CHAPTER 44
“How shall I carve you up today, Aelin?”
Cairn’s words were a push of hot breath at her ear as his knife scraped down her bare
thigh.
No. No, it couldn’t have been a dream.
The escape, Rowan, the ship to Terrasen—
Cairn dug the tip of his dagger into the flesh above her knee, and she gritted her teeth as blood swelled and spilled. As he began twisting the blade, a little deeper with each
rotation.
He had done it so many times now. All over her body.
He would only stop when he hit bone.
When she was screaming and screaming.
A dream. An illusion. Her escape from him, from Maeve, had been another illusion.
Had she said it? Had she said where the keys were hidden?
She couldn’t stop the sob that ripped from her.
Then a cool, cultured voice purred, “All that training, and this is what becomes of you?”
Not real. Arobynn, standing on the other side of the altar, was not real. Even if he looked it, his red hair shining, his clothes impeccable.
Her former master gave her a half smile.
“Even Sam held out better than this.”
Cairn twisted the knife again, slicing through muscle. She arched, her scream ringing in her ears. From far away, Fenrys
snarled.
“You could get out of these chains, if you really wanted,” Arobynn said, frowning with distaste. “If you really tried.”
No, she couldn’t, and everything had been a dream, a lie—
“You let yourself remain captive. Because the moment you are free …” Arobynn chuckled. “Then you must offer yourself up, a
lamb to slaughter.”
She clawed and thrashed against the shredding in her leg, not hearing Cairn as he sneered. Only hearing the King of the Assassins, unseen and unnoted beside her.
“Deep down, you’re hoping you’ll be here long enough that the young King of Adarlan will pay the price. Deep down, you know you’re hiding here, waiting for him to clear the path.” Arobynn leaned against the side of the altar, cleaning his nails with a dagger.
“Deep down, you know it’s not really fair, that those gods picked you. That Elena picked you instead of him. She bought you time to live, yes, but you were still chosen to pay the price.
Her price. And the gods’.”
Arobynn ran a long-fingered hand down the side of her face. “Do you see what I tried to spare you from all these years? What you might have avoided had you remained Celaena, remained with me?” He smiled. “Do
you see, Aelin?”
She could not answer. Had no voice.
Cairn hit bone, and—
Aelin lunged upward, hands grasping for her
thigh.
No chains weighed her. No mask smothered her.
No dagger had been twisted into her body.
Breathing hard, the scent of musty sheets
clinging to her nose, the sounds of her screaming replaced by the drowsy chirping of birds, Aelin scrubbed at her face.
The prince who’d fallen asleep beside her was already running a hand down her back in
silent, soothing strokes.
Beyond the small window of the ramshackle inn somewhere near Fenharrow and Adarlan’s border, thick veils of mist
drifted.
A dream. Just a dream.
She twisted, setting her feet to the threadbare carpet on the uneven wood floor.
“Dawn isn’t for another hour,” Rowan said.
Yet Aelin reached for her shirt. “I’ll get warmed up, then.” Maybe run, as she had not been able to do in weeks and weeks.
Rowan sat up, missing nothing. “Training can wait, Aelin.” They’d been doing it for weeks now, as thorough and grueling as it had
been at Mistward.
She shoved her legs into her pants, then buckled on her sword belt. “No, it can’t.”
Aelin dodged to the side, Rowan’s blade sailing past her head, snipping a few strands
from the end of her braid.
She blinked, breathing hard, and barely brought Goldryn up in time to parry his next
attack. Metal reverberated through the stinging blisters coating her hands.
New blisters—for a new body. Three weeks at sea, and her calluses had barely formed again. Every day, hours spent training at swordplay and archery and combat, and her
hands were still soft.
Grunting, Aelin crouched low, thighs burning as she prepared to spring.
But Rowan halted in the dusty courtyard of the inn, his hatchet and sword dropping to his
sides. In the first light of dawn, the inn could have passed for pleasant, the sea breeze from the nearby coast drifting through the lingering leaves on the hunched apple tree in the center of the space.
A gathering storm to the north had forced their ship to find harbor last night—and after weeks at sea, none of them had hesitated to spend a few hours on land. To learn what in hell had happened while they’d been gone.
The answer: war.
Everywhere, war raged. But where the fighting occurred, the aging innkeeper didn’t know. Boats didn’t stop at the port anymore— and the great warships just sailed past.
Whether they were enemy or friendly, he also didn’t know. Knew absolutely nothing, it seemed. Including how to cook. And clean his inn.
They’d need to be back on the seas within a
day or two, if they were to make it to Terrasen quickly. There were too many storms in the North to have risked crossing directly there, their captain had said. This time of year, it was safer to make it to the continent’s coast, then sail up it. Even if that command and those very storms had landed them here: somewhere between Fenharrow and Adarlan’s border. With Rifthold a few days ahead.
When Rowan didn’t resume their sparring,
Aelin scowled. “What.”
It wasn’t so much of a question as a demand.
His gaze was unfaltering. As it had been when she’d returned from her run through the misty fields beyond the inn and found him leaning against the apple tree. “That’s enough
for today.”
“We’ve hardly started.” She lifted her blade.
Rowan kept his own lowered. “You barely
slept last night.”
Aelin tensed. “Bad dreams.” An understatement. She lifted her chin and threw him a grin. “Perhaps I’m starting to wear you
down a bit.”
Despite the blisters, she’d gained back weight, at least. Had watched her arms go from thin to cut with muscle, her thighs from reeds to sleek and powerful.
Rowan didn’t return her smile. “Let’s eat breakfast.”
“After that dinner last night, I’m in no hurry.” She didn’t give him a blink of warning before she launched herself at him, swiping high with Goldryn and stabbing low with her dagger.
Rowan met her attack, easily deflecting.
They clashed, broke apart, and clashed again.
His canines gleamed. “You need to eat.”
“I need to train.”
She couldn’t stop it—that need to do
something. To be in motion.
No matter how many times she swung her blade, she could feel them. The shackles. And whenever she paused to rest, she could feel it, too—her magic. Waiting.
Indeed, it seemed to open an eye and yawn.
She clenched her jaw, and attacked again.
Rowan met each blow, and she knew her maneuvers were descending into sloppiness.
Knew he let her continue rather than seizing the many openings to end it.
She couldn’t stop. War raged around them.
People were dying. And she had been locked in that damned box, had been taken apart again and again, unable to do anything—
Rowan struck, so fast she couldn’t track it.
But it was the foot he slid before her own that doomed her, sending her careening into the
dirt.
Her knees barked, skinning beneath her pants, and her dagger scattered from her hand.
“I win,” he panted. “Let’s eat.”
Aelin glared up at him. “Another round.”
Rowan just sheathed his sword. “After
breakfast.”
She growled. He growled right back.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’ll lose all that muscle if you don’t feed your body. So eat. And if you still want to train afterward, I’ll train with you.” He offered her a tattooed hand. “Though you’ll likely hurl your guts
up.”
Either from the exertion or from the
innkeeper’s suspect cooking.
But Aelin said, “People are dying. In Terrasen. In—everywhere. People are dying,
Rowan.”
“Your eating breakfast isn’t going to
change that.” Her lips curled in a snarl, but he cut her off. “I know people are dying. We are going to help them. But you need to have some strength left, or you won’t be able to.”
Truth. Her mate spoke truth. And yet she
could see them, hear them. Those dying,
frightened people.
Whose screams so often sounded like her
own.
Rowan wriggled his fingers in silent reminder. Shall we?
Aelin scowled and took his hand, letting
him haul her to her feet. So pushy.
Rowan slid an arm around her shoulders.
That’s the most polite thing you’ve ever said about me.
Elide tried not to wince at the grayish gruel steaming in front of her. Especially with the innkeeper watching from the shadows behind
his taproom bar. Seated at one of the small, round tables that filled the worn space, Elide caught Gavriel’s eye from where he pushed at
his own bowl.
Gavriel raised the spoon to his mouth.
Slowly.
Elide’s eyes widened. Widened further as he opened his mouth, and took a bite.
His swallow was audible. His cringe barely contained.
Elide reined in her smile at the pure misery that entered the Lion’s tawny stare. Aelin and Rowan had been finishing up a similar battle when she’d entered the taproom minutes ago, the queen wishing her luck before striding back into the courtyard.
Elide hadn’t seen her sit still for longer than it took to eat a meal. Or during the hours when she’d instructed them in Wyrdmarks, after Rowan had requested she teach them.
It had gotten her out of the chains, the prince had explained. And if the ilken were resistant to their magic, then learning the ancient marks would come in handy with all they faced ahead. The battles both physical
and magic.
Such strange, difficult markings. Elide couldn’t read her own language, hadn’t tried to in ages. Didn’t suppose she’d be granted the opportunity anytime soon. But learning these marks, if it helped her companions in any way … she could try. Had tried, enough to
know a few of them now.
Gavriel dared another mouthful of the porridge, offering the innkeeper a tight smile.
The man looked so relieved that Elide picked up her own spoon and choked down a bite.
Bland and a bit sour—had he put salt in it,
rather than sugar?—but … it was hot.
Gavriel met her stare, and Elide again
restrained her laugh.
She felt, rather than saw, Lorcan enter. The innkeeper instantly found somewhere else to be. The man hadn’t been surprised to see five Fae enter his inn last night, so his vanishing whenever Lorcan appeared was certainly due to the glower the male had perfected.
Indeed, Lorcan took one look at Elide and
Gavriel and left the dining room.
They’d barely spoken these weeks. Elide hadn’t known what to even say.
A member of this court. Her court. Forever.
He and Aelin certainly hadn’t warmed toward each other. No, only Rowan and Gavriel really spoke to him. Fenrys, despite his promise to Aelin not to fight with Lorcan, ignored him most of the time. And Elide … She’d made herself scarce often enough that Lorcan hadn’t bothered to approach her.
Good. It was good. Even if she sometimes
found herself opening her mouth to speak to him. Watching him as he listened to Aelin’s lessons on the Wyrdmarks. Or while he trained with the queen, the rare moments when the two of them weren’t at each other’s
throats.
Aelin had been returned to them. Was recovering as best she could.
Elide didn’t taste her next bite of porridge.
Gavriel, thankfully, said nothing.
And Anneith didn’t speak, either. Not a whisper of guidance.
It was better that way. To listen to herself.
Better that Lorcan kept his distance, too.
Elide ate the rest of her porridge in silence.
Rowan was right: she nearly vomited after breakfast. Five minutes in the courtyard and she’d had to stop, that miserable gruel rising in her throat.
Rowan had chuckled when she’d clapped a hand over her mouth. And then shifted into his hawk form to sail for the nearby coast and their awaiting ship, to check in with its captain.
Rolling her shoulders, she’d watched him vanish into the clouds. He was right, of
course. About letting herself rest.
Whether the others knew what propelled her, they hadn’t said a word.
Aelin sheathed Goldryn and loosed a long
breath. Deep down, her power grumbled.
She flexed her fingers.
Maeve’s cold, pale face flashed before her
eyes.
Her magic went silent.
Blowing out another shuddering breath, shaking the tremor from her hands, Aelin aimed for the inn’s open gates. A long, dusty road stretched ahead, the fields beyond barren.
Unimpressive, forgotten land. She’d barely glimpsed anything on her run at dawn beyond mist and a few sparrows bobbing amongst the winter-dry grasses.
Fenrys sat in wolf form at the edge of the nearest field, staring out across the expanse.
Precisely where he’d been before dawn.
She let him hear her steps, his ears twitching. He shifted as she approached, and
leaned against the half-rotted fence surrounding the field.
“Who’d you piss off to get the graveyard shift?” Aelin asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Fenrys snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “Would you believe I volunteered for it?”
She arched a brow. He shrugged, watching the field again, the mists still clinging to its farthest reaches. “I don’t sleep well these
days.” He cut her a sidelong glance. “I don’t suppose I’m the only one.”
She picked at the blister on her right hand, hissing. “We could start a secret society—for people who don’t sleep well.”
“As long as Lorcan isn’t invited, I’m in.”
Aelin huffed a laugh. “Let it go.”
His face turned stony. “I said I would.”
“You clearly haven’t.”
“I’ll let it go when you stop running yourself ragged at dawn.”
“I’m not running myself ragged. Rowan is
overseeing it.”
“Rowan is the only reason you’re not limping everywhere.”
Truth. Aelin curled her aching hands into fists and slid them into her pockets. Fenrys said nothing—didn’t ask why she didn’t warm
her fingers. Or the air around them.
He just turned to her and blinked three
times. Are you all right?
A gull’s cry pierced the gray world, and Aelin blinked back twice. No.
It was as much as she’d admit. She blinked
again, thrice now. Are you all right?
Two blinks from him, too.
No, they were not all right. They might never be. If the others knew, if they saw past the swagger and temper, they didn’t let on.
None of them commented that Fenrys hadn’t once used his magic to leap between places. Not that there was anywhere to go in the middle of the sea. But even when they sparred, he didn’t wield it.
Perhaps it had died with Connall. Perhaps it had been a gift they had both shared, and
touching it was unbearable.
She didn’t dare peer inward, to the churning sea inside her. Couldn’t.
Aelin and Fenrys stood by the field as the
sun arced higher, burning off the mists.
After a long minute, she asked, “When you took the oath to Maeve, what did her blood
taste like?”
His golden brows narrowed. “Like blood.
And power. Why?”
Aelin shook her head. Another dream, or hallucination. “If she’s on our heels with this army, I’m just … trying to understand it. Her,
I mean.”
“You plan to kill her.”
The gruel in her stomach turned over, but Aelin shrugged. Even as she tasted ash on her
tongue. “Would you prefer to do it?”
“I’m not sure I’d survive it,” he said through his teeth. “And you have more of a
reason to claim it than I do.”
“I’d say we have an equal claim.”
His dark eyes roved over her face. “Connall was a better male than—than how you saw
him that time. Than what he was in the end.”
She gripped his hand and squeezed. “I
know.”
The last of the mists vanished. Fenrys asked quietly, “Do you want me to tell you
about it?”
He didn’t mean his brother.
She shook her head. “I know enough.” She surveyed her cold, blistered hands. “I know enough,” she repeated.
He stiffened, a hand going to the sword at
his side. Not at her words, but—
Rowan dove from the skies, a full-out
plunge.
He shifted a few feet from the ground, landing with a predator’s grace as he ran the
last steps toward them.
Goldryn sang as she unsheathed it.
“What?”
Her mate just pointed to the skies.
To what flew there.