Liar. Cunning little liar.
Elide Lochan, rightful Lady of Perranth, crawled out, slamming the trapdoor shut and glaring at him from where she knelt on the floor. He glared right back. “Why should I have trusted you,” she said with impressive coldness, “when you were stalking me for days in the forest? Why should I have told you a thing about me when you could have sold me to the highest bidder?”
His body ached; his head throbbed from the slaughter he’d barely managed to survive. The ilken had gone down—but not willingly. And the one he’d kept alive, the one Nik and Ombriel had begged him to kill and be done with, had told him very little, actually.
But Lorcan had decided his wife didn’t need to know that. Decided it was time to see what she might reveal if he let some lies of his own fool her.
Elide glanced at his weapons, at the reeking blood coating him like oil. “You killed them all?”
He lowered the wheat stalk from his mouth. “Do you think I’d be sitting here if I hadn’t?”
Elide Lochan wasn’t some mere human trying to return to her homeland and serve her queen. She was a royal-blooded lady who wanted to get back to that fire-breathing bitch in the North to offer whatever aid she could. She and Aelin would be well suited for each other, he decided. The sweet-faced liar and the insufferable, haughty princess.
Elide slumped onto the bench, massaging her feet and calves.
“I’m risking my neck for you,” he said too quietly, “and yet you decided not to tell me that your uncle isn’t just a mere commander at Morath, but Erawan’s right hand—and you are his prized possession.”
“I told you enough of the truth. Who I am makes no difference. And I am no one’s possession.”
His temper yanked at the leash he’d been careful to keep short before tracking her scent to this wagon. Outside, the others were hurriedly packing, readying to flee into the night before the villagers decided to blame them for the disaster. “It does make a difference who you are. With your queen on the move, your uncle knows she’d pay a steep price to get you back. You are not a mere breeding asset—you are a negotiation tool. You might very well be what brings that bitch to her knees.”
Rage flashed in her fine-boned face. “You keep plenty of secrets, too, Lorcan.” She spat his name like a curse. “And I still haven’t been able to decide if I find it insulting or amusing that you think I’m too stupid to notice. That you thought I was some fear-addled girl, too grateful for the presence of such a strong, brooding warrior to even question why you were there or what you wanted or what your stake in all this is. I gave you exactly what you wanted to see: a lost young woman in need of help, perhaps a bit skilled at lying and deceit, but ultimately not worth more than a few seconds’ consideration. And you, in all your immortal arrogance, didn’t think twice. Why should you, when humans are so useless? Why should you even bother, when you planned to abandon me the moment you got what you needed?”
Lorcan blinked, bracing his feet on the floor. She didn’t back down an inch.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him like that. “I would be careful what you say to me.”
Elide gave him a hateful little smile. “Or what? You’ll sell me to Morath? Use me as your ticket in?”
“I hadn’t thought to do that, but thank you for the idea.”
Her throat bobbed, the only sign of her fear. And she said clearly and without a hint of hesitation, “If you try to bring me to Morath, I will end my own life before you can carry me over the Keep’s bridge.”
It was the threat, the promise, that checked his anger, his utter rage that … that she had indeed played into his expectations of her, his arrogance and prejudices. He said carefully, “What is it that you’re carrying that makes them hunt you so relentlessly? Not your royal blood, not your magic and use for breeding. The object you carry with you—what is it?”
Perhaps it was a night for truth, perhaps death hovered close enough to make her a bit reckless, but Elide said, “It’s a gift—for Celaena Sardothien. From a woman kept imprisoned in Morath, who had waited a long time to repay her for a past kindness. More than that, I don’t know.”
A gift for an assassin—not the queen. Perhaps nothing of note, but— “Let me see it.”
“No.”
They stared each other down again. And Lorcan knew that if he wanted, he could wait until she was asleep, take it for himself, and vanish. See what might make her so protective of it.
But he knew … some small, stupid part of him knew that if he took from this woman who had already had too much stolen from her … He didn’t know if there was any coming back from that. He’d done such despicable, vicious things over the centuries and hadn’t thought twice. He’d reveled in them, relished them, the cruelty.
But this … there was a line. Somehow … somehow there was a gods-damned line here.
She seemed to pick up on his decision—with whatever gift she had. Her shoulders slumped, and she stared blankly at the canvas wall as the sounds of their group now grew closer, their urging to hurry and pack, leave what could be spared.
Elide said quietly, “Marion was my mother’s name. She died defending Aelin Galathynius from her assassin. My mother bought Aelin time to run—to get away so she could one day return to save us all. My uncle, Vernon, watched and smiled as my father, the Lord of Perranth, was executed outside our castle. Then he took my father’s title and lands and home. And for the next ten years, my uncle locked me in the highest tower of Perranth Castle, with only my nursemaid for company. When I broke my foot and ankle, he did not trust healers enough to let them treat it. He kept bars on the tower windows to keep me from killing myself, and shackled my ankles to keep me from running. I left for the first time in a decade when he shoved me into a prison wagon and dragged me down to Morath. There, he made me work as a servant—for the humiliation and terror he delights in. I planned and dreamed of escaping every day. And when the time came … I took my chance. I did not know about the ilken, had only heard rumors of fell things being bred in the mountains beyond the Keep. I have no lands, no money, no army to offer Aelin Galathynius. But I will find her—and help her in whatever way I can. If only to keep just one girl, just one, from ever enduring what I did.”
He let the truth in her words sink into him. Let them adjust his view of her. His … plans.
Lorcan said roughly, “I am over five hundred years old. I am blood-sworn to Queen Maeve of the Fae, and I am her second-in-command. I have done great and terrible things in her name, and I will do more before death comes to claim me. I was born a bastard on the streets of Doranelle, ran wild with the other discarded children until I realized my talents were different. Maeve noticed, too. I can kill faster—I can sense when death is near. I think my magic is death, given to me by Hellas himself. I am in these lands on behalf of my queen—though I came without her permission. She might very well hunt me down and kill me for it. If her sentinels arrive looking for me, it is in your best interest to pretend not to know who and what I am.” There was more, but … Elide had remaining secrets, too. They’d offered each other enough for now.
No fear tainted her scent—not even a trace of it. All Elide said was, “Do you have a family?”
“No.”
“Do you have friends?”
“No.” His cabal of warriors didn’t count. Gods-damned Whitethorn hadn’t seemed to care when he abandoned them to serve Aelin Galathynius; Fenrys made no secret he hated the bond; Vaughan was barely around; he couldn’t stand Gavriel’s unbreakable restraint; and Connall was too busy rutting Maeve like an animal most of the time.
Elide angled her head, her hair sliding across her face. He almost lifted a hand to brush it back and read her dark eyes. But his hands were covered in that filthy blood. And he had the feeling Elide Lochan did not wish to be touched unless she asked to be.
“Then,” she murmured, “you and I are the same in that regard, at least.”
No family, no friends. It hadn’t seemed quite so pathetic until she said it, until he suddenly saw himself through her eyes.
But Elide shrugged, rising to her feet as Molly’s voice barked from nearby. “You should clean up—you look like a warrior again.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant it as a compliment. “Nik and Ombriel, unfortunately, realized you and I are perhaps not what we seem.”
Alarm flashed in her eyes. “Should we leave—”
“No. They’ll keep our secrets.” If only because they’d seen Lorcan lay into those ilken, and knew precisely what he could do to them if they so much as breathed wrong in their direction. “We can stay awhile yet—until we get clear of this.”
Elide nodded, her limp deep as she headed for the back of the wagon. She sat on the edge before climbing off, her wrecked ankle too weak and painful to ever jump. Yet she moved with quiet dignity, hissing a little as her foot made contact with the ground.
Lorcan watched her limp into the night without so much as a backward glance at him.
And he wondered what the hell he was doing.
42
Death smelled like salt and blood and wood and rot.
And it hurt.
Darkness embrace her, it hurt like hell. The Ancient Ones had lied that it cured all ills, if the slice of pain across her abdomen was any indication. Not to mention the pounding headache, the sheer dryness of her mouth, the burning sting in the other cut on her arm.
Perhaps the Darkness was another world, another realm. Perhaps she’d gone to the hell-realm the humans so feared.
She hated Death.
And Death could go to hell, too—
Manon Blackbeak cracked open eyelids that were too heavy, too burning, and squinted against the flickering lantern light that swayed upon the wood panels of the room in which she lay.
Not a real bedroom, she realized by the reek of salt and rocking and creaking of the world around her. A cabin—on a ship.
A small, dingy one, with barely space for this bed, a porthole too small for her shoulders to even squeeze through—
She bolted upright. Abraxos. Where was Abraxos—
“Relax,” drawled a too-familiar female voice from the shadowed space near the foot of the bed.
Pain flared in Manon’s belly, a delayed response to her sudden movement, and she glanced between the white bandages that now scratched against her fingers and the young queen, lounging in the chair by the door. Glanced between the woman and the chains now around Manon’s wrists, around her ankles—anchored into the walls with what appeared to be freshly drilled holes.
“Looks like you owe me a life debt once more, Blackbeak,” Aelin Galathynius said, cold humor in her turquoise eyes. Elide. Had Elide made it here—
“Your fussy nursemaid of a wyvern is fine, by the way. I don’t know how you wound up with a sweet thing like that for a mount, but he’s content to sprawl in the sun on the foredeck. Can’t say it makes the sailors particularly happy—especially cleaning up after him.”
Find somewhere safe, she’d told Abraxos. Had he somehow found the queen? Somehow known this was the only place she might stand a chance of surviving?
Aelin braced her feet on the floor, boots thudding softly. There was a frank sort of impatience with any sort of bullshit that had not been there the last time Manon had seen the woman. As if the warrior who had laughed her way through their battle atop Temis’s temple had lost a bit of that wicked amusement but gained more of the cunning cruelty.
Manon’s belly gave a throb of pain that made her bite her lip to keep from hissing.
“Whoever gave you that wound wasn’t joking,” the queen said. “Trouble at home?”
It wasn’t the queen’s business, or anyone else’s. “Let me heal, and then I’ll be on my way,” Manon rasped, her tongue a dried, heavy husk.