Cairn halted. She felt him studying the tattoo on her back. Rowan’s loving words, written there in the Old Language.
Cairn snorted. Then she felt him revel in how he’d destroy that tattoo.
“Begin,” Maeve said.
Cairn’s breath sucked in.
And even bracing herself, even clamping down hard, there was nothing to prepare for the crack, the sting, the pain. She did not let herself cry out, only hissed through her teeth.
A whip wielded by an overseer at Endovier was one thing.
One wielded by a full-blooded Fae male …
Blood slid down the back of her pants, her split skin screaming.
But she knew how to pace herself. How to yield to the pain. How to take it.
“What number was that, Aelin?”
She would not. She would never count for that rutting bitch—
“Start over, Cairn,” Maeve said.
A breathy laugh. Then the crack and the pain and Aelin arched, the tendons in her neck near snapping as she panted through clenched teeth. The males holding her gripped her firm enough to bruise.
Maeve and Cairn waited.
Aelin refused to say the word. To start the count. She’d die before she did it.
“Oh gods, oh gods,” Elide sobbed.
“Start over,” Maeve merely ordered over the girl.
So Cairn did.
Again.
Again.
Again.
They started over nine times before Aelin finally screamed. The blow had been right atop another one, tearing skin down to the bone.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Cairn was panting. Aelin refused to speak.
“Start over,” Maeve repeated.
“Majesty,” murmured one of the males holding her. “It might be prudent to postpone until later.”
“There’s still plenty of skin,” Cairn snapped.
But the male said, “Others are approaching—still far off, but approaching.”
Rowan.
Aelin whimpered then. Time—she had needed time—
Maeve made a small noise of distaste. “We’ll continue later. Get her ready.”
Aelin could barely lift her head as the males heaved her up. The movement set her body roaring in such pain that darkness swarmed in. But she fought it, gritted her teeth and silently roared back at that agony, that darkness.
A few feet away, Elide slid to her knees as if she’d beg until her body gave out, but Manon caught her. “We’re going now,” Manon said, tugging her away—inland.
“No,” Elide spat, thrashing.
Lorcan’s eyes widened, but with Maeve’s command, he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything as Manon slammed the hilt of Wind-Cleaver into the side of Elide’s head.
The girl dropped like a stone. That was all Manon needed to haul her over a shoulder and say to Maeve, “Good luck.” Her eyes slid to Aelin’s once—only once. Then she looked away.
Maeve ignored the witch as Manon prowled toward the heart of the marshes. Lorcan’s body strained.
Strained—like he was fighting that blood oath with everything in him.
Aelin didn’t care.
The males half dragged her toward Maeve.
Toward the iron box. And the chains. And the iron mask.
Whorls of fire, little suns, and embers had been shaped into its dark surface. A mockery of the power it was to contain—the power Maeve had needed to ensure was fully drained before she locked her up. The only way she could ever lock her up.
Every inch her feet dragged through the sand was a lifetime; every inch was a heartbeat. Blood soaked her pants. She likely wouldn’t be able to heal her wounds within all that iron. Not until Maeve decided to heal them herself.
But Maeve wouldn’t let her die. Not with the Wyrdkeys in the balance. Not yet.
Time—she was grateful Elena had given her that stolen time.
Grateful she had met them all, that she had seen some small part of the world, had heard such lovely music, had danced and laughed and known true friendship. Grateful that she had found Rowan.
She was grateful.
So Aelin Galathynius dried her tears.
And did not fight when Maeve strapped that beautiful iron mask over her face.
73
Manon kept walking.
She didn’t dare look back. Didn’t dare give that ancient, cold-eyed queen one hint that Aelin did not possess the Wyrdkeys. That Aelin had slipped them both into Manon’s pocket when she’d nudged her. Elide would hate her for it—already did hate her for it.
Let that be the cost.
One look from Aelin and she’d known what she had to do.
Get the keys away from Maeve. Get Elide away.
They had forged an iron box to contain the Queen of Terrasen.
Elide stirred, at last coming to, just as they were nearly out of hearing range. She began thrashing, and Manon dumped her behind a dune, gripping the back of her neck so tightly Elide stilled at the iron nails piercing her skin.
“Silence,” Manon hissed, and Elide obeyed.
Keeping low, they peered through the grasses. Only a moment—she could spare only a moment to watch, to glean where Maeve was taking the Queen of Terrasen.
Lorcan remained frozen as Maeve had commanded. Gavriel was barely conscious, panting in the grass, as if ripping that blood oath from him had been as grave as any physical wou
nd.
Fenrys—Fenrys’s eyes were alive with hatred as he watched Maeve and Cairn. Blood coated Cairn’s whip, still dangling at his side as Maeve’s soldiers finished strapping that mask over Aelin’s face.
Then they clamped irons around her wrists.
Ankles.
Neck.
No one healed her ravaged back, barely more than a bloody slab of meat, as they guided her into the iron box. Made her lie upon her wounds.
And then slid the lid into place. Locked it.
Elide vomited in the grass.
Manon put a hand on the girl’s back as the males began carrying the box down the dunes, to the boat, and the ship beyond.
“Fenrys, go,” Maeve ordered, pointing to the ship.
Breathing raggedly but unable to refuse the order, Fenrys followed. He glanced once at the white shirt discarded in the sand. It was splattered with blood—spray from the whipping.
Then he was gone, stepping through air and wind and into nothing.
Alone with Lorcan, Maeve said to the warrior, “You have done all this—for me?”
He did not move. Maeve said, “Speak.”
Lorcan loosed a shuddering breath and said, “Yes. Yes—it was all for you. All of it.”
Elide gripped the seagrass in fistfuls, and Manon half wondered if she’d grow iron nails and shred it apart at the fury in her face. The hate.
Maeve stepped over Aelin’s blood-splattered shirt, and brushed her hand over Lorcan’s cheek. “I have no use,” she crooned, “for self-righteous males who think they know best.”
He stiffened. “Majesty—”
“I strip you of the blood oath. I strip you of your assets and your titles and your properties. You, like Gavriel, are released with dishonor and shame. You are exiled from Doranelle for your disobedience, your treachery. Should you step foot inside my borders, you will die.”
“Majesty, I beg you—”
“Go beg someone else. I have no use for a warrior I cannot trust. I rescind my kill order. Letting you live with the shame will be far worse for you, I think.”
Blood welled at his wrist, then hers. Spilling on the ground.
Lorcan fell to his knees.
“I do not suffer fools gladly,” Maeve said, leaving him in the sand, and walked away.
As if she’d dealt him a blow, the twin to Gavriel’s, Lorcan couldn’t seem to move, to think or breathe. He tried crawling, though. Toward Maeve. The bastard tried crawling.