At sunset, they landed somewhere in Oakwald. Elide didn’t care about that, either. She lay down and passed into a deep sleep, still wearing Kaltain’s dress, that bit of cloak clutched in her hand.
Someone covered her with a cloak in the night, and when she awoke, there was a set of clothes—flying leathers, a shirt, pants, boots—beside her. The witches were sleeping, their wyverns a mass of muscle and death around them. None of them stirred as Elide strode to the nearest stream, stripped off that dress, and sat in the water, watching the two pieces of her loose chain swaying in the current until her teeth were chattering.
When she had dressed, the clothes a bit big, but warm, Elide tucked that scrap of cloak and the stone it contained into one of her inner pockets.
Celaena Sardothien.
She’d never heard that name—didn’t know where to start looking. But to repay the debt she owed Kaltain …
“Don’t waste your tears on her,” Manon said from a few feet away, a pack dangling from her clean hands. She must have washed off the blood and dirt the night before. “She knew what she was doing, and it wasn’t for your sake.”
Elide wiped at her face. “She still saved our lives—and put an end to those poor witches in the catacombs.”
“She did it for herself. To free herself. And she was entitled to. After what they did, she was entitled to rip the entire damn world to shreds.”
Instead, she’d taken out a third of Morath.
Manon was right. Kaltain hadn’t cared if they’d cleared the blast. “What do we do now?”
“We’re going back to Morath,” Manon said plainly. “But you’re not.”
Elide started.
“This is as far as we can take you without raising suspicions,” Manon said. “When we return, if your uncle survived, I’ll tell him you must have been incinerated in the blast.”
And with that blast, all evidence of what Manon and her Thirteen had done to get Elide out of the dungeons would also have been erased.
But to leave her here … The world opened wide and brutal around her. “Where do I go?” Elide breathed. Endless woods and hills surrounded them. “I—I can’t read, and I have no map.”
“Go where you will, but if I were you, I’d head north, and stick to the forest. Stay out of the mountains. Keep going until you hit Terrasen.”
That had never been part of the plan. “But—but the king—Vernon—”
“The King of Adarlan is dead,” Manon said. The world stopped. “Aelin Galathynius killed him and shattered his glass castle.”
Elide covered her mouth with a hand, shaking her head. Aelin … Aelin …
“She was aided,” Manon went on, “by Prince Aedion Ashryver.”
Elide began sobbing.
“And rumor has it Lord Ren Allsbrook is working in the North as a rebel.”
Elide buried her face in her hands. Then there was a hard, iron-tipped hand on her shoulder.
A tentative touch.
“Hope,” Manon said quietly.
Elide lowered her hands and found the witch smiling at her. Barely a tilt to her lips, but—a smile, soft and lovely. Elide wondered if Manon even knew she was doing it.
But to go to Terrasen … “Things will get worse, won’t they,” Elide said.
Manon’s nod was barely perceptible.
South—she could still go south, run far, far away. Now that Vernon thought she was dead, no one would ever come looking for her. But Aelin was alive. And strong. And maybe it was time to stop dreaming of running. Find Celaena Sardothien—she would do that, to honor Kaltain and the gift she’d been given, to honor the girls like them, locked in towers with no one to speak for them, no one who remembered them.
But Manon had remembered her.
No—she would not run.
“Go north, Elide,” Manon said, reading the decision in Elide’s eyes and extending the pack. “They are in Rifthold, but I bet they won’t be there for long. Get to Terrasen and lie low. Keep off the roads, avoid inns. There’s money in that pack, but use it sparingly. Lie and steal and cheat if you have to, but get to Terrasen. Your queen will be there. I’d suggest not mentioning your mother’s heritage to her.”
Elide considered, shouldering the pack. “Having Blackbeak blood does not seem like such a horrible thing,” she said quietly.
Those gold eyes narrowed. “No,” Manon said. “No, it does not.”
“How can I thank you?”
“It was a debt already owed,” Manon said, shaking her head when Elide opened her mouth to ask more. The witch handed her three daggers, showing her where to tuck one into her boot, storing one in her pack, and then sheathing the other at her hip. Finally, she bade Elide to take off her boots, revealing the shackles she’d squeezed inside. Manon removed a small skeleton key and unlocked the chains, still clamped to her ankles.
Cool, soft air caressed her bare skin, and Elide bit her lip to keep from weeping again as she tugged her boots back on.
Through the trees, the wyverns were yawning and grumbling, and the sounds of the Thirteen laughing flitted past. Manon looked toward them, that faint smile returning to her mouth. When Manon turned back, the heir of the Blackbeak Witch-Clan said, “When war comes—which it will if Perrington survived—you should hope you do not see me again, Elide Lochan.”
“All the same,” Elide said, “I hope I do.” She bowed to the Wing Leader.
And to her surprise, Manon bowed back.
“North,” Manon said, and Elide supposed it was as much of a good-bye as she’d get.
“North,” Elide repeated, and set off into the trees.
Within minutes, she’d passed beyond the sounds of the witches and their wyverns and was swallowed up by Oakwald.
She gripped the straps of her pack as she walked.
Suddenly, the animals went silent, and the leaves rustled and whispered. A moment later, thirteen great shadows passed overhead. One of them—the smallest—lingered, sweeping back a second time, as if in farewell.
Elide didn’t know if Abraxos could see through the canopy, but she raised a hand in farewell anyway. A joyous, fierce cry echoed in response, and then the shadow was gone.
North.
To Terrasen. To fight, not run.
To Aelin and Ren and Aedion—grown and strong and alive.
She did not know how long it would take or how far she would have to walk, but she would make it. She would not look back.
Walking under the trees, the forest buzzing around her, Elide pressed a hand against the pocket inside her leather jacket, feeling the hard little lump tucked there. She whispered a short prayer to Anneith for wisdom, for guidance—and could have sworn a warm hand brushed her brow as if in answer. It straightened her spine, lifted her chin.
Limping, Elide began the long journey home.
CHAPTER
86
“This is the last of your clothes,” Lysandra said, toeing the trunk that one of the servants had just dropped off. “I thought I had a shopping problem. Don’t you ever throw anything away?”
From her perch on the velvet ottoman in the center of the enormous closet, Aelin stuck out her tongue. “Thank you for getting it all,” she said. There was no point in unpacking the clothes Lysandra had brought from
her old apartment, just as there was no point in returning there. It didn’t help that Aelin couldn’t bring herself to leave Dorian alone. Even if she’d finally managed to get him out of that room and walking around the castle.
He looked like the living dead, especially with that white line around his golden throat. She supposed he had every right to.
She’d been waiting for him outside of Chaol’s room. When she heard Chaol speak at last, she had summoned Nesryn as soon as she’d mastered the tears of relief that had threatened to overwhelm her. After Dorian had emerged, when he’d looked at her and his smile had crumpled, she’d taken the king right back into his bedroom and sat with him for a good long while.
The guilt—that would be as heavy a burden for Dorian as his grief.
Lysandra put her hands on her hips. “Any other tasks for me before I retrieve Evangeline tomorrow?”
Aelin owed Lysandra more than she could begin to express, but—
She pulled a small box from her pocket.
“There’s one more task,” Aelin said, holding the box out to Lysandra. “You’ll probably hate me for it later. But you can start by saying yes.”
“Proposing to me? How unexpected.” Lysandra took the box but didn’t open it.
Aelin waved a hand, her heart pounding. “Just—open it.”
With a wary frown, Lysandra opened the lid and cocked her head at the ring inside—the movement purely feline. “Are you proposing to me, Aelin Galathynius?”
Aelin held her friend’s gaze. “There’s a territory in the North, a small bit of fertile land that used to belong to the Allsbrook family. Aedion took it upon himself to inform me that the Allsbrooks have no use for it, so it’s been sitting open for a while.” Aelin shrugged. “It could use a lady.”
The blood drained from Lysandra’s face. “What.”
“It’s plagued by ghost leopards—hence the engraving on the ring. But I suppose if there were anyone capable of handling them, it’d be you.”
Lysandra’s hands shook. “And—and the key symbol above the leopard?”
“To remind you of who now holds your freedom. You.”
Lysandra covered her mouth, staring at the ring, then at Aelin. “Are you out of your mind?”