She embraced him one last time. “Thank you—for everything,” she whispered.
Dorian squeezed her, and then stepped away as Aelin mounted her horse and nudged it into a walk.
She moved to the head of the company, where Rowan rode a sleek black stallion. The Fae Prince caught her eye. Are you all right?
She nodded. I didn’t think saying good-bye would be so hard. And with everything that’s to come—
We’ll face it together. To whatever end.
She reached across the space between them and took his hand, gripping it tightly.
They held on to each other as they rode down the barren path, through the gateway she’d made in the glass wall, and into the city streets, where people paused what they were doing and gaped or whispered or stared.
But as they rode out of Rifthold, that city that had been her home and her hell and her salvation, as she memorized each street and building and face and shop, each smell and the coolness of the river breeze, she didn’t see one slave. Didn’t hear one whip.
And as they passed by the domed Royal Theater, there was music—beautiful, exquisite music—playing within.
Dorian didn’t know what awoke him. Perhaps it was that the lazy summer insects had stopped their nighttime buzzing, or perhaps it was the chilled wind that slithered into his old tower room, ruffling the curtains.
The moonlight gleaming on the clock revealed it was three in the morning. The city was silent.
He rose from the bed, touching his neck yet again—just to make sure. Whenever he woke from his nightmares, it took him minutes to tell if he was indeed awake—or if it was merely a dream and he was still trapped in his own body, enslaved to his father and that Valg prince. He had not told Aelin or Chaol about the nightmares. Part of him wished he had.
He could still barely remember what had happened while he’d worn that collar. He’d turned twenty—and had no recollection of it. There were only bits and pieces, glimpses of horror and pain. He tried not to think about it. Didn’t want to remember. He hadn’t told Chaol or Aelin that, either.
He already missed her, and the chaos and intensity of her court. He missed having anyone around at all. The castle was too big, too quiet. And Chaol was to leave in two days. He didn’t want to think about what missing his friend would be like.
Dorian padded onto his balcony, needing to feel the river breeze on his face, to know that this was real and he was free.
He opened the balcony doors, the stones cool on his feet, and gazed out across the razed grounds. He’d done that. He loosed a breath, taking in the glass wall as it sparkled in the moonlight.
There was a massive shadow perched atop it. Dorian froze.
Not a shadow but a giant beast, its claws gripping the wall, its wings tucked into its body, shimmering faintly in the glow of the full moon. Shimmering like the white hair of the rider atop it.
Even from the distance, he knew she was staring right at him, her hair streaming to the side like a ribbon of moonlight, caught in the river breeze.
Dorian lifted a hand, the other rising to his neck. No collar.
The rider on the wyvern leaned down in her saddle, saying something to her beast. It spread its massive, glimmering wings and leaped into the air. Each beat of its wings sent a hollowed-out, booming gust of wind toward him.
It flapped higher, her hair streaming behind her like a glittering banner, until they vanished into the night, and he couldn’t hear its wings beating anymore. No one sounded the alarm. As if the world had stopped paying attention for the few moments they’d looked at each other.
And through the darkness of his memories, through the pain and despair and terror he’d tried to forget, a name echoed in his head.
Manon Blackbeak sailed into the starry night sky, Abraxos warm and swift under her, the blazingly bright moon—the Mother’s full womb—above her.
She didn’t know why she’d bothered to go; why she’d been curious.
But there had been the prince, no collar to be seen around his neck.
And he had lifted his hand in greeting—as if to say I remember you.
The winds shifted, and Abraxos rode them, rising higher into the sky, the darkened kingdom below passing by in a blur.
Changing winds—a changing world.
Perhaps a changing Thirteen, too. And herself.
She didn’t know what to make of it.
But Manon hoped they’d all survive it.
She hoped.
89
For three weeks they rode straight north, keeping off the main roads and out of the villages. There was no need to announce that Aelin was on her way back to Terrasen. Not until she saw her kingdom for herself and knew what she faced, both from within and from what gathered down in Morath. Not until she had somewhere safe to hide the great, terrible thing in her saddlebag.
With her magic, no one noticed the Wyrdkey’s presence. But Rowan would occasionally glance at the saddlebag and angle his head in inquiry. Each time, she’d silently tell him she was fine, and that she hadn’t noticed anything strange regarding the amulet. Or regarding the Eye of Elena, which she again wore at her throat. She wondered if Lorcan was indeed on his way to hunt down the second and third keys, perhaps where Perrington—Erawan—had held them all along. If the king hadn’t been lying.
She had a feeling Lorcan would start looking in Morath. And prayed the Fae warrior would defy the odds stacked against him and emerge triumphant. It would certainly make her life easier. Even if he’d one day come to kick her ass for deceiving him.
The summer days grew cooler the farther north they rode. Evangeline, to her credit, kept pace with them, never complaining about having to sleep on a bedroll night after night. She seemed perfectly happy to curl up with Fleetfoot, her new protector and loyal friend.
Lysandra used the journey to test out her abilities—sometimes flying with Rowan overhead, sometimes running as a pretty black dog alongside Fleetfoot, sometimes spending days in her ghost leopard form and pouncing on Aedion whenever he least expected it.
Three weeks of grueling travel—but also three of the happiest weeks Aelin had ever experienced. She would have preferred a little more privacy, especially with Rowan, who kept looking at her in that way that made her want to combust. Sometimes when no one was watching, he’d sneak up behind her and nuzzle her neck or tug at her earlobe with his teeth, or just slide his arms around her and hold her against him, breathing her in.
One night—just one gods-damned night with him was all she wanted.
They didn’t dare stop at an inn, so she was left to burn, and to endure Lysandra’s quiet teasing.
The terrain grew steeper, hillier, and the world turned lush and green and bright, the rocks becoming jagged granite outcroppings.
The sun had barely risen as Aelin walked beside her horse, sparing it from having to carry her up a particularly steep hill. She was already on her second meal of the day—already sweaty and dirty and cranky. Fire magic, it turned out, came in rather handy while traveling, keeping them warm on the chill nights, lighting their fires, and boiling their water. She would have killed for a tub big enough to fill with water and bathe in, but luxuries could wait.
“It’s just up this hill,” Aedion said from her left.
“What is?” she asked, finishing her apple and chucking the remains behind her. Lysandra, wearing the form of a crow, squawked in outrage as the core hit her. “Sorry,” Aelin called.
Lysandra cawed and soared skyward, Fleetfoot barking merrily at her as Evangeline giggled from atop her shaggy pony.
Aedion pointed to the hillcrest ahead. “You’ll see.”
Aelin looked at Rowan, who had been scouting ahead for part of the morning as a white-tailed hawk. Now he walked beside her, guiding his black stallion along. He lifted his brows at her silent demand for information. I’m not going to tell you.
She glowered at him. Buzzard.
Rowan grinned. But with every step, Aelin did the calculations about what day it was, and—
They crested the hill and halted.
Aelin released the reins and took a staggering step, the emerald grass soft underfoot.
Aedion touched her shoulder. “Welcome home, Aelin.”
A land of towering mountains—the Staghorns—spread before them, with valleys and rivers and hills; a land of untamed, wild beauty.
Terrasen.
And the smell—of pine and snow … How had she never realized that Rowan’s scent was of Terrasen, of home? Rowan came close enough to graze her shoulder and murmured, “I feel as if I’ve been looking for this place my entire life.”
Indeed—with the wicked wind flowing fast and strong between the gray, jagged Staghorns in the distance, with the dense spread of Oakwald to their left, and the rivers and valleys sprawling toward those great northern mountains—it was paradise for a hawk. Paradise for her.
“Right there,” Aedion said, pointing to a small, weather-worn granite boulder carved with whorls and swirls. “Once we pass that rock, we’re on Terrasen soil.”
Not quite daring to believe she wasn’t still asleep, Aelin walked toward that rock, whispering the Song of Thanks to Mala Fire-Bringer for leading her to this place, this moment.
Aelin ran a hand over the rough rock, and the sun-warmed stone tingled as if in greeting.
Then she stepped beyond the stone.
And at long last, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was home.