51
Eyllwe’s coast was burning.
For three days, they sailed past village after village. Some still burning, some only cinders. And at each of them, Aelin and Rowan had labored to put out those flames.
Rowan, in his hawk form, could fly in, but … It killed her. Absolutely killed her that they could not afford to halt long enough to go to shore. So she did it from the ship, burrowing deep into her power, stretching it as far as it could go across sea and sky and sand, to wink out those fires one by one.
By the end of the third day, she was flagging, so thirsty that no amount of water was able to slake it, her lips chapped and peeling.
Rowan had gone to shore three times now to ask who had done it.
Each time the answer was the same: darkness had swept over them in the night, the kind that blotted out the stars, and then the villages were burning beneath flaming arrows not spotted until they had found their targets.
But where that darkness, where Erawan’s forces were … there was no sign of them.
No sign of Maeve, either.
Rowan and Lysandra had flown high and wide, searching for either force, but … nothing.
Ghosts, some villagers were now claiming, had attacked them. The ghosts of their unburied dead, raging home from distant lands.
Until they started whispering another rumor.
That Aelin Galathynius herself was burning Eyllwe, village by village. For vengeance that they had not aided her kingdom ten years ago.
No matter that she was putting out the flames. They did not believe Rowan when he tried to explain who soothed their fires from aboard the distant ship.
He told her not to listen, not to let it sink in. So she tried.
And it had been during one of those times that Rowan had run his thumb over the scar on her palm, leaning to kiss her neck. He’d breathed her in, and she knew he detected an answer to the question that had caused him to flee that morning on the ship. No, she was not carrying his child.
They had only discussed the matter once—last week. When she’d crawled off him, panting and coated in sweat, and he’d asked if she was taking a tonic. She merely told him no.
He’d gone still.
And then she had explained that if she’d inherited so much of Mab’s Fae blood, she might very well have inherited the Fae’s struggle to conceive. And even if the timing was horrible … if this was to be the one shot she had of providing Terrasen a bloodline, a future … she would not waste it. His green eyes turned distant, but he’d nodded, kissing her shoulder. And that had been that.
She hadn’t mustered the nerve to ask if he wanted to sire her children. If he wanted to have children, given what had happened to Lyria.
And during that brief moment before he’d flown back to shore to put out more flames, she hadn’t possessed the nerve to explain why she’d hurled her guts up that morning, either.
The past three days had been a blur. From the moment Fenrys had uttered those words, Nameless is my price, everything had been a blur of smoke and flame and waves and sun.
But as the sun set on the third day, Aelin again shoved those thoughts away as the escort ship began signaling ahead, the crew frantically working to drop anchor.
Sweat beaded on her brow, her tongue parchment-dry. But she forgot her thirst, her exhaustion, as she beheld what Rolfe’s men had spied moments ago.
A flat, waterlogged land under a cloudy sky spread inland as far as the eye could see. Moldy green and bone-white grasses crusted the bumps and hollows, little islands of life among the mirror-smooth gray water between them. And among them all, jutting up from brackish water and humped land like the limbs of an ill-buried corpse … ruins. Great, crumbling ruins, a once-lovely city drowned on the plain.
The Stone Marshes.
Manon let the humans and Fae meet with the captains of the other two ships.
She heard the news soon enough: what they sought lay about a day and a half inland. Precisely where, they didn’t know—or how long it’d take to find its exact location. Until they returned, the ships would remain anchored here.
And Manon, it seemed, would join them on their trip inland. As if the queen suspected that if she were left behind, their little fleet would not be intact when they returned.
Clever woman.
But that was the other problem. The one facing Manon right now, already looking anxious and put-out.
Abraxos’s tail lashed a bit, the iron spikes scraping and scratching the pristine ship deck. As if he’d heard the queen’s order a minute ago: the wyvern has to go.
On the flat, open expanse of the marshes, he’d be too noticeable.
Manon placed a hand on his scarred snout, meeting those depthless black eyes. “You need to lie low somewhere.”
A warm, sorrowful huff into her palm.
“Don’t whine about it,” Manon said, even as something twisted and roiled in her belly. “Stay out of sight, keep alert, and come back in four days’ time.” She allowed herself to lean forward, resting her brow against his snout. His growl rumbled her bones. “We’ve been a pair, you and I. A few days is nothing, my friend.”
He nudged her head with his own.
Manon swallowed hard. “You saved my life. Many times. I never thanked you for it.”
Abraxos let out another low whine.
“You and me,” she promised him. “From now until the Darkness claims us.”
She made herself pull away. Made herself stroke his snout just once more. Then backed a step. Then another. “Go.”
He didn’t move. She bared her iron teeth. “Go.”
Abraxos gave her a look full of reproach, but his body tensed, wings lifting.
And Manon decided she had never hated anyone more than she hated the Queen of Terrasen and her friends. For making him leave. For causing this parting, when so many dangers had not been able to cleave them.
But Abraxos was airborne, the sails groaning in the wind of his wings, and Manon watched until he was a speck on the horizon, until the longboats were being readied to bring them to the high grasses and stagnant gray water of the marshes beyond.
The queen and her court readied, donning weapons like some people adorned themselves with jewelry, moving about in question and answer to one another. So similar, to her Thirteen—similar enough that she had to turn away, ducking into the shadows of the foremast and schooling her breathing into an even rhythm.
Her hands trembled. Asterin was not dead. The Thirteen were not dead.
She’d kept the thoughts about it at bay. But now, with that flower-smelling wyvern vanishing over the horizon …
The last piece of the Wing Leader had vanished with him.
A muggy wind tugged her inland—toward those marshes. Dragging her red cape with it.
Manon ran a finger down the crimson cloak she’d made herself wear this morning.
Rhiannon.
She’d never heard a whisper that the Crochan royal bloodline had walked off that final killing field five centuries ago. She wondered if any of the Crochans beyond her half sister knew the child of Lothian Blackbeak and a Crochan Prince had survived.
Manon unfastened the brooch clasping the cloak at her shoulders. She weighed the thick bolt of red fabric in her hands.
A few easy swipes of her nails had her clutching a long, thin strip of the cloak. A few more motions had her tying it around the end of her braid, the red stark against the moon white of her hair.
Manon stepped out of the shadows behind the foremast and peered over the edge of the ship.
No one commented when she dumped her half sister’s cloak into the sea.
The wind carried it a few feet over the waves before it fluttered like a dying leaf to land atop the swells. A pool of blood—that’s how it looked from the distance as the tide carried it out, out, out into the ocean.
She found the King of Adarlan and Queen of Terrasen waiting at the railing of the main deck, their companions climbing into the awaiting longboat bobbing on the waves.
She met eyes of sapphire, then those of turquoise and gold.
She knew they’d seen it. Perhaps not understood what the cloak had meant, but … understood the gesture for what it was.
Manon flicked her iron teeth and nails back into their slits as she approached them.
Aelin Galathynius said quietly, “You never stop seeing their faces.”
It was only when they were rowing for the shore, spindrift soaking them, that Manon realized the queen hadn’t meant the Thirteen. And Manon wondered if Aelin, too, had watched that cloak floating out to sea and thought it looked like spilled blood.
52
They didn’t get to Leriba. Or to Banjali. They didn’t even get close.
Lorcan felt the push on his shoulder that had guided and shaped the course of his life—that invisible, insistent hand of shadow and death. So they went south, then west, sailing swiftly down the network of waterways through Eyllwe.
Elide didn’t object or question when he explained that if Hellas himself was nudging him, that the queen they hunted was likely in that direction. Wherever it would lead. There were no cities out there, only endless grasslands that skirted Oakwald’s southernmost tip, then marshes. The abandoned peninsula full of ruins among the marshes.
But if that was where he was told to go … The dark god’s touch on his shoulder had never steered him wrong. So he’d see what he’d find.
He did not let himself dwell too long on the fact that Elide carried a Wyrdkey. That she was trying to bring it to his enemy. Perhaps his power’s summons would lead them both to it—to her.
And then he’d have two keys, if he played his cards right.
If he was smarter and faster and more ruthless than the others.
Then the most dangerous part of all: traveling with two keys in his possession, into the heart of Morath, to hunt down the third. Speed would be his best ally and only shot at survival.
And he’d likely never see Elide or any of the others again.
They’d at last abandoned their barge that morning, cramming whatever supplies would fit into their packs before setting off through the rippling grasses. Hours later, Elide’s breathing was ragged as they ascended a steep hill deep in the plain. He’d been scenting brine for two days now—they had to be close to the edge of the marshes. Elide swallowed hard, and he passed her the canteen as they crested the summit of the hill.
But Elide halted, arms slackening at her sides.
And Lorcan himself froze at what spread before them.
“What is this place?” Elide breathed, as if fearful the land itself would hear.
As far as the eye could see, flowing into the horizon, the land had sunk a good thirty feet—a severe, brutal crack from the edge of the cliff, not hill, on which they stood, as if some furious god had stomped a foot across the plain and left an imprint.
Silvery brackish water covered most of it, still as a mirror, interrupted only by grassy islands and mounds of earth—and crumbling, exquisite ruins.
“This is a bad place,” Elide whispered. “We shouldn’t be here.”
Indeed, the hair on his arms had risen, every instinct on alert as he scanned the marshes, the ruins, the brambles, and thick foliage that had choked some of the islands.
Even the god of death halted his nudging and ducked behind Lorcan’s shoulder.
“What do you sense?”
Her lips were bloodless. “Silence. Life, but such … silence. As if …”
“As if what?” he pushed.
Her words were a shudder of breath. “As if all the people who once lived here, long ago, are still trapped inside—still … beneath.” She pointed to a ruin—a curved, broken dome of what had likely been a ballroom attached to the spire. A palace. “I don’t think this is a place for the living, Lorcan. The beasts in these waters … I do not think they tolerate trespassers. Nor do the dead.”
“Is it the stone or the goddess who watches you telling you such things?”
“It’s my heart that murmurs a warning. Anneith is silent. I don’t think she wants to be anywhere near. I don’t think she will follow.”
“She came to Morath, but not here?”
“What is inside these marshes?” she asked instead. “Why is Aelin headed into them?”
That, it seemed, was the question. For if they picked up on it, surely the queen and Whitethorn would sense it, too—and only a great reward or threat would drive them here.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “No towns or outposts exist anywhere nearby.” Yet this was where the dark god had led him—and where that hand still pushed him to venture, even if it quaked.
Nothing but ruins and dense foliage on those too-small islands of safety from whatever dwelled beneath the glassy water.
But Lorcan obeyed the nudging god at his shoulder and led the Lady of Perranth onward.
“Who lived here?” Elide asked, staring at the weather-worn face of the statue jutting from a near-collapsed stone wall. It teetered on the outer edge of the little island they were standing on, and the moss-speckled woman carved there had no doubt once been beautiful, as well as a bit of support for beams and a roof that had since rotted away. But the veil she’d been carved wearing now seemed like a death shroud. Elide shivered.
“This place was forgotten and wrecked centuries before I was even born,” Lorcan said.
“Did it belong to Eyllwe?”
“It was a part of a kingdom that is now gone, a lost people who wandered and merged with those of different lands.”
“They must have been very talented, to have made such beautiful buildings.”
Lorcan grunted in agreement. It had been two days of inching across the marshes—no sign of Aelin. They had slept in the shelter of the ruins, though neither of them really got true rest. Elide’s dreams had been filled with the pale, milky-eyed faces of people she’d never met, crying out in supplication as water shoved down their throats, their noses. Even waking, she could see them, hear their cries on the wind.
Just the breeze through the stones, Lorcan grumbled that first day.
But she’d seen it in his eyes. He heard the dead, too.
Heard the thunder of the cataclysm that had dropped the land right from underneath them, heard the rushing water that devoured them all before they could run. Curious beasts from sea and swamp and river had converged in the years following, making the ruins a hunting ground, feasting on one another when the waterlogged corpses ran out. Changing, adapting—growing fatter and cleverer than their ancestors had been.