Rowan knew every path, traveled and hidden, into Doranelle. Both the lush kingdom and the sprawling city it had been named after.
So did Gavriel and Lorcan. They’d sold their horses the night before, Elide bartering for them. The Fae warriors were too recognizable, and if their faces weren’t noted, the sheer presence of their power would be. Few wouldn’t know who they were.
Unlike the northern border with Wendlyn, no wild wolves guarded the southern roads into the kingdom. But they’d still kept hidden, taking half-forgotten pathways on their trek northward.
And when they were a few days away from the outer limits of the city, they had laid their trap for Maeve.
What he knew the queen might not be able to resist coming to retrieve herself: Wyrdstone collars.
Aelin had not broken yet. He knew it, had felt it. It would likely be driving Maeve mad. So the temptation to use one of the Wyrdstone collars, the arrogance he knew Maeve possessed that would allow her to believe she might control the demon within, wrest it away from Erawan himself … it would indeed be too great an opportunity for the queen to pass up.
So they had begun with rumors, fed by Elide at taverns and markets, at the places where Rowan knew Maeve’s spies would be listening. Whispers of a Fae garrison who had captured a Valg prince—the strange collars they found on him. The location: an outpost leagues away. The collars: anyone’s for the taking.
He didn’t bother to pray to the gods that Maeve fell for it. That she didn’t send one of her spies instead to retrieve the collars or confirm their existence. A fool’s gamble, but the only one they could make.
And as they scaled the steep southern hillocks that would offer them a view of the night-veiled city at last, Rowan’s heart thundered in his chest. They might not have Maeve’s cloaking abilities, but without the blood oath, they could remain undetected.
Though Maeve’s eyes were everywhere, her net of power spread far and wide across this land. And so many others.
Their breathing was labored as they half crawled to the highest of the wooded hills. There were other ways into the city, yes, but none that offered a view of the terrain before them. Rowan hadn’t risked flying, not when keen-eyed patrols no doubt searched for a white-tailed hawk, even under cover of darkness.
Only thirty feet to the summit now.
Rowan kept climbing, the others close behind.
She was here. She’d been here the entire time. If they’d come directly to Doranelle—
He didn’t let himself consider it. Not as he cleared the hilltop.
Under the sliver of a moon, the gray-stoned city was bathed in white, wreathed in mist from the surrounding rivers and waterfalls. Elide, amid her panting, gasped.
“I—I thought it would be like Morath,” she admitted.
The serene city lay in the heart of a river basin. Lanterns still glowed despite the late hour, and he knew that in some squares, music would be playing.
Home. Or it had been. Were its citizens still his people, when he’d wed a foreign queen? When he’d fought and killed so many of them on Eyllwe’s waters? He didn’t look for the black mourning banners that would be hanging from so many windows.
Beside him, he knew Lorcan and Gavriel were avoiding counting them, too. For centuries, they had known these people, lived amongst them. Called them friends.
But were any aware who was held in their midst? Had they heard her screams?
“That’s the palace,” Gavriel said to Elide, pointing toward the cluster of domes and elegant buildings set on the eastern edge, right along the lip of the massive waterfall.
None of them spoke as they scanned the column-lined building that housed the queen’s private quarters. And their own suites. No lights burned within.
“It doesn’t confirm anything,” Lorcan said. “Whether Maeve left, or if Aelin remains.”
Rowan listened to the wind, scented it, but felt nothing. “The only way to confirm either is to go into the city.”
“Are those two bridges the only way in?” Elide frowned toward the twin stone bridges on the southern and northern sides of Doranelle. Both open, both visible for miles around.
“Yes,” Lorcan said, his voice tight.
The river was too wide, too wild, to swim. And if any other ways in existed, Rowan had never learned them.
“We should make a wide sweep of the basin,” Lorcan said, studying the city in the heart of the plain. To the north, the forested foothills flowed to the towering wall of the Cambrian Mountains. To the west, the plain rolled into farmland, endless and open, to the sea. And in the east, past the waterfall, the grassy plain yielded to ancient forests, more mountains beyond them.
His mountains. The place he’d once called home, where that mountain house had stood until it had been burned. Where he’d buried Lyria and had one day expected to be laid to rest himself.
“We need an exit strategy as well,” Rowan said, though he’d already been considering it. Where to run afterward. Maeve would send out her best to hunt them down.
That had once included him. He’d been sent to track and dispatch the Fae who turned too monstrous for even Maeve to stomach, rogue Fae who had no business existing anymore. He’d trained the hunters Maeve would now unleash. Had taught them the veiled paths, the places Fae preferred to hide.
He’d never considered that would someday be used against him.
“We take a day,” Lorcan said.
Rowan leveled a cold look at him. “A day is more than we can spare.”
Aelin was down there. In that city. He knew it, could feel it. He’d been plunging into his power for the past two days, readying for the killing he’d unleash, the flight they’d make. The strain of holding it back yanked on him, on any lingering control.
Lorcan said, “We’ll pay for a hasty plan if we don’t take the time. Your mate will pay, too.”
His former commander’s control was also on a knife’s edge. Even Gavriel, calm and steady, was pacing. All of them had descended into their power, drawing it up from the very dregs.
But Lorcan was right. Rowan would say the same if their positions were reversed.
Gavriel pointed to a rocky outcropping on the hill face below them. “It’s shielded from sight. We camp there tonight, make our assessments tomorrow. Get some rest.”
The idea was abhorrent. Sleeping while Aelin was mere miles away. His ears strained, as if he might pick up her screams on the wind. But Rowan said, “Fine.”
He didn’t need to declare that they wouldn’t risk a fire. The air was chill, but mild enough that they could survive.
Rowan stepped down the hill face, offering a hand to Elide to help her skirt the dangerous, rocky plunge. She took his hand with shaking fingers.
Still she hadn’t balked to come with them, to do any of this.
Rowan found another foothold before turning to assist her. “You don’t need to go into the city. We’ll decide on the escape route and you can meet us there.”
When Elide didn’t answer, Rowan looked up at her.
Her eyes weren’t on him. But on the city ahead.
Wide with terror. Her scent became drenched in it.
Lorcan was there in a heartbeat, hand at her shoulder. “What is—”
Rowan twisted toward the city. The hilltop had been a border.
Not of the city limits, but of an illusion. A pretty, idyllic illusion for any scouting its fringes to report. For what now surrounded the city on every side, even on the eastern plain …
An army. A great army lay camped there.
“She’s summoned most of her forces,” Gavriel breathed, wind whipping his hair across his face.
Rowan counted the campfires covering the dark terrain like a blanket of stars. He’d never seen such a Fae host assembled. The ones he and the cadre had led into war didn’t come close.
Aelin could be anywhere in that force. In the camps, or in the city itself.
They’d have to be clever. Cunning. And if Maeve had not fallen for their diversion …
“She brought an army to keep us out?” Elide asked.
Lorcan glanced at Rowan, his dark eyes full of warning. “Or to keep Aelin in.”
Rowan surveyed the encamped army. What did those dwelling in Doranelle, who rarely saw any sort of forces beyond the warriors who sometimes stalked through their city, make of the host?
“We have allies in the city,” Gavriel offered. “We could try to make contact. Learn where Maeve is, what the host rallied here to do. If there’s been any mention of Aelin.”
Rowan’s uncle, Ellys, the head of their House, had remained when Maeve’s armada had sailed. A hard male, a smart male, but a loyal one. He’d trained Enda in his image, to be a sharp-minded courtier. But he’d also trained Rowan when he could, giving him some of his first lessons in swordplay. He’d grown up in his uncle’s household, and it had been the only home he’d known until he’d found that mountain. But would Ellys’s loyalty skew toward Maeve or to their own bloodline, especially in the wake of the House of Whitethorn’s betrayal in Eyllwe?
His uncle might already be dead. Maeve might have punished him on behalf of all the cousins whom Rowan had begged to aid them. Or Ellys, seeking to reenter Maeve’s good graces after their betrayal, might sell them out before they could find Aelin.
And as for the others, the few allies they might have …
“Maeve is capable of worming her way into a person’s mind,” Rowan said. “She likely knows who our allies are and might have already compromised them.” He braced a hand on Goldryn’s hilt, the warm metal a comforting touch. “We don’t risk it.”
Lorcan grunted his agreement.
Elide said, “Maeve doesn’t know me—or barely does. No one here would recognize me, especially if I can … adjust my appearance. Like I did with spreading those lies about the Valg prince. I could try to get into the city tomorrow and see if there’s anything to learn.”
“No.”
Lorcan’s reply was a knife in the dark.
Elide said to him, cool and unfazed, “You’re not my commander. You’re not in my court.”
She turned to Rowan. But he was.
He outranked her. Rowan tried not to recoil. Aelin had laid this upon him.
Lorcan hissed, “She doesn’t know the city layout, doesn’t know how to handle the guards—”
“Then we teach her,” Gavriel cut in. “Tonight. We teach her what we know.”
Lorcan bared his teeth. “If Maeve remains in Doranelle, she will sniff her out.”
“She won’t,” Elide said.
“She found you on that beach,” Lorcan snapped.
Elide lifted her chin. “I am going into that city tomorrow.”
“And what are you going to do? Ask if Aelin Galathynius has been strutting about town? Ask if Maeve’s available for high tea?” Lorcan’s snarl ripped through the air.
Elide didn’t back down for a heartbeat. “I’m going to ask after Cairn.”
They all stilled. Rowan wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard her correctly.
Elide steadily surveyed them. “Surely a young, mortal woman is allowed to inquire about a Fae male who jilted her.”
Lorcan went pale as the moon above them. “Elide.” When she didn’t reply, Lorcan whirled on Rowan. “We’ll scout, there’s another way to—”
Elide only said to Rowan, “Find Cairn, and we find Aelin. And learn if Maeve remains.”
Fear no longer bloomed in Elide’s eyes. Not a trace remained in her scent.
So Rowan nodded, even as Lorcan tensed. “Good hunting, Lady.”
