CHAPTER 82
Every Crochan who could fly and wield a
sword had come.
For days, they had raced northward, keeping deep to the mountains, then cutting
low over Oakwald before making a wide circuit to avoid Morath’s detection.
Indeed, as Manon and the Thirteen perched on the city walls, the Crochans streaming overhead while they made their way to whatever landing place they might find on the castle battlements, it was still hard to believe
they had made it.
And without an hour to spare.
The farther north they had flown, the more Crochans had fallen into the lines. As if the crown of stars Manon wore was a lodestone,
summoning them to her.
Every mile, more appeared from the clouds, the mountains, the forest. Young and old, wise-eyed or fresh-faced, they came.
Until five thousand trailed behind Manon
and the Thirteen.
“They’ve completely stopped,” breathed the shape-shifter beside Aedion, pointing
toward the battlefield.
Far out, Morath’s host had halted.
Utterly halted. As if in doubt and shock.
“Your grandmother is with them,” Asterin
murmured to Manon. “I can feel it.”
“I know.” Manon turned to the young
general-prince. “We shall handle the Ironteeth.”
His turquoise eyes were bright as the day
above them as he gestured to the plain. “By all
means, go right ahead.”
Manon’s mouth quirked to the side, then she jerked her chin to the Thirteen. “We shall be on your castle’s battlements. I leave one of my sentinels here with you, should you need to send word.” A nod to Vesta, and the red- haired witch made no move to fly as the others peeled off toward the great, towering palace. Manon had never seen its like—even the former glass castle in Rifthold had been
nothing compared to it.
Manon smiled at the old man who had hissed at her, showing all her teeth. “You’re welcome,” she said, and with a snap of the reins, was airborne.
Morath had halted completely.
As if reassessing their strategy now that the
Crochans had appeared from the mists of
legend. Not hunted nearly as close to extinction as they’d believed, it seemed.
It left Manon and the army she’d raised the chance to catch their breath, at least.
And a night to sleep, if fitfully. She’d met with the mortal leaders during dinner, when it became apparent that Morath would not be finishing them off today.
Five thousand Crochans would not win this war. They would not stop a hundred thousand soldiers. But they could keep the Ironteeth legions at bay—keep them from sacking the
city and letting in the demon hordes.
Long enough for whatever small miracle, Manon didn’t know. She hadn’t dared ask, and none of the mortals had posed the question, either.
Could the city outlast a hundred thousand
soldiers hammering its walls and gates?
Perhaps.
But not with the witch tower still operational on the plain. She had little doubt that it was currently being repaired, a new wyvern being hitched up. Perhaps that was why they had halted—to give themselves time to get that tower up again. And blast the
Crochans into oblivion.
Only the dawn would reveal what the
Ironteeth chose to do. What they’d
accomplished.
Manon and the Thirteen, Bronwen and Glennis with them, spent hours organizing the Crochans. Assigning them to certain flanks of the Ironteeth based on Manon’s knowledge of
their enemy’s formations.
She’d created those formations. Had planned to lead them.
And when that was done, when the meeting with the mortal rulers was over, all of them still grim-faced but not quite so near panic,
Manon and the Thirteen found a chamber in which to sleep.
A few candles burned in the spacious room, but no furniture filled it. Nothing save the bedrolls they brought in. Manon tried not to look too long at hers, to mark the scent that
had faded with every mile northward.
Where Dorian was, what he was doing—
she didn’t let herself think about.
If only because doing so would send her flying southward again, all the way to Morath.
In the dim room, Manon sat on her bedroll, the Thirteen seated around her, and listened to the chaos of the castle.
The place was little more than a tomb, the ghosts of its riches haunting every corner. She wondered what this room had once been—a meeting room, a place to sleep, a study …
There were no indicators.
Manon leaned her head back against the
cold stones of the wall behind her, her crown discarded by her boots.
Asterin spoke first, cutting through the silence of the coven. “We know their every move, every weapon. And now the Crochans do, too. The Matrons are likely in a panic.”
She’d never seen her grandmother in a panic, but Manon huffed a dark laugh. “We shall see tomorrow, I suppose.” She surveyed her Thirteen. “You have come with me this far, but tomorrow it will be your own kind that we face. You may be fighting friends or lovers or family members.” She swallowed. “I will not blame you if you cannot do it.”
“We have come this far,” Sorrel said,
“because we are all prepared for what tomorrow will bring.”
Indeed, the Thirteen nodded. Asterin said,
“We are not afraid.”
No, they were not. Looking at the clear
eyes around her, Manon could see that for
herself.
“I’d expected at least some,” Vesta groused, “from the Ferian Gap to join us.”
“They don’t understand,” Ghislaine said.
“What we even offered them.”
Freedom—freedom from the Matrons who had forged them into tools of destruction.
“A waste,” Asterin grumbled. Even the green-eyed demon twins nodded.
Silence fell again. Despite their clear eyes, her Thirteen were well aware of the limitations of five thousand Crochans against
the Ironteeth, and the army beneath it.
So Manon said, looking them each in the eye, “I would rather fly with you than with ten thousand Ironteeth at my side.” She smiled
slightly. “Tomorrow, we will show them why.”
Her coven grinned, wicked and defiant, and
touched two fingers to their brows in
deference.
Manon returned the gesture, bowing her head as she did. “We are the Thirteen,” she said. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”
Evangeline had decided that she no longer wished to be page to Lord Darrow, but rather a
Crochan witch.
One of the women even went so far as to give the wide-eyed girl an extra red cloak, which Evangeline was still wearing when Lysandra tucked her into bed. She’d help
Darrow tomorrow, Evangeline promised as
she nodded off. After she made sure the Crochans had all the help they needed.
Lysandra had smiled at that, despite the odds still stacked so high against them.
Manon Blackbeak—now Manon Crochan, she
supposed—had been blunt in her assessment.
The Crochans could keep the Ironteeth at bay, perhaps defeat them if they were truly lucky, but the hosts of Morath were still there to contend with. Once the army marched again, their plans to defend the walls would remain the same.
Unable and unwilling to fall asleep on the cot beside Evangeline’s bed, Lysandra found herself wandering the halls of the rambling, ancient castle. What a home it would have made for her and Evangeline. What a court.
Perhaps she’d unconsciously followed his scent, but Lysandra wasn’t at all surprised when she entered the Great Hall and found Aedion before the dying fire.
He stood alone, and she had little doubt
he’d been that way for a while now.
He turned before she’d barely made it through the doorway. Watched her every step.
Because I am not in love with our other allies. How the words changed everything and yet nothing. “You should be asleep.”
Aedion gave her a half smile. “So should you.”
Silence fell between them as they stared at each other.
She could have spent all night like that.
Had spent many nights like that, in another beast’s skin. Just watching him, taking in the powerful lines of his body, the unbreakable will in his eyes.
“I thought we were going to die today,” she
said.
“We were.”
“I’m still angry with you,” she blurted.
“But …”
His brows rose, light she had not seen for some time shining from his face. “But?”
She scowled. “But I shall think about what
you said to me. That’s all.”
A familiar, wicked grin graced his lips.
“You’ll think about it?”
Lysandra lifted her chin, looking down her nose at him as much as she could while he towered over her. “Yes, I will think about it.
What I plan to do.”
“About the fact that I am in love with you.”
“Och.” He knew that the swaggering arrogance would knock her off-kilter. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“Is there something else I’m supposed to call it?” He took a single step toward her, letting her decide if she’d allow it. She did.
“Just …” Lysandra pressed her lips together. “Don’t die tomorrow. That’s all I ask.”
“So you can have time to think about what
you plan to do with my declaration.”
“Precisely.”
Aedion’s grin turned predatory. “May I ask something of you, then?”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to make
requests, but fine.”
That wolfish grin remained as he whispered in her ear, “If I don’t die tomorrow, may I kiss you when the day is done?”
Lysandra’s face heated as she pulled back, yielding a step. She was a trained courtesan, gods above. Highly trained. And yet the simple request reduced her knees to wobbling.
She mastered herself, squaring her shoulders. “If you don’t die tomorrow, Aedion, then we’ll talk. And see what comes
of it.”
Aedion’s wolfish grin didn’t so much as
falter. “Until tomorrow night, then.”
Hell waited for them tomorrow. Perhaps their doom. But she wouldn’t kiss him, not now. Wouldn’t give that sort of promise or
farewell.
So Lysandra walked from the hall, heart racing. “Until tomorrow.”