CHAPTER 40
Manon and the Thirteen had buried each and every one of the soldiers massacred by the Ironteeth. Their torn and bleeding hands throbbed, their backs ached, but they’d done it.
When the last of the hard earth had been patted down, she’d found Bronwen lingering at the clearing edge, the rest of the Crochans
having moved off to set up camp.
The Thirteen had trudged past Manon.
Ghislaine, according to Vesta, had been invited to sit at the hearth of a witch with an equal interest in those mortal, scholarly
pursuits.
Only Asterin remained in the shadows
nearby to guard her back as Manon asked Bronwen, “What is it?”
She should have tried for pleasantries, for diplomacy, but she didn’t. Couldn’t muster it.
Bronwen’s throat bobbed, as if choking on
the words. “You and your coven acted
honorably.”
“You doubted it, from the White Demon?”
“I did not think the Ironteeth bothered to care for human lives.”
She didn’t know the half of it. Manon only said, “My grandmother informed me that I am no longer an Ironteeth witch, so it seems who they do or do not care for no longer bears any weight with me.” She kept walking toward the trees where the Thirteen had vanished, and Bronwen fell into step beside her. “It was the least I could do,” Manon admitted.
Bronwen glanced at her sidelong. “Indeed.”
Manon eyed the Crochan. “You lead your
witches well.”
“The Ironteeth have long given us an
excuse to be highly trained.”
Something like shame washed through her again. She wondered if she’d ever find a way to ease it, to endure it. “I suppose we have.”
Bronwen didn’t reply before peeling off toward the small fires.
But as Manon went in search of Glennis’s own hearth, the Crochans looked her way.
Some tipped their heads toward her. Some offered grim nods.
She saw to it that the Thirteen were tending to their hands, and found herself unable to sit.
To let the weight of the day catch up to her.
Around them, around each fire, Crochans argued quietly on whether to return home or head farther south into Eyllwe. Yet if they
went into Eyllwe, what would they do? Manon barely heard as the debate raged, Glennis letting each of the seven ruling hearths arrive
at its own decision.
Manon didn’t linger to hear what they
chose. Didn’t bother to ask them to fly northward.
Asterin stalked to Manon’s side, offering her a strip of dried rabbit while the Thirteen ate, the Crochans continuing their quiet debates. The wind sang through the trees, hollow and keening.
“Where do we go at dawn?” Asterin asked.
“Do we follow them, or head northward?”
Did they cling to this increasingly futile quest to win them over, or did they abandon it?
Manon studied her bleeding, aching hands, the iron nails crusted with dirt.
“I am a Crochan,” she said. “And I am an
Ironteeth witch.” She flexed her fingers, willing the stiffness from them. “The Ironteeth are my people, too. Regardless of what my grandmother may decree. They are
my people, Blueblood and Yellowlegs and
Blackbeak alike.”
And she would bear the weight of what she’d created, what she’d trained, forever.
Asterin said nothing, though Manon knew she listened to every word. Knew the Thirteen
had stopped eating to listen, too.
“I want to bring them home,” Manon said to them, to the wind that flowed all the way to the Wastes. “I want to bring them all home.
Before it is too late—before they become
something unworthy of a homeland.”
“So what are you going to do?” Asterin asked softly, but not weakly.
Manon finished the strip of dried meat, and swigged from her waterskin.
The answer did not lie in picking one over the other, Crochan over Ironteeth. It never had.
“If the Crochans will not rally a host, then I’ll find another. One already trained.”
“You cannot go to Morath,” Asterin breathed. “You won’t get within a hundred miles. The Ironteeth host might be already too far gone to even consider siding with you.”
“I’m not going to Morath.” Manon slid her frozen hand into her pocket. “I’m going to the Ferian Gap. To whatever of the host remains there under Petrah Blueblood’s command. To ask them to join us.”
Asterin and the Thirteen had been stunned into silence. Letting them dwell on it, Manon had turned into the trees. Had picked up Dorian’s scent and followed it.
And seen him conversing with the spirit of Kaltain Rompier, the woman healed and lucid
in death. Freed from her terrible torment.
Shock had rooted Manon to the spot.
Then she’d heard of Dorian’s plans to infiltrate Morath. Morath, where the third and
final Wyrdkey was kept. He’d known, and hadn’t told her.
Kaltain had vanished into the night air and then Dorian had shifted. Into a beautiful,
proud raven.
He hadn’t been training to entertain
himself. Not at all.
Manon snarled, “When, exactly, were you going to inform me that you were about to retrieve the third Wyrdkey?”
Dorian blinked at her, his face the portrait of calm assurance. “When I left.”
“When you flew off as a raven or a wyvern, right into Erawan’s net?”
The temperature in the clearing plunged.
“What difference does it make if I told you
weeks ago or now?”
She knew there was nothing kind, nothing warm on her face. A witch’s face. A Blackbeak’s face. “Morath is suicide. Erawan will find you in any form you wear, and you will wind up with a collar around your throat.”
“I don’t have another choice.”
“We agreed,” Manon said, pacing a step.
“We agreed that looking for the keys was no longer a priority—”
“I knew better than to argue with you about it.” His eyes glowed like blue fire. “My path doesn’t impact your own. Rally the Crochans,
fly north to Terrasen. My road leads to
Morath. It always has.”
“How can you have looked at Kaltain and not seen what awaits you?” She held up her arm and pointed to where Kaltain’s scar had been. “Erawan will catch you. You cannot go.”
“We will lose this war if I do not go ,” he snapped. “How do you not care about that?”
“I care,” she hissed. “I care if we lose this war. I care if I fail to rally the Crochans. I care if you go into Morath and do not return, not as something worth living.” He only blinked. Manon spat on the mossy ground.
“Now do you wish to tell me that caring is not such a bad thing? Well, this is what comes of
it.”
“This is why I didn’t say anything,” he breathed.
Her heart turned raging, its pulse echoing through her body, though her words were cold as ice. “You wish to go to Morath?” She prowled up to him, and he didn’t back down an inch. “Then prove it. Prove you are ready.”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you, witchling.”
She gave him a brutal, wicked smile. “Then
perhaps prove it to yourself. A test.” He’d deceived her, had lied to her. This man who she’d believed held no secrets between them.
She didn’t know why it made her want to shred everything within sight. “We fly to the Ferian Gap with the dawn.” He started, but she went on, “Join us. We will have need of a spy on the inside. Someone who can sneak past the guards to tell us what and who lies within.” She barely heard herself over the roaring in her head. “Let’s see how well you can shape-shift then, princeling.”
Manon forced herself to hold his stare. To let her words hang between them.
Then he turned on his heel, aiming for the camp. “Fine. But find yourself another tent to sleep in tonight.”
