Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7) by Sarah J. Maas

Perhaps if they found her, if there was still enough left of Aelin to salvage after Cairn’s ministrations, he’d find a way to live with himself. To endure this … person he’d become. It might take him another five hundred years to do so.

He didn’t let himself consider that Elide would be little more than dust by then. The thought alone was enough to turn the paltry dinner of stale bread and hard cheese in his stomach.

A fool—he was an immortal, stupid fool for starting down this path with her, for forgetting that even if she forgave him, her mortality beckoned.

Lorcan said at last, “It would also make sense for Maeve to go to the Akkadians, as the commander today claimed. Maeve has long maintained ties with that kingdom.” He, Whitethorn, and Gavriel had been to war and back in that sand-blasted territory. He’d never wished to set foot in it again. “Their armies would shield her.”

For it would take an army to keep Whitethorn from reaching his mate.

He turned toward the prince, who gave no indication he’d been listening. Lorcan didn’t want to consider if Whitethorn would soon need to add a tattoo to the other side of his face.

“The commander today was much more forthcoming,” Lorcan went on to the prince he’d fought beside for so many centuries, who had been as cold-hearted a bastard as Lorcan himself until this spring. “You barely threatened him and he sang for us. The one who claimed Maeve was in Doranelle was still sneering by the end.”

“I think she’s in Doranelle,” Elide cut in. “Anneith told me to listen that day. She didn’t the other two times.”

“It’s something to consider, yes,” Lorcan said, and Elide’s eyes sparked with irritation. “I see no reason to believe the gods would be that clear.”

“Says the male who feels the touch of a god, telling him when to run or fight,” Elide snapped.

Lorcan ignored her, that truth. He hadn’t felt Hellas’s touch since the Stone Marshes. As if even the god of death was repulsed by him. “Akkadia’s border is a three-day ride from here. Its capital three days beyond that. Doranelle is over two weeks away, if we travel with little rest.”

And time was not on their side. With the Wyrdkeys, with Erawan, with the war surely unleashing itself back on Elide’s own continent, every delay came at a cost. Not to mention what each day undoubtedly brought upon the Queen of Terrasen.

Elide opened her mouth, but Lorcan cut her off. “And then, to arrive in Maeve’s stronghold exhausted and hungry … We won’t stand a chance. Not to mention that with the veiling she can wield, we might very well walk right past Aelin and never know it.”

Elide’s nostrils flared, but she turned to Rowan. “The call is yours, Prince.”

Not just a prince, not anymore. Consort to the Queen of Terrasen.

At last, Whitethorn lifted his head. As those green eyes settled on him, Lorcan withstood the weight in his gaze, the innate dominance. He’d been waiting for Rowan to claim the vengeance he deserved, waiting for that blow. Hoping for it. It had never come.

“We’ve come this far south,” Rowan said at last, his voice low. “Better to go to Akkadia than risk venturing all the way to Doranelle to find we were wrong.”

And that was that.

Elide only threw a seething glare toward Lorcan and rose, murmuring about seeing to her needs before she went to sleep. Her gait held steady as she crunched through the grass—thanks to the brace Gavriel kept around her ankle.

It should have been his magic helping her. Touching her skin.

Her steps turned distant, near-silent. She usually went farther than necessary to avoid having them hear anything. Lorcan gave her a few minutes before he stalked into the dark after her.

He found Elide already heading back, and she paused atop a little hill, barely more than a hump of dirt in the field. “What do you want.”

Lorcan kept walking, until he was at the base of the hill, and stopped. “Akkadia is the wiser choice.”

“Rowan decided that, too. You must be so pleased.”

She made to stomp past him, but Lorcan stepped into her path. She craned back her neck to see his face, yet he’d never felt smaller. Shorter. “I didn’t push for Akkadia to spite you,” he managed to say.

“I don’t care.”

She tried to edge around him, Lorcan easily keeping ahead of her. “I didn’t …” The words strangled him. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Elide let out a soft, vicious laugh. “Of course you didn’t. Why would you have intended for your wondrous queen to sever the blood oath?”

“I don’t care about that.” He didn’t. He’d never spoken truer words. “I only wish to make things right.”

Her lip curled. “I would be inclined to believe that if I hadn’t seen you crawling after Maeve on the beach.”

Lorcan blinked at the words, the hatred in them, stunned enough that he let her walk past this time. Elide didn’t so much as look back.

Not until Lorcan said, “I didn’t crawl after Maeve.”

She halted, hair swaying. Slowly, she glanced over her shoulder. Imperious and cold as the stars overhead.

“I crawled …” His throat bobbed. “I crawled after Aelin.”

He shut out the bloody sand, the queen’s screams, her final, pleading requests to Elide. Shut them out and said, “When Maeve severed the oath, I couldn’t move, could barely breathe.”