Rowan kissed the top of her head. “Gods
help us.”
But Aelin pulled away at the words, the
phrase that dropped off his tongue. She
frowned toward the camped army.
“What?” he asked.
“I want to see those Wyrdmark books
Chaol and Yrene brought with them.”
“What does this say?” Aelin asked Borte,
tapping a finger on a scribbled line of text in
Halha, the tongue of the southern continent.
Seated beside her at the desk in Prince
Sartaq’s war tent, the ruk rider craned her
neck to study the handwritten note beside a
long column of Wyrdmarks. “A good spell for
encouraging your herb beds to grow.”
Across the desk, Rowan snorted. A book
lay open before him, his progress through it
far slower than Aelin’s.