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it might be headed. If Maeve’s defeat off the
Eyllwe coast might be enough to lead her into
an alliance with Morath—and to bring this
army to crush Terrasen at last.
Lorcan gazed down the wooded hillside,
ears straining for any cracking branches or
leaves.
A half hour. He’d wait a half hour before
going down that hill.
He forced himself to listen to Whitethorn
and Gavriel lay out entry points and exit
strategies for each camp, forced himself to
join in that debate. Forced himself to also
discuss the possible entrances and exits from
Doranelle itself, where they might go in the
city, how they might get over and back across
without bringing down the wrath of that army.
An army they’d once overseen and
commanded. None of them mentioned it,
though Gavriel kept glancing to the tattoos