Kingdom of Ash
Page 92

But not for her. No, there would be no Afterworld for her.
The gods had built another coffin, this time crafting it of that dark, glimmering stone.
Stone her fire could never melt. Never pierce. The only way to escape was to become it—dissolve into it like sea-foam on a beach.
Every breath was thinner than the previous one. They had not put any holes in this coffin.
Beyond her confines, she knew a second coffin sat beside hers. Knew, because the muffled screams within still reached her here.
Two princesses, one golden and one silver. One young and one ancient. Both the cost of sealing that gate to eternity.
The air would run out soon. She’d already lost too much of it in her frantic clawing at the stone. Her fingertips pulsed where she’d broken nails and skin.
Those female screams became quieter.
She should accept it, embrace it. Only when she did would the lid open.
The air was so hot, so precious. She could not get out, could not get out—
Aelin hauled herself into waking. The room remained dark, her companions’ deep breathing holding steady.
Open, fresh air. The stars just visible through the narrow window.
No Wyrdstone coffin. No gate poised to devour her whole.
But she knew they were watching, somehow. Those wretched gods. Even here, they were watching. Waiting.
A sacrifice. That’s all she was to them.
Nausea churned in her gut, but Aelin ignored it, ignored the tremors rippling through her. The heat under her skin.
Aelin turned onto her side, nestling closer into Rowan’s solid warmth, Elena’s muffled screams still ringing in her ears.
No, she would not be helpless again.
CHAPTER 55
Being in a female form wasn’t entirely what Dorian had expected.
The way he walked, the way he moved his hips and legs—strange. So disconcertingly strange. If any of the Crochans had noticed a young witch amongst them pacing in circles, crouching and stretching her legs, they didn’t halt their work as they readied the camp to depart.
Then there was the matter of his breasts, which he’d never imagined to be so … cumbersome. Not unpleasant, but the shock of bumping his arms into them, the need to adjust his posture to accommodate their slight weight, was still fresh after a few hours.
He’d kept the transformation as simple as he could: he’d picked a young Crochan the night before, one of the novices who might not be needed at all hours or noticed very often, and studied her until she likely deemed him a letch.
This morning, the image of her face and form still planted in his mind, he’d come to the edge of the camp, and simply willed it.
Well, perhaps not simply. The shift remained not an entirely enjoyable sensation while bones adjusted, his scalp tingling with the long brown hair that grew out in shining waves, nose tickling as it was reshaped into a delicate curve.
For long minutes, he’d only stared down at himself. At the delicate hands, the smaller wrists. Amazing, how much strength the tiny bones contained. A few subtle pats between his legs had told him enough about the changes there.
And so he’d been here for the past two hours, learning how the female body moved and operated. Wholly different from learning how a raven flew—how it wrangled the wind.
He’d thought he’d known everything about the female body. How to make a woman purr with pleasure. He was half-tempted to find a tent and learn firsthand what certain things felt like.
Not an effective use of his time. Not with the camp readying for travel.
The Thirteen were on edge. They hadn’t yet decided where to go. And hadn’t been invited to travel with the Crochans to any of their home-hearths. Even Glennis’s.
None of them, however, had looked his way when they’d prowled past. None had recognized him.
Dorian had just completed another walking circuit in his little training area when Manon stalked by, silver hair flowing. He paused, no more than a wary Crochan sentinel, and watched her storm through snow and mud as if she were a blade through the world.
Manon had nearly passed his training area when she went rigid.
Slowly, she turned, nostrils flaring.
Those golden eyes swept over him, swift and cutting.
Her brows twitched toward each other. Dorian only gave her a lazy grin in return.
Then she prowled toward him. “I’m surprised you’re not groping yourself.”
“Who says I haven’t already?”
Another assessing stare. “I would have thought you’d pick a prettier form.”
He frowned down at himself. “I think she’s pretty enough.”
Manon’s mouth tightened. “I suppose this means you’re about to go to Morath.”
“Did I say anything of the sort?” He didn’t bother sounding pleasant.
Manon took a step toward him, her teeth flashing. In this body, he stood shorter than her. He hated the thrill that shot through his blood as she leaned down to growl at him. “We have enough to deal with today, princeling.”
“Do I look as if I’m standing in your way?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it.
Dorian let out a low laugh and made to turn away. An iron-tipped hand gripped his arm.
Strange, for that hand to feel large on his body. Large, and not the slender, deadly thing he’d become accustomed to.
Her golden eyes blazed. “If you want a softhearted woman who will weep over hard choices and ultimately balk from them, then you’re in the wrong bed.”
“I’m not in anyone’s bed right now.”
He hadn’t gone to her tent any of these nights. Not since that conversation in Eyllwe.
She took the retort without so much as a flinch. “Your opinion doesn’t matter to me.”
“Then why are you standing here?”
Again, she opened and closed her mouth. Then snarled, “Change out of that form.”
Dorian smiled again. “Don’t you have better things to do right now, Your Majesty?”
He honestly thought she might unsheathe those iron teeth and rip out his throat. Half of him wanted her to try. He even went so far as to run one of those phantom hands along her jaw. “You think I don’t know why you don’t want me to go to Morath?”
He could have sworn she trembled. Could have sworn she arched her neck, just a little bit, leaning into that phantom touch.
Dorian ran those invisible fingers down her neck, trailing them along her collarbones.
“Tell me to stay,” he said, and the words had no warmth, no kindness. “Tell me to stay with you, if that’s what you want.” His invisible fingers grew talons and scraped over her skin. Manon’s throat bobbed. “But you won’t say that, will you, Manon?” Her breathing turned jagged. He continued to stroke her neck, her jaw, her throat, caressing skin he’d tasted over and over. “Do you know why?”
When she didn’t answer, Dorian let one of those phantom talons dig in, just slightly.
She swallowed, and it was not from fear.
Dorian leaned in close, tipping his head back to stare into her eyes as he purred, “Because while you might be older, might be deadly in a thousand different ways, deep down, you’re afraid. You don’t know how to ask me to stay, because you’re afraid of admitting to yourself that you want it. You’re afraid. Of yourself more than anyone else in the world. You’re afraid.”
For several heartbeats, she just stared at him.
Then she snarled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” and stalked away.
His low laugh ripped after her. Her spine stiffened.
But Manon did not turn back.
Afraid. Of admitting that she felt any sort of attachment.
It was preposterous.
And it was, perhaps, true.
But it was not her problem. Not right now.
Manon stormed through the readying camp where tents were being taken down and folded, hearths being packed. The Thirteen were with the wyverns, supplies stowed in saddlebags.
Some of the Crochans had frowned her way. Not with anger, but something like disappointment. Discontent. As if they thought parting ways was a poor idea.
Manon refrained from saying she agreed. Even if the Thirteen followed, the Crochans would find a way to lose them. Use their power to bind the wyverns long enough to disappear.