Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7)

Maeve’s eyes might have been everywhere, but they weren’t fixed on the cave mouth that opened onto a cove along Wendlyn’s western shore. Nor were they on that cove when the boat landed on its sandy beach, then vanished back into the caves before anyone could so much as attempt to thank the creatures who had hauled them without rest.

Aelin watched the boat until it disappeared, trying not to stare too long at the clean, unstained sand beneath her boots, while the others debated where they might be along the coastline.

A few hours of hurrying northward, into Wendlyn’s lands, and they got their answer: close enough to the nearest port.

The tide was with them, and with the gold they’d pilfered from the barrow-wights, it was a matter of Rowan and Lorcan simply crossing their arms before a ship was secured. With Wendlyn’s armada sailing for Terrasen’s shores, the rules about border crossings had been revoked. Gone were the several boat transfers to reach the continent across the sea, the security measures. No mere tyrant squatted in Adarlan, but a Valg king with an aerial legion.

It made it easier for the messages she dispatched to go out, too. Whether the letter to Aedion and Lysandra would reach them was up to the gods, she supposed, since they seemed hell-bent on being their puppet masters. Perhaps they might not bother with her now, if Dorian was heading for the third key, if he might take her place.

She did not dwell on it for long.

The ship was a step above ramshackle, all the finer vessels commandeered for the war, but it seemed steady enough to make the weeks-long crossing. For the gold they paid, the captain yielded his own quarters to Aelin and Rowan. If the man knew who they were, what they were, he said nothing.

Aelin didn’t care. Only that they sailed with the midnight tide, Rowan’s magic propelling them swiftly out to the moonlit sea.

Far from Maeve. From her gathered forces.

From the truth that Aelin might have glimpsed that day in Maeve’s throne room, the dark blood that had turned to red.

She hadn’t told the others. Didn’t know if that moment had been real, or a trick of the light. If it had been another dreamscape, or some fragment that had blended into the very real memory of Connall’s death.

She’d deal with it later, Aelin decided as she stood by the prow, the others long since having gone to their own quarters belowdecks. Only Rowan remained, perched on the mainmast as he scanned every horizon for signs of pursuit.

They’d evaded Maeve. For now. Tonight, at least, she wouldn’t know where to find them. Until word spread of the strangers in that port, of the ship they’d paid a king’s fortune to take them into war-torn hell. The messages Aelin had sent.

At least Maeve didn’t know where the Wyrdkeys were. They still had that in their favor.

Though Maeve was likely to bring her army across the sea to hunt them down. Or simply aid in Terrasen’s demise.

Aelin’s power stirred, a thunderhead groaning in her blood. She ground her teeth and paid it no attention.

Everything relied upon them reaching the continent before Maeve and her forces. Or before Erawan could destroy too much of the world.

Aelin leaned into the sea breeze, letting it seep into her skin, her hair, letting it wash away the dark of the caves, if the dark of the prior months could not be eased entirely. Letting it soothe her fire into slumbering embers.

These weeks at sea would be endless, even with Rowan’s magic propelling them.

She’d use each day to train, to work with sword and dagger and bow until her hands were blistered, until new calluses formed. Until the thinness returned to muscle.

She’d rebuild it—what she had been.

Perhaps one last time, perhaps only for a little while, but she’d do it. If only for Terrasen.

Rowan swooped from the mast, shifting as he reached her side at the rail. He surveyed the night-black sea beyond them. “You should rest.”

She slid him a glance. “I’m not tired.” Not a lie, not in some regards. “Want to spar?”

He frowned. “Training can start tomorrow.”

“Or tonight.” She held his piercing stare, matched his dominance with her own.

“It can wait a few hours, Aelin.”

“Every day counts.” Against Erawan, even a day of training would count.

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “True,” he said at last. “But it can still wait. There are … there are things we need to discuss.”

The silent words rose in his animal-bright eyes. About you and me.

Her mouth went dry. But Aelin nodded.

In silence, they strode into their spacious quarters, its only decoration the wall of windows that overlooked the churning sea behind them. A far cry from a queen’s chamber, or any she might have purchased as Adarlan’s assassin.

At least the bed built into the wall looked clean enough, the sheets crisp and stainless. But Aelin headed for the oak desk anchored to the floor, and leaned against it while Rowan shut the door.

In the dim lantern light, they stared at each other.

She’d endured Maeve and Cairn; she’d endured Endovier and countless other horrors and losses. She could have this conversation with him. The first step toward rebuilding herself.

Aelin knew Rowan could hear her thundering heart as the space between them went taut. She swallowed once. “Elide and Lorcan told you … told you everything that was said on that beach.”

A curt nod, wariness flooding his eyes.

“Everything that Maeve said.”

Another nod.

She braced herself. “That I’m—we’re mates.”

Understanding and something like relief replaced that wariness. “Yes.”

“I’m your mate,” she said, needing to voice it. “And you are mine.”

Rowan crossed the room, but halted a few feet from the desk on which she leaned. “What of it, Aelin?” His question was low, rough.

“Don’t you …” She scrubbed at her face. “You know what she did to you, to …” She couldn’t say her name. Lyria. “Because of it.”

“I do know.”

“And?”

“And what do you wish me to say?”

She pushed off the desk. “I wish you to tell me how you feel about it. If …”

“If what?”

“If you wish it wasn’t so.”

His brows narrowed. “Why would I ever wish that?”

She shook her head, unable to answer, and stared over her shoulder toward the sea.

It seemed like he would close the distance between them, but he remained where he was. “Aelin.” His voice turned hoarse. “Aelin.”

She looked at him then, at the pain in his words.

“Do you know what I wish?” He exposed his palms, one tattooed, the other unmarked. “I wish that you had told me. When you realized it. I wish you had told me then.”

She swallowed against the ache in her throat. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Why would it ever hurt me to know the truth that was already in my heart? The truth I hoped for?”

“I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand how it was possible. I thought maybe … maybe you might be able to have two mates within a lifetime, but even then, I just …” She blew out a breath. “I didn’t want you to be distressed.”

His eyes softened. “Do I regret that Lyria was dragged into this, that the cost of Maeve’s game was her life, and the life of the child we might have had? Yes. I regret that, and I wish it had never happened.” He would bear the tattoo to remember it for the rest of his days. “But none of that was your fault. I will always carry some of the burden of it, always know I chose to leave her for war and glory, and that I played right into Maeve’s hands.”

“Maeve wanted to ensnare you to get to me, though.”

“Then it is her choice, not yours.”

Aelin ran a hand over the worn wood of the desk. “In those illusions she spun for me, she showed me variations on one more than all the others.” The words were strained, but she forced them out. Forced herself to look at him. “She spun me one dreamscape that felt so real I could smell the wind off the Staghorns.”