91. Veyka

The satisfaction of escaping the witch had dwindled away to nearly nothing by the time I arrived back Eilean Gayl. I did not go into the castle itself; was not quite ready to face my friends. Or Elayne. Or Arran.

Alone, then.

I walked alone through the woods, night falling fast and thick around me. Over the rugged hills. The lake appeared below me just in time to greet the moon and stars. Despite the storm that had raged outside the witch's cave, the night here was silent and still. Cold. So fucking cold.

But the exertion of climbing and walking warmed me. I even jogged for a while, despite my visceral hate for running. A benefit of the leggings the cold weather necessitated—no chafed thighs.

Every step was a chance to turn over what the witch had revealed.

There was no telling when Arran's memories would return. More—the witch could not see whether they would ever return. Witches knew all. That was the entire fucking point of one still existing, seven thousand years after the Ancestors had decimated them.

If the witch could not see… what did that mean? That had to be significant. It had to mean… maybe that future was not set? That my choices, Arran's choices, the succubus… those things might determine if and when his memories returned?

Fuck all of that.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I could not take it a second longer. I planted my feet, throwing my arms up at the sky. At the Ancestors, in whatever afterlife, in whatever realm—I screamed loud enough for all of them to hear. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck you for taking his memories as punishment. That's what this is, right? Punishment for needing him? For begging for his life? For daring to be happy for a single fucking moment?"

I couldn't breathe. The cold air was heavy as stone in my chest. But I was strong. I shoved the stones aside and dragged in another ragged breath, because I was not done yet. Not nearly.

"I need him. Do you understand? He was the wise one, the careful the one, the one who knows how to protect Annwyn. Without him, all they have is me!" My voice caught painfully in my throat.

My legs could not hold me.

I collapsed down into the snow and grass. First to my knees, then forward onto my palms, and then onto my back. So that I was staring back up at the stars again.

"All they have is me," I whispered. "What sort of sick fucking joke is that?"

I laid there for so long, the stars overhead shifted their positions. The change was minute, but I'd spent hours marking them out.

All the while, the witch's words echoed in my head.

Again and again, one sentence. Not about the succubus, or about Arthur. But selfishly—fittingly, perhaps—about me.

You could never have become what you needed to be with him at your side.

I wished I did not know exactly what she meant. Everything else was subject to interpretation, but that line echoed through me because of the stark, painful truth of it.

When I'd made the decision to stay in Baylaur after the Tower of Myda, it had not been for the good of Annwyn. It had been for Arran. The same was true of my pleas to the Lady of the Lake, my superior, imperious, neutral half-sister. I'd spoken of Annwyn, but I'd begged for myself.

I had been every bit as selfish as Arran had accused me of being.

Until I could not be.

Until Arran was taken from me, and I was the only thing standing between a kingdom and utter ruination.

When I finally pushed myself back up, sliding my feet underneath me, my muscles groaned in protest. Cold and tight from laying prone for so long. But I commanded them to function, to take me down the mountainside one step after another, toward Eilean Gayl.

And I understood the witch's half answer.

It did not matter when or if Arran ever regained his memories. I had to be the High Queen of Annwyn either way. I would go on, with or without my mate at my side.