“We both know there’s no point in running. And the Wing Leader isn’t going to be here anytime soon.”
Elide’s knees wobbled. Oh, gods.
“But is my beautiful, clever niece human—or witch-kind? Such an important question.” He grabbed her by the elbow, a small knife in his hand. She could do nothing against the stinging slice in her arm, the red blood that welled. “Not a witch at all, it seems.”
“I am a Blackbeak,” Elide breathed. She would not bow to him, would not cower.
Vernon circled her. “Too bad they’re all up north and can’t verify it.”
Fight, fight, fight, her blood sang—do not let him cage you. Your mother went down fighting. She was a witch, and you are a witch, and you do not yield—you do not yield—
Vernon lunged, faster than she could avoid in her chains, one hand gripping her under the arm while the other slammed her head into the wood so hard that her body just—stopped.
That was all he needed—that stupid pause—to pin her other arm, gripping both in his hand while the other now clenched on her neck hard enough to hurt, to make her realize that her uncle had once trained as her father had. “You’re coming with me.”
“No.” The word was a whisper of breath.
His grip tightened, twisting her arms until they barked in pain. “Don’t you know what a prize you are? What you might be able to do?”
He yanked her back, opening the door. No—no, she wouldn’t let him take her, wouldn’t—
But screaming would do her no good. Not in a Keep full of monsters. Not in a world where no one remembered she existed, or bothered to care. She stilled, and he took that as acquiescence. She could feel his smile at the back of her head as he nudged her into the stairwell.
“Blackbeak blood is in your veins—along with our family’s generous line of magic.” He hauled her down the stairs, and bile burned her throat. There was no one coming for her—because she had belonged to no one. “The witches don’t have magic, not like us. But you, a hybrid of both lines …” Vernon gripped her arm harder, right over the cut he’d made, and she cried out. The sound echoed, hollow and small, down the stone stairwell. “You do your house a great honor, Elide.”
Vernon left her in a freezing dungeon cell.
No light.
No sound, save for the dripping of water somewhere.
Shaking, Elide didn’t even have the words to beg as Vernon tossed her inside. “You brought this upon yourself, you know,” he said, “when you allied with that witch and confirmed my suspicions that their blood flows through your veins.” He studied her, but she was gobbling down the details of the cell—anything, anything to get her out. She found nothing. “I’ll leave you here until you’re ready. I doubt anyone will notice your absence, anyway.”
He slammed the door, and darkness swallowed her entirely.
She didn’t bother trying the handle.
Manon was summoned by the duke the moment she set foot in Morath.
The messenger was cowering in the archway to the aerie, and could barely get the words out as he took in the blood and dirt and dust that still covered Manon.
She’d contemplated snapping her teeth at him just for trembling like a spineless fool, but she was drained, her head was pounding, and anything more than basic movement required far too much thought.
None of the Thirteen had dared say anything about her grandmother—that she had approved of the breeding.
Sorrel and Vesta trailing mere steps behind her, Manon flung open the doors to the duke’s council chamber, letting the slamming wood say enough about what she thought of being summoned immediately.
The duke—only Kaltain beside him—flicked his eyes over her. “Explain your … appearance.”
Manon opened her mouth.
If Vernon heard that Aelin Galathynius was alive—if he suspected for one heartbeat the debt that Aelin might feel toward Elide’s mother for saving her life, he might very well decide to end his niece’s life. “Rebels attacked us. I killed them all.”
The duke chucked a file of papers onto the table. They hit the glass and slid, spreading out in a fan. “For months now, you’ve wanted explanations. Well, here they are. Status reports on our enemies, larger targets for us to strike … His Majesty sends his best wishes.”
Manon approached. “Did he also send that demon prince into my barracks to attack us?” She stared at the duke’s thick neck, wondering how easily the rough skin would tear.
Perrington’s mouth twisted to the side. “Roland had outlived his usefulness. Who better to take care of him than your Thirteen?”
“I hadn’t realized we were to be your executioners.” She should indeed rip out his throat for what he’d tried to do. Beside him, Kaltain was wholly blank, a shell. But that shadowfire … Would she summon it if the duke were attacked?
“Sit and read the files, Wing Leader.”
She didn’t appreciate the command, and let out a snarl to tell him so, but she sat.
And read.
Reports on Eyllwe, on Melisande, on Fenharrow, on the Red Desert, and Wendlyn.
And on Terrasen.
According to the report, Aelin Galathynius—long believed to be dead—had appeared in Wendlyn and bested four of the Valg princes, including a lethal general in the king’s army. Using fire.
Aelin had fire magic, Elide had said. She could have survived the cold.
But—but that meant that magic … Magic still worked in Wendlyn. And not here.
Manon would bet a great deal of the gold hoarded at Blackbeak Keep that the man in front of her—and the king in Rifthold—was the reason why.
Then a report of Prince Aedion Ashryver, former general of Adarlan, kin to the Ashryvers of Wendlyn, being arrested for treason. For associating with rebels. He had been rescued from his execution mere weeks ago by unknown forces.
Possible suspects: Lord Ren Allsbrook of Terrasen …
And Lord Chaol Westfall of Adarlan, who had loyally served the king as his Captain of the Guard until he’d joined forces with Aedion this past spring and fled the castle the day of Aedion’s capture. They suspected the captain hadn’t gone far—and that he would try to free his lifelong friend, the Crown Prince.
Free him.
The prince had taunted her, provoked her—as if trying to get her to kill him. And Roland had begged for death.
If Chaol and Aedion were both now with Aelin Galathynius, all working together …
They hadn’t been in the forest to spy.
But to save the prince. And whoever that female prisoner had been. They’d rescued one friend, at least.
The duke and the king didn’t know. They didn’t know how close they’d been to all their targets, or how close their enemies had come to seizing their prince.
That was why the captain had come running.
He had come to kill the prince—the only mercy he believed he could offer him.
The rebels didn’t know that the man was still inside.
“Well?” the duke demanded. “Any questions?”
“You have yet to explain the necessity of the weapon my grandmother is building. A tool like that could be catastrophic. If there’s no magic, then surely obliterating the Queen of Terrasen can’t be worth the risk of using those towers.”
“Better to be overprepared than surprised. We have fu
ll control of the towers.”
Manon tapped an iron nail on the glass table.
“This is a base of information, Wing Leader. Continue to prove yourself, and you will receive more.”
Prove herself? She hadn’t done anything lately to prove herself, except—except shred one of his demon princes and butcher that mountain tribe for no good reason. A shiver of rage went through her. Unleashing the prince in the barracks hadn’t been a message, then, but a test. To see if she could hold up against his worst, and still obey.
“Have you picked a coven for me?”
Manon forced herself to give a dismissive shrug. “I was waiting to see who behaved themselves the best while I was away. It’ll be their reward.”
“You have until tomorrow.”
Manon stared him down. “The moment I leave this room, I’m going to bathe and sleep for a day. If you or your little demon cronies bother me before then, you’ll learn just how much I enjoy playing executioner. The day after that, I’ll make my decision.”
“You wouldn’t be avoiding it, would you, Wing Leader?”
“Why should I bother handing out favors to covens that don’t deserve them?” Manon didn’t give herself one heartbeat to contemplate what the Matron was letting these men do as she gathered up the files, shoved them into Sorrel’s arms, and strode out.
She had just reached the stairs to her tower when she spotted Asterin leaning against the archway, picking at her iron nails.
Sorrel and Vesta sucked in their breath.
“What is it?” Manon demanded, flicking out her own nails.
Asterin’s face was a mask of immortal boredom. “We need to talk.”
She and Asterin flew into the mountains, and she let her cousin lead—let Abraxos follow Asterin’s sky-blue female until they were far from Morath. They alighted on a little plateau covered in purple and orange wildflowers, its grasses hissing in the wind. Abraxos was practically grunting with joy, and Manon, her exhaustion as heavy as the red cloak she wore, didn’t bother to reprimand him.
They left their wyverns in the field. The mountain wind was surprisingly warm, the day clear and the sky full of fat, puffy clouds. She’d ordered Sorrel and Vesta to remain behind, despite their protests. If things had gotten to the point where Asterin could not be trusted to be alone with her … Manon did not want to consider it.