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. “Therewillbe 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!”
