from their throats fast enough, widely enough. Whatever advances the Fae’s magic bought them did not slow Morath for long.
Morath’s beasts pushed them northward that first day. And into the night.
And at dawn the next day.
By nightfall on the second, even the Bane’s line had buckled.
Still Morath did not stop coming.
CHAPTER 23
Elide had never seen such a place as Doranelle.
The City of Rivers, they called it. She’d never imagined that a city could be built in the heart of several as they met and poured into a mighty basin.
She didn’t let the awe show on her face as she strode through the winding, neat streets.
Fear was another companion that she kept at bay. With the Fae’s heightened sense of smell, they could detect things like emotion. And though a good dose of fear would aid in her cover, too much would spell her doom.
Yet this place seemed like a paradise. Pink and blue flowers draped from windowsills; little canals wended between some of the streets, ferrying people in bright, long boats.
She’d never seen so many Fae, had never thought they’d be utterly normal. Well, as normal as possible, with their grace and those ears and canines. Along with the animals rushing around her, flitting past, so many forms she couldn’t keep track of them. All perfectly content to go about their daily business, buying everything from crusty loaves of bread to jugs of some sort of oil to vibrant swaths of fabric.
Yet ruling over everything, squatting in the palace on the eastern side of Doranelle, was Maeve. And this city, Rowan had told Elide, had been built from stone to keep Brannon or any of his descendants from razing it to the ground.
Elide fought the limp that grew with each step farther into the city—farther away from Gavriel’s magic. She’d left them in the forested foothills where they’d camped the night before, and Lorcan had again tried to argue against her going. But she’d rummaged through their various packs until she’d found what she needed: berries Gavriel had gathered yesterday, a spare belt and dark green cape from Rowan, a wrinkled white shirt from Lorcan, and a tiny mirror he used for shaving.
She hadn’t said anything when she’d found the white strips of linen at the bottom of Lorcan’s bag. Waiting for her next cycle. She hadn’t been able to find the words, anyway. Not with what it would crumple in her chest to even think them.
Elide kept her shoulders loose, though her face remained tight as she paused at the edge of a pretty little square around a burbling fountain. Vendors and shoppers milled about, chatting in the midmorning sunshine. Elide paused by the square’s arched entrance, putting her back to it, and fished the little mirror out of her cloak pocket, careful not to jostle the knives hidden there as well.
She flicked open the compact, frowning at her reflection—half of the expression not entirely faked. She’d crushed the berries at dawn and carefully lined her eyes with the juices, turning them red-rimmed and miserable-looking. As if she’d been weeping for weeks.
Indeed, the face that pouted back at her was rather wretched.
But it wasn’t the reflection she wanted to see. But rather the square behind her. Surveying it outright might raise too many questions, but if she was merely staring into a compact mirror, no more than a self-conscious girl trying to fix her frazzled appearance … Elide smoothed some strands of her hair while monitoring the square beyond.
A hub of sorts. Two taverns lined its sides, judging by the wine barrels that served as tables out front and the empty glasses atop them, yet to be collected. Between the two taverns, one seemed to attract more males, some in warrior garb. Of the three squares she’d visited, the taverns she’d spotted, this was the only one with soldiers.
Perfect.
Elide smoothed her hair again, shut the compact, and turned back to the square, lifting her chin. A girl trying to muster some dignity.
Let them see what they wanted to see, let them look at the white shirt she’d donned in lieu of the leather witches’ jacket, the green cape draped over herself belted across the middle, and think her an unfashionable, unworldly traveler. A girl far out of her element in this lovely, well-dressed city.
She approached the seven Fae lounging outside the tavern, sizing up who talked most, laughed loudest, who the five males and two females often turned to. One of the females wasn’t a warrior, but rather clothed