Chapter 58
Chapter
Fifty-Eight
My lungs are a fiery bellows and every inch of my body is aching and bloodied—some of it mine, most of it Torvil’s—as I clutch the poison vial and stare down at the valley below.
There’s a slash in the greenery at the bottom of the cliff, the trees bent and broken, and I can vividly picture the red pulp and smashed bones that were once Torvil and Mortis.
And the antidote.
Despite it’s loss, a smile curves my cracked lips before I am whisked off my feet and pulled into a crushing embrace by Aowen. I wince, and she pulls back, her hands hovering over my injuries.
“Sorry, sorry,” she murmurs. “Fuck me, Charlotte, that was spectacular.”
She leans over the edge, and I know the moment she finds the smashed trees. Her mouth presses into a thin white line, and her eyes narrow. She makes some kind of slashing gesture over her heart, as if she’s cursing Torvil’s corpse.
Leaves crunch behind us, and Skadi lopes out of the forest, followed by Lachlan and Sabre.
Lachlan is mostly unharmed, save a few scratches and dents in his armour and a weeping slice down his cheek that only serves to make him look more dashing.
Sabre leans heavily against him, limping and cradling an arm far lower than it should be. Dislocated shoulder, I suspect.
Aowen sprints toward them, trading places with Lachlan, who’s standing before me faster than I can blink.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask if I’m okay—he knows I’m not, for so many reasons—just pulls me into his arms and holds me against his chest.
Neither of us looks at the sun, hovering over the horizon. There’s an hour, maybe two, before the Wild Hunt ends and the ring falls off. And I have something very important to do before that happens.
Aowen and Sabre stagger over. “I’ll do it,” Sabre booms. “I’ll claim you.”
Aowen bites the corner of her lip, trying not to cry. She’d do it. For me. Would give him up if it meant I could live.
I shake my head, Lachlan’s large hand cradling the back of my skull.
Sabre grimaces. “I am the only duke left. If I don’t claim you before the sun sets, you will die and there will be no king.”
My voice is a weak croak, my throat bruised and raw. “There will be no king.”
I snare Aowen’s gaze as I hold up the green vial.
“But there could be a queen.”
Aowen looks taken aback, her bright blue eyes widening before she pulls her shoulders square, adjusting the bow across her back. “I don’t think—”
“If I take this, the seed of novillum will be extracted. And will be yours to do with as you wish.”
“But you will die,” Aowen says, her voice breaking.
“Not if we time it correctly,” Lachlan whispers, glancing toward the horizon and the rapidly setting sun before sliding his gaze to Sabre. “Is there a beacon oak here?”
“Pinpoint in the center of the Eldergrove. Andraste knows the way.” He turns to me. “As soon as the archway opens, drink the vial and the seed will rebind to the ring before it falls off. After, you’ll have seconds to slip through to the other side. Do it before your heart stops.”
Aowen still looks confused, but Sabre smiles, the first I’ve seen, his dour features lifted on buoyant curves. Aowen was right; it’s revolutionary. “The title of royal consort sounds a lot more appealing than king.”
Aowen curls a hand around his left horn and yanks him down for a magnificent kiss. There’s a great deal of tongue.
I cannot look away as my grin pulls wider and wider. There’s a rumbling against my cheek; Lachlan watching and laughing. Behind them, Skadi pants, then howls.
Sabre breaks away, grunting in pain. “Mind the bruises, back-up wife.”
Aowen plants another gentle kiss upon his lips, whispering, “That’ll be Your Majesty from here on out.”
Sabre runs a hand down her back. “As it should be.”
The haze of glory wears off, and Aowen pulls me from Lachlan, then throws her arms around me, a sob catching in her throat.
“I’ll never forget you.”
I hiccup a wet laugh. “I wish I could say the same.”
She steps back, her sincerity undeterred by my gallows humor, and holds me by the shoulders. “Thank you, Charlotte. For everything. For all of it.”
Vesper flies out of the woods, gnawing on a grisly bone that’s either a human ulna or a báshound knuckle—I’d rather not speculate—then tosses it aside when she sees our somber faces.
“Food?” she asks Aowen.
“Charlotte is going home. She’s leaving. She’s”—Aowen’s voice breaks—“made me queen of the celestial kingdom.”
Vesper offers a sawtooth smile as she zips over to hug my neck, her fly wings tickling my jaw. She cups my face in her little hands, kisses me on the nose—respectfully; no tasting—and whispers, “Friend. Cherished friend.”
I choke back my tears. This is a happy moment. One we’ve all achieved together.
Lachlan whistles, and a piercing cry answers. Andraste swoops up the cliff, lands on the rock, then rears back when Lachlan tries to place me on her back. Like she doesn’t want all this blood staining her feathers. I don’t blame her.
Lachlan coos something at her and she relents, then he mounts up behind me. His muscles tense, like he’s about to encourage her to take flight, when Aowen cries, “Wait!”
She digs into Sabre’s jacket, pulling out a pink leather book. “I saved this for you.” She hands it up to me. “You might not remember us, but at least we’ll still be with you. In a way.”
Embarrassment briefly flushes my cheeks—did she look through it? Did Sabre?—but honestly, what does it matter anymore? Aowen knows what Lachlan and I are to each other. Sabre might as well know, too.
I hand the book to Lachlan for safekeeping; I don’t want to bloody it. “Thank you,” I say to Aowen. “Your Majesty.”
She squeezes my hand, gore be damned, and holds it tight. Barely lets go in time for Lachlan to give Andraste a gentle kick.
No one questions our need for privacy, our wish to have this final goodbye to ourselves. They know Lachlan will bring the novillum safely back to its new owner.
Andraste launches into the air, and we’re on our way to the beacon tree.
And my final hour in the Otherworld.