, we’ll go together.”
Her mouth wobbled slightly, and she released his hand only to brace her own on his chest. “Just once,” she said. “I want to kiss you just once.”
Every thought went out of his head. “That sounds like you’re expecting not to do it again.”
The flicker of fear in her eyes told him enough—told him that her behavior at dinner might have been mostly bravado to keep Aedion calm. “I know the odds.”
“You and I have always relished damning the odds.”
She tried and failed to smile. He leaned in, sliding a hand around her waist, the lace and silk smooth against his fingers, her body warm and firm beneath it, and whispered in her ear, “Even when we’re apart tomorrow, I’ll be with you every step of the way. And every step after—wherever that may be.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath, and he pulled back far enough for them to share breath. Her fingers shook as she brushed them against his mouth, and his control nearly shredded apart right there.
“What are you waiting for?” he said, the words near guttural.
“Bastard,” she murmured, and kissed him.
Her mouth was soft and warm, and he bit back a groan. His body went still—his entire world went still—at that whisper of a kiss, the answer to a question he’d asked for centuries. He realized he was staring only when she withdrew slightly. His fingers tightened at her waist.
“Again,” he breathed.
She slid out of his grip. “If we live through tomorrow, you’ll get the rest.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or roar. “Are you trying to bribe me into surviving?”
She smiled at last. And damn if it didn’t kill him, the quiet joy in her face.
They had walked out of darkness and pain and despair together. They were still walking out of it. So that smile … It struck him stupid every time he saw it and realized it was for him.
Rowan remained rooted to the center of the room as Aelin climbed into bed and blew out the candles. He stared at her through the darkness.
She said softly, “You make me want to live, Rowan. Not survive; not exist. Live.”
He didn’t have the words. Not when what she said hit him harder and deeper than any kiss.
So he climbed into bed and held her tightly all through the night.
CHAPTER
66
Aelin ventured out at dawn to snag breakfast from the vendors in the main market of the slums. The sun was already warming the quiet streets, and her cloak and hood quickly turned stuffy. At least it was a clear day; at least that bit had gone right. Despite the crows cackling over the corpses in the execution squares.
The sword at her side was a dead weight. Too soon she’d be swinging it.
Too soon she’d face the man who had murdered her family and enslaved her kingdom. Too soon she would put an end to her friend’s life.
Maybe she wouldn’t even walk out of the castle alive.
Or perhaps she would walk out wearing a black collar of her own, if Lorcan had betrayed them.
Everything was prepared; every possible pitfall had been considered; every weapon had been sharpened.
Lysandra had taken Evangeline to have their tattoos formally stamped off yesterday, and then collected her belongings from the brothel. Now they were staying in an upscale inn across the city, paid for with the small savings Lysandra had squirreled away for years. The courtesan had offered her help again and again, but Aelin ordered her to get the hell out of the city and to head for Nesryn’s country home. The courtesan warned her to be careful, kissed both her cheeks, and set off with her ward—both of them beaming, both of them free. Hopefully they were on their way out now.
Aelin bought a bag of pastries and some meat pies, barely listening to the market around her, already abuzz with early revelers out to celebrate the solstice. They were more subdued than most years, but given the executions, she didn’t blame them.
“Miss?”
She stiffened, going for her sword—and realized that the pie vendor was still waiting for his coppers.
He flinched and retreated a few steps behind his wooden cart.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, dumping the coins into his outstretched hand.
The man gave her a wary smile. “Everyone’s a bit jumpy this morning, it seems.”
She half turned. “More executions?”
The vendor jerked his round chin toward a street leading off the market. “You didn’t see the message on your way in?” She gave a sharp shake of the head. He pointed. She’d thought the crowd by the corner was watching some street performer. “Oddest thing. No one can make any sense of it. They say it’s written in what looks like blood, but it’s darker—”
Aelin was already heading toward the street the man had indicated, following the throng of people pressing to see it.
She trailed the crowd, weaving around curious revelers and vendors and common market guards until they all flowed around a corner into a brightly lit dead-end alley.
The crowd had gathered at the pale stone wall at its end, murmuring and milling about.
“What does it mean?” “Who wrote it?” “Sounds like bad news, especially on the solstice.” “There are more, all saying the same thing, right near every major market in the city.”
Aelin pushed through the crowd, an eye on her weapons and purse lest a pickpocket get any bad ideas, and then—
The message had been written in giant black letters, the reek coming off them sure enough that of Valg blood, as if someone with very, very sharp nails had ripped open one of the guards and used him as a paint bucket.
Aelin turned on her heel and ran.
She hurtled through the bustling city streets and the slums, alley after alley, until she reached Chaol’s decrepit house and flung open the door, shouting for him.
The message on the wall had only been one sentence.
Payment for a life debt.
One sentence just for Aelin Galathynius; one sentence that changed everything:
WITCH KILLER—
THE HUMAN IS STILL INSIDE HIM
CHAPTER
67
Aelin and Chaol helped Rowan and Aedion carry the two urns of hellfire into the sewers, all of them barely breathing, none of them talking.
Now they stood in the cool, reeking dark, not daring a flame with the two vats sitting next to them on the stone walkway. Aedion and Rowan, with their Fae eyesight, wouldn’t need a torch, anyway.
Rowan shook Chaol’s hand, wishing him luck. When the Fae Prince turned to Aelin, she focused instead on a torn corner of his cloak—as if it had snagged on some long-ago obstacle and been ripped off. She kept staring at that ripped-off bit of cloak as she embraced him—quickly, tightly, breathing in his scent perhaps for the last time. His hands lingered on her as if he’d hold her a moment longer, but she turned to Aedion.
Ashryver eyes met her own, and she touched the face that was the other side of her fair coin.
“For Terrasen,” she said to him.
“For our family.”
“For Marion.”
“For us.”
Slowly, Aedion drew his blade and knelt, his head bowed as he lifted the Sword of Orynth. “Ten years of shadows, but no longer. Light up the darkness, Majesty.”
She did not have room in her heart for tears, would not allow or yield to them.
Aelin took her father’s sword from him, its weight a steady, solid reassurance.
Aedion rose, returning to his place beside Rowan.
She looked at them, at the three males who meant everything—more than everything.
Then she smiled with every last shred of courage, of desperation, of hope for the glimmer of that glorious future. “Let’s go rattle the stars.”
CHAPTER
68
Lysandra’s carriage meandered through the packed city streets. Every block took thrice as long as usual, thanks to the streaming crowds headed to the markets and squares to celebrate the solstice. None of them were aware of what was to occur, or who was making her way across the city.
Lysandra’s palms turned sweaty within her silk gloves. Evangeline, drowsy with the morning heat, dozed lightly, her head resting on Lysandra’s shoulder.
They should have left last night, but … But she’d had to say good-bye.
Brightly dressed revelers pushed past the carriage, and the driver shouted to clear out of the street. Everyone ignored him.
Gods, if Aelin wanted an audience, she’d picked the perfect day for it.
Lysandra peered out the window as they halted in an intersection. The street offered a clear view of the glass palace, blinding in the midmorning sun, its upper spires like lances piercing the cloudless sky.
“Are we there yet?” Evangeline mumbled.
Lysandra stroked her arm. “A while yet, pet.”
And she began praying—praying to Mala Fire-Bringer, whose holiday had dawned so bright and clear, and to Temis, who never forgot the caged things of this world.
But she was no longer in a cage. For Evangeline, she could stay in this carriage, and she could leave this city. Even if it meant leaving her friends behind.