فصل 60

Chapter 60

Aelin and Ansel clinked bottles of wine over the long, scarred table in the galley and drank deeply.

They were to sail at first light tomorrow. North—back north. To Terrasen.

Aelin braced her forearms on the slick table. “Here’s to dramatic entrances.” Lysandra, curled on the bench in ghost leopard form with her head on Aelin’s lap, let out a little feline laugh. Ansel blinked in wonder. “So what now?” “It’d be nice,” Aedion grumbled from down the table, where he and Rowan glared at them, “to be included in just one of these schemes, Aelin.” “But your faces are so wonderful when I get to reveal them,” Aelin crooned.

He and Rowan growled. Oh, she knew they were pissed. So pissed that she hadn’t told them about Ansel. But the thought of disappointing them, of failing … She’d wanted to do this on her own.

Rowan, apparently, mastered his annoyance enough to ask Ansel, “Were the ilken or Valg not in Melisande?” “Are you implying my forces weren’t good enough to take the city if they had been?” Ansel swigged from her wine, laughter dancing in her eyes. Dorian sat at the table between Fenrys and Gavriel, the three of them wisely keeping quiet. Lorcan and Elide were on the deck—somewhere. “No, Prince,” Ansel went on. “I asked the Queen of Melisande about the lack of Morath-bred horrors, and, after some coaxing, she informed me that through whatever wiles and scheming, she managed to keep Erawan’s claws from her. And her soldiers.” Aelin straightened a bit, wishing she’d had more wine than the third of a bottle she’d already consumed as Ansel added, “When this war is over, Melisande will not have the excuse of being in thrall to Erawan or the Valg. Everything she and her armies have done, their choice in allying with him, was a human choice.” A pointed glance to the darkest part of the galley, where Manon Blackbeak sat alone. “At least Melisande will have the Ironteeth to commiserate with.” Manon’s iron teeth flashed in the dim light. Her wyvern hadn’t been spotted or heard from since he’d left, apparently. And she and Elide had talked for over an hour on the deck this afternoon.

Aelin decided to do them all a favor and cut in, “I need more men, Ansel. And I do not have the ability to be in so many places at once.” They were all watching now.

Ansel set down the bottle. “You want me to raise another army for you?” “I want you to find me the lost Crochan witches.”

Manon jerked upright. “What.”

Aelin scratched at a mark on the table. “They are in hiding, but they’re still out there, if the Ironteeth hunt them. They might have significant numbers. Promise to share the Wastes with them. You control Briarcliff and half the coast. Give them inland and the South.” Manon was prowling over, death in her eyes. “You do not have the right to promise such things.” Rowan’s and Aedion’s hands shot to their swords. But Lysandra opened a sleepy eye, stretched out a paw on the bench, and revealed the needle-sharp claws that now stood between Manon’s shins and Aelin.

Aelin said to Manon, “You cannot hold the land, not with the curse. Ansel won it, through blood and loss and her own wits.” “It is my home, my people’s home—”

“That was the asking price, wasn’t it? The Ironteeth get their homeland returned, and Erawan probably promised to break the curse.” At Manon’s wide eyes, Aelin snorted. “Oh—the Ancients didn’t tell you that, did they? Too bad. That’s what Ansel’s spies picked up.” She looked the Wing Leader over. “If you and your people prove to be better than your Matrons, there will be a place for you in that land, too.” Manon just stalked back to her seat and glared at the galley’s small brazier as if she could freeze it over.

Ansel murmured, “So touchy, these witches.”

Aelin clamped her lips together, but Lysandra let out another breathy cat laugh. Manon’s nails clicked against each other from across the room. Lysandra merely answered with her own.

Aelin said to Ansel, “Find the Crochans.”

“They’re all gone,” Manon cut in again. “We’ve hunted them to near-extinction.” Aelin slowly looked over a shoulder. “What if their queen summoned them?” “I am no more their queen than you are.”

They’d see about that. Aelin laid a hand flat on the table. “Send anything and anyone you find north,” she said to Ansel. “Sacking Melisande’s capital on the sly will at least piss off Erawan, but we don’t want to be stuck down here when Terrasen is attacked.” “I think Erawan was probably born pissed.” Only Ansel, who had once laughed at death as she’d leaped a ravine and convinced Aelin to nearly die doing the same, would mock a Valg king. But Ansel added, “I’ll do it. I don’t know how effective it’ll be, but I have to go north anyway. Though I think Hisli will be heartbroken to say farewell to Kasida once again.” It was no surprise at all that Ansel had managed to hold on to Hisli, the Asterion mare she’d stolen for herself. But Kasida—oh, Kasida was just as beautiful as Aelin remembered, even more so once she’d been led over a gangway onto the ship. Aelin had brushed the mare down when she’d led her into the cramped, wet stables, and bribed the horse to forgive her with an apple.

Ansel slugged from the bottle. “I heard, you know. When you went to Endovier. I was still fighting my way onto the throne, battling Lord Loch’s horde with the lords I’d banded together, but … even out in the Wastes, we heard when you were sent there.” Aelin picked at the table some more, well aware the others were listening. “It wasn’t fun.” Ansel nodded. “Once I’d killed Loch, I had to stay to defend my throne, to make it right again for my people. But I knew if anyone could survive Endovier, it’d be you. I set out last summer. I’d reached the Ruhnn Mountains when I got word you were gone. Taken to the capital by …” She glanced at Dorian, stone-faced across the table. “Him. But I couldn’t go to Rifthold. It was too far, and I had been gone too long. So I turned around. Went home.” Aelin’s words were strangled. “You tried to get me out?”

The fire cast Ansel’s hair in ruby and gold. “There was not one hour that I did not think about what I did in the desert. How you fired that arrow after twenty-one minutes. You told me twenty, that you’d shoot even if I wasn’t out of range. I was counting; I knew how many it had been. You gave me an extra minute.” Lysandra stretched out, nuzzling Ansel’s hand. She idly scratched the shifter.

Aelin said, “You were my mirror. That extra minute was as much for me as it was for you.” Aelin clinked her bottle against Ansel’s again. “Thank you.” Ansel just said, “Don’t thank me yet.”

Aelin straightened. The others halted their eating, utensils discarded in their stew.

“The fires along the coast weren’t set by Erawan,” Ansel said, those red-brown eyes flickering in the lantern light. “We interrogated Melisande’s Queen and her lieutenants, but … it wasn’t an order from Morath.” Aedion’s low growl told her they all knew the answer before Ansel replied.

“We got a report that Fae soldiers were spied starting them. Firing from ships.” “Maeve,” Gavriel murmured. “But burning isn’t her style.”

“It’s mine,” Aelin said. They all looked at her. She let out a humorless laugh.

Ansel just nodded. “She’s been setting them, blaming you for it.”

“To what end?” Dorian asked, dragging a hand through his blue-black hair.

“To undermine Aelin,” Rowan said. “To make her look like a tyrant, not a savior. Like a threat worth banding against, rather than allying with.” Aelin sucked on a tooth. “Maeve plays the game well, I’ll give her that.” “So she’s reached these shores, then,” Aedion said. “But where the hell is she?” A stone of fear plunked into Aelin’s stomach. She couldn’t bring herself to say north. To suggest that perhaps Maeve now sailed for undefended Terrasen. A glance at Fenrys and Gavriel revealed them already shaking their heads in silent answer to Rowan’s pointed look.

Aelin said, “We leave at first light.”

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In the dim light of their private cabin an hour later, Rowan drew a line across the map spread in the center of the floor, then a second line beside it, then a third beside that. Three lines, roughly spaced apart, broad swaths of the continent between. Aelin, standing beside him, studied them.

Rowan drew an inward arrow from the leftmost line toward the one in the center, and said quietly so the others in the adjacent rooms or hall couldn’t hear, “Ansel and her army hammer from the western mountains.” Another arrow in an opposite direction—toward the line on the far right. “Rolfe, the Mycenians, and this armada strike from the eastern coast.” An arrow pointing down into the right section of his little drawing, where the two arrows would meet. “The Bane and the other half of Ansel’s army sweep down the center, from the Staghorns, to the heart of the continent—all converging on Morath.” Those eyes were like green fire. “You’ve been moving armies into position.” “I need more,” she said. “And I need more time.”

His brows narrowed. “And what army will you be fighting in?” His mouth twitched up at a corner. “I assume I won’t be able to persuade you to stay behind the lines.” “You know better than to even try.”

“Where would the fun be, anyway, if I got to win all the glory while you sat on your ass? I’d never let you hear the end of it.” She snorted, and surveyed the other maps they’d spread across the floor of their cabin. Together, they formed a patchwork of their world—not just the continent, but the lands beyond. She stood, towering over it, as if she could spy those armies, both near and far.

Rowan, still kneeling, looked upon the world spread at her feet.

And she realized it indeed was—if she won this war, won the continent back.

Aelin scanned the sprawl of the world, which had once seemed so vast and now, at her feet, seemed so … fragile. So small and breakable.

“You could, you know,” Rowan said, his tattoo stark in the lantern light. “Take it for yourself. Take it all. Use Maeve’s bullshit maneuvers against her. Make good on that promise.” There was no judgment. Only frank calculation and contemplation. “And would you join me if I did? If I turned conqueror?” “You would unify, not pillage and burn. And yes—to whatever end.”

“That’s the threat, isn’t it?” she mused. “The other kingdoms and territories will spend the rest of their existence wondering if I will one day grow restless in Terrasen. They will do their best to ensure we stay happily within our borders, and find them to be more useful as allies and trade partners than potential conquests. Maeve attacked Eyllwe’s coast, posing as me, perhaps to turn those foreign lands against me—to hammer home the point I made with my power at Skull’s Bay … and use it against us.” He nodded. “But if you could … would you?”

For a heartbeat, she could see it—see her face, carved into statues in kingdoms so far away they did not even know Terrasen existed. A living god—Mala’s heir and conqueror of the known world. She would bring music and books and culture, wipe out the corruption festering in corners of the earth … She said softly, “Not now.”

“But later?”

“Perhaps if being queen bores me … I’ll think about making myself empress. To give my offspring not one kingdom to inherit, but as many as the stars.” There was no harm in saying it, anyway. In thinking about it, stupid and useless as it was. Even if wondering about the possibilities … perhaps it made her no better than Maeve or Erawan.

Rowan jerked his chin toward the nearest map—toward the Wastes. “Why did you forgive Ansel? After what she did to you and the others in the desert?” Aelin crouched again. “Because she made a bad choice, trying to heal a wound she couldn’t ever mend. Trying to avenge the people she loved.” “And you really set all this in motion when we were in Rifthold? When you were fighting in those pits?” She gave him a roguish wink. “I knew if I gave the name Ansel of Briarcliff, it’d somehow make its way to her that a red-haired young woman was using her name to slaughter trained soldiers in the Pits. And that she’d know it was me.” “So the red hair back then—not just for Arobynn.”

“Not even close.” Aelin frowned at the maps, dissatisfied she hadn’t spotted any other armies hiding out around the world.

Rowan dragged a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I wish I knew every thought in that head, each scheme and plot. Then I remember how much it delights me when you reveal it—usually when it’s most likely to make my heart stop dead in my chest.” “I knew you were a sadist.”

He kissed her mouth once, twice, then the tip of her nose, nipping it with his canines. She hissed and batted him away, and his deep chuckle rumbled against the wooden walls. “That’s for not telling me,” he said. “Again.” But despite his words, despite everything, he looked so … happy. So perfectly content and happy to be there, kneeling among those maps, the lantern down to its last dregs, the world going to hell.

The joyless, cold male she’d first met, the one who had been waiting for an opponent good enough to bring him death … He now looked at her with happiness in his face.

She took his hand, gripping it hard. “Rowan.”

The spark died from his eyes.

She squeezed his fingers. “Rowan, I need you to do something for me.”

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Manon lay curled on her side in her narrow bed, unable to sleep.

It was not from the piss-poor sleeping conditions—no, she’d slept in far worse, even considering the shoddily patched hole in the side of the wall.

She stared at that gap in the wall, at the moonlight leaking in on the salty summer breeze.

She would not go find the Crochans. No matter what the Terrasen Queen called her, admitting to her bloodline was different from … claiming it. She doubted the Crochans would be willing to serve anyway, given that she’d killed their princess. Her own half sister.

And even if the Crochans did choose to serve her, fight for her … Manon put a hand to the thick scar now across her belly. The Ironteeth would not share the Wastes.

But it was that mentality, she supposed as she twisted onto her back, peeling her hair from her sweat-sticky neck, that had sent them all into exile.

She again peered through the gaps in that hole to the sea beyond. Waiting to spot a shadow in the night sky, to hear the boom of mighty wings.

Abraxos should have been here already. She shut out the coiling dread in her stomach.

But instead of wings, footsteps creaked in the hall outside.

A heartbeat later, the door opened on near-silent hinges, then shut again. Locked.

Manon didn’t sit up as she said, “What are you doing here.”

The moonlight sifted through the king’s blue-black hair. “You don’t have chains anymore.” She sat up at that, examining where the irons draped down the wall. “Is it more enticing for you if they’re on?” Sapphire eyes seemed to glow in the dark as he leaned against the shut door. “Sometimes it is.” She snorted, but found herself saying, “You never weighed in.”

“On what?” he asked, though he knew what she’d meant.

“What I am. Who I am.”

“Does my opinion matter to you, witchling?”

Manon stalked toward him, stopping a few feet away, aware of every inch of night between them. “You do not seem outraged that Aelin sacked Melisande without telling anyone, you do not seem to care that I am a Crochan—” “Do not mistake my silence for lack of feeling. I have good reason to keep my thoughts to myself.” Ice glittered at his fingertips. Manon tracked it. “Will it be you or the queen against Erawan in the end, I wonder.” “Fire against darkness makes for a better story.”

“Yes, but so would ripping a demon king to shreds without using your hands.” A half smile. “I can think of better uses for my hands—invisible and flesh.” An invitation and a question. She held his gaze.

“Then finish what you started,” Manon breathed.

Dorian’s answering smile was soft—edged with that glimmer of cruelty that made her blood heat as if the Fire-Queen herself had breathed flame into it.

She let Dorian back her against the wall. Let him hold her gaze while he tugged the top laces of her white shirt free.

One. By. One.

Let him lean in to brush his mouth against her bare neck, right under her ear.

Manon arched slightly at that caress. At the tongue that flicked against where his lips had been. Then he pulled back. Away.

Even as those phantom hands continued to trail up her hips, over her waist. His mouth parted slightly, body trembling with restraint. Restraint, where most males took and took when she offered it, gorging themselves on her. But Dorian Havilliard said, “The Bloodhound was lying that night. What she said about your Second. I felt her lie—tasted it.” Some tight part in her chest eased. “I don’t want to talk about that.” He stepped closer again, and those phantom hands trailed under her breasts. She gritted her teeth. “And what do you want to talk about, Manon?” She wasn’t sure he’d ever said her name before. And the way he’d said it … “I don’t want to talk at all,” she countered. “And neither do you,” she added with a pointed glance.

Again, that dark, edged smile appeared. And when he stepped close once more, his hands replaced those phantom ones.

Tracing her hips, her waist, her breasts. Unhurried, indolent circles that she allowed him to make, simply because no one had ever dared. Each brush of his skin against hers left a wake of fire and ice. She found herself transfixed by it—by each coaxing, luxurious stroke. She did not even consider objecting as Dorian slid off her shirt and surveyed her bare, scar-flecked flesh.

His face turned ravenous as he took in her breasts, the plane of her stomach—the scar slicing across it.

That hunger shifted into something icy and vicious: “You once asked me where I stand on the line between killing to protect and killing for pleasure.” His fingers grazed the seam of the scar across her abdomen. “I’ll stand on the other side of the line when I find your grandmother.” A chill ran down her body, peaking her breasts. He watched them, then circled a finger around one. Dorian bent, his mouth following the path where that finger had been. Then his tongue. She bit her lip against the groan rising up her throat, her hands sliding into the silken locks of his hair.

His mouth was still around the tip of her breast as he again met her eyes, sapphire framed with ebony lashes, and said, “I want to taste every inch of you.” Manon let go of all pretense of reason as the king lifted his head and claimed her mouth.

And for all his wanting to taste her, as she opened for him, Manon thought the king tasted like the sea, like a winter morning, something so foreign and yet familiar it at last dragged that moan from deep in her.

His fingers slid to her jaw, tipping her face to thoroughly take her mouth, every movement of his tongue a sensuous promise that had her arching into him. Had her meeting him stroke for stroke as he explored and teased until she could hardly think straight.

She had never contemplated what it would be like—to yield control. And not have it be weakness, but a freedom.

Dorian’s hands slid down her thighs, as if savoring the muscle there, then around—cupping her backside, grinding her into every hard inch of him. The small noise in her throat was cut off as he hoisted her from the wall in a smooth movement.

Manon wrapped her legs around his waist while he carried her to the bed, his mouth never leaving hers as he devoured and devoured her. As he spread her beneath him. As he freed her pants button by button, then slid them off.

But Dorian pulled back at last, leaving her panting as he surveyed her, utterly bare before him. He caressed a finger along the inside of her thigh. Higher. “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you in Oakwald,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Manon reached up to peel off his shirt, white fabric sliding away to reveal tan skin and sculpted muscle. “Yes,” was all she told him. She unbuckled his belt, hands shaking. “Yes,” she said again, as Dorian brushed a knuckle over her core. He let out an approving growl at what he found.

His clothes joined hers on the floor. Manon let him raise her arms over her head, his magic gently pinning her wrists to the mattress as he touched her, first with those wicked hands. Then with his wicked mouth. And when Manon had to bite his shoulder to muffle her moaning as he brought her over the edge, Dorian Havilliard buried himself deep inside her.

She did not care who she was, who she had been, and what she had once promised to be as he moved. She dragged her hands through his thick hair, over the muscles of his back as it flexed and rippled with each thrust that drove her toward that shimmering edge again. Here, she was nothing but flesh and fire and iron; here, there was only this selfish need of her body, his body.

More. She wanted more—wanted everything.

She might have whispered it, might have pleaded for it. Because Darkness save her, Dorian gave it to her. To them both.

He remained atop her when he at last stilled, his lips barely a hairsbreadth above hers—hovering after the brutal kiss he’d given her to contain his roar as release found him.

She was trembling with … whatever he’d done to her, her body. He brushed a strand of hair out of her face, his own fingers shaking.

She had not realized how silent the world was—how loud they might have been, especially with so many Fae ears nearby.

He was still atop her, in her. Those sapphire eyes flicked to her mouth, still panting slightly. “This was supposed to take the edge off.” She kept her words low as his clothes slid over, hauled by phantom hands. “And did it?” He traced her lower lip with his thumb and shuddered as she sucked it into her mouth, flicked it with her tongue. “No. Not even close.” But that was the gray light of dawn creeping into the room, staining the walls silver. He seemed to notice it at the same moment she did. Groaning softly, he pulled himself off her. She tugged on her clothes with trained efficiency, and only when she was lacing up her shirt did Dorian say, “We’re not done, you and I.” And it was the purely male promise that made her bare her teeth. “Unless you would like to learn precisely what parts of me are made of iron the next time you touch me, I decide those things.” Dorian gave another purely male smile, brows flicking up, and sauntered out the door as silently as he’d arrived. He only seemed to pause on the threshold—as if some word had snagged his interest. But he continued out, the door closing with barely a click. Unruffled, utterly calm.

Manon gaped after him, cursing her blood for heating again, for … what she’d allowed him to do.

She wondered what Dorian would say if she told him she had never allowed a male atop her like that. Not once. Wondered what he’d say if she told him she’d wanted to sink her teeth into his neck and find out what he tasted like. Put her mouth on other parts and see what he tasted like there.

Manon dragged her hands through her hair and slumped onto the pillow.

Darkness embrace her.

She sent a silent prayer for Abraxos to return soon. Too much time—she had spent too much damn time among these humans and Fae males. She needed to leave. Elide was safe here—the Queen of Terrasen might be many things, but Manon knew she’d protect Elide.

But, with the Thirteen scattered and likely dead, regardless of what Dorian had claimed, Manon wasn’t entirely sure where to go once she left. The world had never seemed quite so vast before.

And so empty.

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Even utterly exhausted, Elide barely slept during the long night she and Lorcan swayed in hammocks with the other sailors. The smells, the sounds, the rocking of the sea … All of it nagged, none of it left her settled. A finger seemed to keep prodding her awake, as if telling her to be alert, but … there was nothing.

Lorcan tossed and turned for hours. As if the same force begged him to wake.

As if he was waiting for something.

His strength had been flagging by the time they’d reached the ship, though he had showed no signs of strain beyond a slight tightening in his mouth. But Elide knew he was near what he’d described as a burnout. Knew, because for hours afterward, the small brace of magic around her ankle kept flickering in and out of place.

After Manon had informed her of the uncertain fates of the Thirteen, Elide had kept mostly out of her companions’ way, letting them talk with that red-haired young woman who found them on the beach. So had Lorcan. He’d listened to them debate and plan, his face taut, as if something coiled in him wound itself tighter with every passing moment.

Watching him sleep mere feet away, that harsh face smoothed to softness by slumber, a small part of Elide wondered if she’d somehow brought another danger to the queen. She wondered if the others had noted how often Lorcan’s gaze had been fixed on Aelin’s back. Aimed at her back.

As if sensing her attention, Lorcan opened his eyes. Met her stare without so much as blinking. For a heartbeat, she took in that depthless gaze mere feet away, made ethereal by the silver light before dawn.

He had been willing to offer up his life for her own.

Something softened in that harsh face as his eyes dipped to where her arm dangled out of her hammock, the skin still a bit sore, but … miraculously healed. She’d thanked Gavriel twice now, but he’d brushed it aside with a gentle nod and shrug.

A faint smile bloomed on Lorcan’s harsh mouth as he reached across the space between them and ran his calloused fingers down her arm. “You choose this?” he murmured so that it was little more than the groaning of the hammock ropes. He brushed a thumb down her palm.

Elide swallowed but let herself take in every line of that face. North—they were going home today. “I thought that was obvious,” she said with equal quiet, her cheeks heating.

His fingers laced through hers, some emotion she couldn’t place flickering like starlight in those black eyes. “We need to talk,” he rasped.

It was the shout of the watch that jolted them. The one of pure terror.

Elide nearly flipped out of her hammock, the sailors rushing past. By the time she shoved her hair from her eyes, Lorcan was already gone.

The various decks were packed, and she had to limp onto the stairs to view what had roused them. The other ships were awake and frenzied. With good reason.

Sailing over the western horizon, another armada headed for them.

And Elide knew in her bones it was not one that Aelin had schemed and planned for.

Not as Fenrys breathed, suddenly beside her on the steps. “Maeve.”