Thank the gods. Even though they were the
last beings Rowan wished to thank.
Aelin halted at the rocky shore, peering
across the mirror-flat expanse now choked
with debris. She rested a hand atop Goldryn’s
hilt, flame dancing at her fingers, seemingly
into the red stone itself.
“It would take years,” she observed, “to
heal everyone infected by the Valg.”
“Each of those soldiers has a family,
friends who would want us to try.”
“I know.” The chill wind whipped her hair
across her face, blowing northward.
“Then why the walk out here?” She’d gone
contemplative during their meeting in the
tent, her brow furrowing.
“Could Yrene heal them? Erawan and
Maeve? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”
“Is Erawan’s body made by him, or stolen?
Is Maeve’s?” Rowan shook his head. “They
lily
(lily)
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