Kingdom of Ash

CHAPTER 100

A prodding kick from Kyllian had Aedion awake before dawn.

He groaned as he stretched out on the cot in the Great Hall, the space still dim. Countless other soldiers slumbered around him, their heavy breathing filling the room.

He squinted at the small lantern that Kyllian held above him.

“It’s time,” Kyllian said, his eyes weary and red-rimmed.

They’d all looked better. Been better.

But they were still alive. A week after the Thirteen had sacrificed themselves and pushed back Morath’s tide, they were alive. The witches’ lives had bought them a full day of rest. One day, and then Morath had marched on Orynth’s walls again.

Aedion slung the heavy fur cloak he’d been using for a blanket over his shoulders, wincing at the throbbing ache in his left arm. A careless wound, when he’d taken his attention off his shield for a moment and a Valg foot soldier had managed to slice him.

But at least he wasn’t limping. And at least the wound the Valg prince had given him had healed.

Slinging his shield over that same shoulder, he scooped up his sword and belted it at his waist as he picked his way through the labyrinth of sleeping, exhausted bodies. A nod to Kyllian had the man striding for the city walls.

But Aedion turned left upon leaving the Great Hall, aiming for the north tower.

It was a lonely, cold walk to the room he sought. As if the entire castle were a tomb.

He knocked lightly on the wooden door near the top of the tower, and it immediately opened and shut, Lysandra slipping into the hall before Evangeline could stir in her bed.

In the flickering light of Aedion’s candle, the shadows etched on Lysandra’s face from a week of fighting from sunup to sundown were starker, deeper. “Ready?” he asked softly, turning back down the stairs.

It had become their tradition—for him to see Lysandra upstairs at night, then come to meet her in the morning. The only bright point in their long, horrible days. Sometimes, Evangeline accompanied them, narrating her time running messages and errands for Darrow. Sometimes, it was only the two of them trudging along.

Lysandra was silent, her graceful gait heavier with each step they descended.

“Breakfast?” Aedion asked as they neared the bottom.

A nod. The eggs and cured meats had given way to gruel and hot broth. Two nights ago, Lysandra had flown off in wyvern form after the fighting had ceased for the day, and returned an hour later with a hart clutched in each taloned foot.

That precious meat had been gone too soon.

They hit the bottom of the tower stairwell, and Aedion made to aim for the dining hall when she stopped him with a hand on his arm. In the dimness, he turned toward her.

But Lysandra, that beautiful face so tired, only slid her arms around his waist and pressed her head to his chest. She leaned enough of her weight into him that Aedion set down his candle on a nearby ledge and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

Lysandra sagged, leaning on him further. As if the weight of exhaustion was unbearable.

Aedion rested his chin atop her head and closed his eyes, breathing in her ever-changing scent.

Her heartbeat thundered against his own as he ran a hand down her spine. Long, soothing strokes.

They hadn’t shared a bed. There was no place to do so anyway. But this, holding each other—she’d initiated it the night the Thirteen had sacrificed themselves. Had stopped him at this very spot and just held him for long minutes. Until whatever pain and despair eased enough that they could make the trek upstairs.

Lysandra pulled away, but not wholly out of his arms. “Ready?”

“We’re running low on arrows,” Petrah Blueblood said to Manon in the blue-gray light just before dawn. They strode through the makeshift aerie atop one of the castle’s towers. “We might want to consider assigning some of the lesser covens to stay behind today to craft more.”

“Do it,” Manon said, surveying the still-unfamiliar wyverns who shared the space with Abraxos. Her mount was already awake. Staring out, solitary and cold, toward the battlefield beyond the city walls. Toward the blasted stretch of earth that no snow had been able to wipe away entirely.

She’d spent hours staring at it. Could barely pass over it during the endless fighting each day.

Her chest, her body, had been hollowed out.

Only moving, going through every ordinary motion, kept her from curling up in a corner of this aerie and never emerging.

She had to keep moving. Had to.

Or else she would cease to function at all.

She didn’t care if it was obvious to others. Ansel of Briarcliff had sought her out in the Great Hall last night because of it. The red-haired warrior had slid onto the bench beside her, her wine-colored eyes missing none of the food that Manon had barely eaten.

“I’m sorry,” Ansel had said.

Manon had only stared at her mostly untouched plate.

The young queen had surveyed the solemn hall around them. “I lost most of my soldiers,” she said, her freckled face pale. “Before you arrived. Morath butchered them.”

It had been an effort for Manon to draw her face toward Ansel. To meet her heavy stare. She blinked once, the only confirmation she could bother to make.

Ansel reached for Manon’s slice of bread, pulling off a chunk and eating it. “We can share it, you know. The Wastes. If you break that curse.”

Down the long table, some of the witches tensed, but did not look toward them.

Ansel went on, “I’ll honor the old borders of the Witch Kingdom, but keep the rest.” The queen rose, taking Manon’s bread with her. “Just something to consider, should the opportunity arise.” Then she was gone, swaggering off to her own cluster of remaining soldiers.

Manon hadn’t stared after her, but the words, the offer, had lingered.

To share the land, reclaim what they’d had but not the entirety of the Wastes … Bring our people home, Manon.

The words had not stopped echoing in her ears.

“You could stay off the battlefield today, too,” Petrah Blueblood now said, a hand on her mount’s flank. “Use the day to help the others. And rest.”

Manon stared at her.

Even with two Matrons dead, Iskra with them, and no sign of Petrah’s mother, the Ironteeth had managed to remain organized. To keep Manon, Petrah, and the Crochans busy.

Every day, fewer and fewer walked off the battlefield.

“No one else rests,” Manon said coldly.

“Everyone else manages to sleep, though,” Petrah said. When Manon held the witch’s gaze, Petrah said unblinkingly, “You think I do not see you, lying awake all night?”

“I do not need to rest.”

“Exhaustion can be as deadly as any weapon. Rest today, then rejoin us tomorrow.”

Manon bared her teeth. “The last I looked, you were not in charge.”

Petrah didn’t so much as lower her head. “Fight, then, if that is what you wish. But consider that many lives depend on you, and if you fall because you are so tired that you become sloppy, they will all suffer for it.”

It was sage advice. Sound advice.

Yet Manon gazed out over the battlefield, the sea of darkness just becoming visible. In an hour or so, the bone drums would beat again, and the screaming din of war would renew.

She could not stop. Would not stop.

“I am not resting.” Manon turned to seek out Bronwen in the Crochans’ quarters. She, at least, would not have such ridiculous notions. Even if Manon knew Glennis would side with Petrah.

Petrah sighed, the sound grating down Manon’s spine. “Then I shall see you on the battlefield.”

The roar and boom of war had become a distant buzz in Evangeline’s ears by midday. Even with the frigid wind, sweat ran down her back beneath her heavy layers of clothes as she made yet another sprint up the battlement stairs, message in hand. Darrow and the other old lords stood as they had these past two weeks: along the castle’s walls, monitoring the battle beyond the city.

The message she’d received, straight from a Crochan who had landed so briefly that her feet had hardly touched the ground, had come from Bronwen.

Rare, Evangeline had learned, for either the Ironteeth or the Crochans to report anything to the humans. That the Crochan soldier had found her, had known who she was … It was pride, more than fear, that had Evangeline running up the stairs, then across the battlements to Lord Darrow.

Lord Darrow, Murtaugh at his side, had already stretched out a hand by the time Evangeline slid to a stop.

“Careful,” Murtaugh warned her. “The ice can be treacherous.”

Evangeline nodded, though she fully planned to ignore him. Even if she’d taken a spill down the stairs yesterday that thankfully no one had witnessed. Especially Lysandra. If she’d glimpsed the bruise that now bloomed over Evangeline’s leg, the matching one on her forearm, she’d have locked her in the tower.

Lord Darrow read the message and frowned toward the city. “Bronwen reports they’ve spotted Morath hauling a siege tower to the western wall. It will reach us in an hour or two.”

Evangeline looked past the chaos on the city walls, where Aedion and Ren and the Bane fought so valiantly, out beneath the melee in the skies, where witches fought witches and Lysandra flew in wyvern form.

Sure enough, a massive shape was lumbering toward them.

Evangeline’s stomach dropped to her feet. “Is—is it one of those witch towers?”

“A siege tower is different,” Darrow said with his usual gruffness. “Thank the gods.”

“Still deadly,” Murtaugh said. “Just in a different way.” The old man frowned at Darrow. “I’ll head down there.”

Evangeline blinked at that. None—none of the older lords had gone to the front.

“To warn them?” Darrow asked carefully.

Murtaugh patted the hilt of his sword. “Aedion and Ren are stretched thin. Kyllian, too, if you want to keep telling yourself that he’s the one leading them.” Murtaugh didn’t so much as lower his chin to Darrow, who stiffened. “I’ll handle the western wall. And that siege tower.” A wink at Evangeline. “We can’t all be brave messengers, can we?”

Evangeline made herself smile, even though dread pooled in her. “Should—should I warn Aedion that you’ll be there?”

“I’ll tell him myself,” Murtaugh said, and ruffled her hair as he walked by. “Be careful on the ice,” he warned her again.

Darrow didn’t try to stop him as Murtaugh walked off the battlements. Slow. He looked so slow, and old, and frail. And yet he kept his chin high. Back straight.

If she’d been able to choose a grandfather for herself, it would have been him.

Darrow’s face was tight when Murtaugh disappeared at last.

“Old fool,” Darrow said, worry in his eyes as he turned to the battle raging ahead.