One of the escorts handed Maeve an ornate iron mask. She examined it in her hands.
The mask, the chains, the box … they had been crafted long before now. Centuries ago. Forged to contain and break Mala’s scion.
Aelin glanced at Lorcan, whose dark eyes were fixed on her own.
And gratitude shone there. For sparing the young woman he’d given his heart to, whether he knew it or not.
Elide begged Maeve one last time, “Don’t do this.”
Aelin knew it would do her no good. So she said to Elide, “I’m glad we met. I’m proud to know you. And I think your mother would have been proud of you, too, Elide.”
Maeve lowered the mask and drawled to Aelin, “Rumor claims you will bow to no one, Heir of Fire.” That serpentine smile. “Well, now you will bow to me.”
She pointed to the sand.
Aelin obeyed.
Her knees barked as she dropped to the ground.
“Lower.”
Aelin slid her body until her brow was in the sand. She did not let herself feel it, let her soul feel it.
“Good.”
Elide was sobbing, wordlessly begging.
“Take off your shirt.”
Aelin hesitated—realizing where this was going.
Why Cairn’s belt carried a whip.
“Take off your shirt.”
Aelin tugged her shirt out of her pants and slung it over her head, tossing it in the sand beside her. Then she removed the flexible cloth around her breasts.
“Varik, Heiron.” Two Fae males came forward.
Aelin didn’t fight as they each gripped her by an arm and hauled her up. Spread her arms wide. The sea air kissed her breasts, her navel.
“Ten lashes, Cairn. Let Her Majesty have a taste of what to expect when we reach our destination, if she does not cooperate.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lady.”
Aelin held Cairn’s vicious gaze, willing ice into her veins as he thumbed free his whip. As he raked his eyes over her body and smiled. A canvas for him to paint with blood and pain.
Maeve said, the mask dangling from her fingers, “Why don’t you count for us, Aelin?”
Aelin kept her mouth shut.
“Count, or we’ll begin again with each stroke you miss. You decide how long this goes on for. Unless you’d rather Elide Lochan receive these strokes.”
No. Never.
Never anyone else but her. Never.
But as Cairn walked slowly, savoring each step, as he let that whip drag along the ground, her body betrayed her. Began shaking.
She knew the pain. Knew what it’d feel like, what it’d sound like.
Her dreams were still full of it.
No doubt why Maeve had picked a whipping, why she’d done it to Rowan in Doranelle.
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.
Chapter 73
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.