Sure enough, the sprawling map of the continent held traces of Elide’s cinnamon-and-elderberries scent in concentrated spots. Fingerprints.
A spy for Vernon, or one with her own agenda? Manon had no idea.
But anyone with witch-blood in their veins was worth keeping an eye on.
Or Thirteen.
The smoke of countless forges stung Manon’s eyes enough that she blinked her clear eyelid into place upon landing in the heart of the war camp to the sound of pounding hammers and crackling flames. Abraxos hissed, pacing in a tight circle that set the dark-armored soldiers who’d spotted her landing on edge. They found another place to be when Sorrel landed in the mud beside Manon a moment later, her bull snarling at the nearest group of onlookers.
Abraxos let out a snarl of his own, directed at Sorrel’s mount, and Manon gave him a sharp nudge with her heels before dismounting. “No fighting,” she growled at him, taking in the little clearing amid the roughly built shelters for the blacksmiths. The clearing was reserved for the wyvern riders, complete with deeply rooted posts around its perimeter to tie their mounts. Manon didn’t bother, though Sorrel tied up hers, not trusting the creature.
Having Sorrel in Asterin’s position was … strange. As if the balance of the world had shifted to one side. Even now, their wyverns were skittish around each other, though neither male had yet launched into outright combat. Abraxos usually made space for Asterin’s sky-blue female—even brushed up against her.
Manon didn’t wait for Sorrel to wrangle her bull before striding into the blacksmith’s lair, the building little more than a sprawl of wooden posts and a makeshift roof. The forges—sleeping giants of stone—provided the light, and around them men hammered and heaved and shoveled and honed.
The aerial blacksmith was already waiting just past the first post, gesturing to them with a scarred, red hand. On the table before the muscled, middle-aged man lay an array of blades—Adarlanian steel, glossy from polishing. Sorrel remained beside Manon as she paused before the spread, picked up a dagger, and weighed it in her hands.
“Lighter,” Manon said to the blacksmith, who watched her with dark, keen eyes. She plucked up another dagger, then a sword, weighing them as well. “I need lighter weapons for the covens.”
The blacksmith’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he picked up the sword she’d set down and weighed it as she had. He cocked his head, tapping at the decorated hilt and shaking his head.
“I don’t care whether it’s pretty,” Manon said. “There’s only one end that matters to me. Cut down on the frills and maybe you’ll shave off some weight.”
He glanced to where Wind-Cleaver peeked over her back, its hilt dull and ordinary. But she’d seen him admire the blade itself—the real masterpiece—when they met the other week.
“Only you mortals care whether the blade looks good,” she said. His eyes flashed, and she wondered whether he would have told her off—if he’d had the tongue to do so. Asterin, through whatever way she charmed or terrified people into yielding information, had learned that the man’s tongue had been cut out by one of the generals here, to keep him from spilling their secrets. He must not be able to write or read, then. Manon wondered what other things they held against him—maybe a family—to keep such a skilled man their prisoner.
Perhaps it was because of that, but she said, “The wyverns will be bearing enough weight during battle. Between our armor, weapons, supplies, and the wyverns’ armor, we need to find places to lighten the load. Or else they won’t stay airborne for long.”
The blacksmith braced his hands on his hips, studying the weapons he’d made, and held up a hand to motion her to wait while he hurried deeper into the maze of fire and molten ore and anvils.
The strike and clang of metal on metal was the only sound as Sorrel weighed one of the blades herself. “You know I support any decision you make,” she said. Sorrel’s brown hair was pulled tightly back, her tan face—probably pretty for mortals—steady and solid as ever. “But Asterin …”
Manon stifled a sigh. The Thirteen hadn’t dared show any reaction when Manon had taken Sorrel for this visit before the hunt. Vesta had kept close to Asterin in the aerie, though—out of solidarity or silent outrage, Manon didn’t know. But Asterin had met Manon’s stare and nodded—gravely, but she had nodded.
“Do you not want to be Second?” Manon said.
“It is an honor to be your Second,” Sorrel said, her rough voice cutting through the hammers and fires. “But it was also an honor to be your Third. You know Asterin toes a fine line with wildness on a good day. Stuff her in this castle, tell her she can’t kill or maim or hunt, tell her to keep away from the men … She’s bound to be on edge.”
“We’re all on edge.” Manon had told the Thirteen about Elide—and wondered if the girl’s keen eyes would notice that she now had a coven of witches sniffing after her.
Sorrel heaved a breath, her powerful shoulders lifting. She set down the dagger. “At the Omega, we knew our place and what was expected of us. We had a routine; we had purpose. Before that, we hunted the Crochans. Here, we are no more than weapons waiting to be used.” She gestured to the useless blades on the table. “Here, your grandmother is not around to … influence things. To provide strict rules; to instill fear. She would make that duke’s life a living hell.”
“Are you saying that I’m a poor leader, Sorrel?” A too-quiet question.
“I’m saying the Thirteen know why your grandmother made you kill the Crochan for that cloak.” Dangerous—such dangerous ground.
“I think you sometimes forget what my grandmother can do.”
“Trust me, Manon, we don’t,” Sorrel said softly as the blacksmith appeared, a set of blades in his powerful arms. “And more than any of us, Asterin has never for a second forgotten what your grandmother is capable of.”
Manon knew she could demand more answers—but she also knew that Sorrel was stone, and stone would not break. So she faced the approaching blacksmith as he laid his other examples on the table, her stomach tight.
With hunger, she told herself. With hunger.
13
Aelin didn’t know whether she should be comforted by the fact that despite the changes two years had heaped upon her life, despite the hells she’d walked through, the Assassins’ Keep hadn’t altered. The hedges flanking the towering wrought-iron fence around the property were the exact same height, still trimmed with masterful precision; the curving gravel drive beyond still bore the same gray stones; and the sweeping manor home was still pale and elegant, its polished oak doors gleaming in the midmorning sunlight.
No one on the quiet residential street paused to look at the house that held some of the fiercest assassins in Erilea. For years now, the Assassins’ Keep had remained anonymous, unremarkable, one of many palatial homes in a wealthy southwestern district of Rifthold. Right under the King of Adarlan’s nose.
The iron gates were open, and the assassins disguised as common watchmen were unfamiliar to her as she strolled down the drive. But they didn’t stop her, despite the suit and weapons she wore, despite the hood covering her features.
Night would have been better for sneaking across the city. Another test—to see if she could make it here in daylight without attracting too much attention. Thankfully, most of the city was preoccupied with preparations for the prince’s birthday celebrations the next day: vendors were already out, selling everything from little cakes to flags bearing the Adarlanian wyvern to blue ribbons (to match the prince’s eyes, of course). It made her stomach turn.
Getting here undetected had been a minor test, though, compared to the one looming before her. And the one waiting tomorrow.
Aedion—every breath she took seemed to echo his name. Aedion, Aedion, Aedion.
But she shoved away the thought of him—of what might have already been done to him in those dungeons—as she strode up the expansive front steps of the Keep.
She hadn’t been in this house since the night everything had gone to hell.
There, to her right, were the stables where she’d knocked Wesley unconscious as he tried to warn her about the trap that had been laid for her. And there, a level up, looking out over the front garden, were the three windows of her old bedroom. They were open, the heavy velvet curtains blowing in the cool spring breeze, as if the room were being aired out for her. Unless Arobynn had given her quarters to someone else.