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Gavriel’s tawny eyes scanned hers, confusion dancing there. “He … he went out onto the battlefield during the fighting. I saw him just before the khagan’s troops reached him.” “Where is he?” Elide’s voice broke. Fenrys faced her now. Then Rowan and Aelin. Elide begged, voice breaking, “Where is Lorcan?”
She had made him a promise. She had sworn him an oath, all those months ago. I will always find you.
She battled her way down, sobbing through her teeth. I will always find you.
And from the distance, Rowan could make out her mouth moving,
shouting one word, one name, over and over. Lorcan.
At the small rider and the mighty horse racing across
Elide as they thundered across the body-strewn plain. “Lorcan!” Her shout was swallowed by the wind, by the screams of fleeing soldiers and people, by the shriek of the ruks above. “Lorcan!”
“Lorcan!” How small her cry sounded, how feeble. Still the dam held. I will always find you.
“Lorcan!” She screamed it, so loud it was a wonder her throat didn’t bleed. “Lorcan!” The dam remained intact. Which of her breaths would be her last? “LORCAN!” A pained groan answered from behind.
“Don’t stop,” Elide hissed. “Don’t you dare stop.” His breath came in shallow gasps, but Lorcan got his feet under him, inch by inch. Slipping his arm from Elide’s shoulder, he lurched to grip the saddle. To cling to it.
“I promised to always find you. I promised you, and you promised me. I came for you because of it; I am here because of it. I am here for you, do you understand? And if we don’t get onto that horse now, we won’t stand a chance against that dam. We will die.”
So Lorcan kissed Elide’s cheek again, allowed himself to breathe in her scent one last time. “I love you,” he repeated, and began to withdraw his arms from around her waist. Elide slapped a hand onto his forearm. Dug in her nails, right into his skin, fierce as any ruk. “No.” There were no tears in her voice. Nothing but solid, unwavering steel. “No,” she said again. The voice of the Lady of Perranth. Lorcan tried to move his arm, but her grip would not be dislodged.
He knew then. Either as her mate or carranam, he knew. “Three months,” Rowan breathed. The others stilled. “Three months,” he said again, his knees wobbling. “She’s been making the descent into her power for three months.”
To gather up the full might of her magic. Not for the Lock, not for Erawan. But for Maeve’s death blow.
She would be his wife, his queen. She was already his equal, his match, his mirror in so many ways. And with their union, the world would know it. But he could see the bars of the cage that would creep closer, tighter, every day. And either break her wholly, or turn her into something neither of them wished her to ever be.
