The Raven King (The Raven Boys #4)(97)

If Glendower had not saved Gansey’s life, he did not know who to thank, or who to be, or how to live.

No one said anything.

Gansey touched the skull, the raised cheekbone, the face of his promised and ruined king. Everything was dry and gray.

It was over.

This man was not going to ever be anything to Gansey.

“Gansey?” Blue asked.

Every minute was giving way to another and then another, and slowly it sank into his heart, all the way to the centre: It was over.





Gansey had forgotten how many times he had been told he was destined for greatness.

Was this all there was?

They had emerged into sun. The tricky ley line had stolen hours from them without them feeling it, and now they sat in the tattered Green House, just a few hundred yards away from where Gansey had died. Gansey sat in the ballroom, leaning against the wall, all of him contained in a square of sunlight coming through the dusty, many-paned windows. He rubbed a hand over his forehead, although he wasn’t tired – he was so awake that he was certain the ley line had somehow affected that as well.

It was over.

Glendower was dead.

Destined for greatness, the psychics had said. One in Stuttgart. One in Chicago. One in Guadalajara. Two in London. Where was it, then? Perhaps he’d used it all up. Perhaps the greatness had only ever been the ability to find historical trinkets. Perhaps the greatness was only in what he could be to others.

“Let’s get out of here,” Gansey said.

They started back to Henrietta, the two cars travelling close together.

It only took a few minutes for Gansey’s phone to regain charge after being being plugged into the cigarette lighter, and it only took a few seconds after that for texts to begin pouring in – all the texts that had come in while they were underground. A buzz sounded for each; the phone did not stop buzzing.

They had missed the fund-raiser.

The ley line had not taken hours from them. It had taken a day from them.

Gansey had Blue read the texts to him until he couldn’t bear it any more. They began with polite query, wondering if he was running a few minutes late. Wandered into concern, contemplating why he wasn’t answering his phone. Descended into irritation, uncertain why he would think it was appropriate to be late to a school function. And then skipped right over anger and headed into hurt.

I know you have your own life, his mother said to his voicemail. I was just hoping to be part of it for a few hours.

Gansey felt the sword go right through his ribs and out the other side.

Before, he had been replaying the failure to wake Glendower over and over again. Now he couldn’t stop replaying the image of his family waiting at Aglionby for him. His mother thinking he was just running late. His father thinking he was hurt. Helen – Helen knowing he’d been doing something for himself, instead. Her only text had come at the end of the night: I suppose the king will always win, won’t he?

He would have to call them. But what would he say?

Guilt was building in his chest and his throat and behind his eyes.

“You know what?” Henry said eventually. “Pull over. There.”

Gansey silently pulled the Fisker in to the rest stop that he had indicated; the BMW pulled in behind them. They parked in the single row of spots in front of the fancy brick building that held toilets; they were the only cars there. The sun had given way to clouds; it looked like rain.

“Now get out,” Henry said.

Gansey looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Stop driving,” he said. “I know you need to. You’ve needed to since we left. Get. Out.”

Gansey was about to protest this, but he discovered that his words felt rather unsteady in his mouth. It was like his shaking knees in the tomb; the wobble had snuck up on him.

So he said nothing and he got out. Very quietly. He thought about walking into the toilets, but at the last moment veered to the picnic area beside the rest stop. Out of view of the cars. Very calmly. He made it to one of the picnic benches, but didn’t sit on it. Instead, he slowly sat down just in front of it and curled his hands over his head. He folded himself down small enough that his forehead brushed the grass.

He could not remember the last time he had cried.

It was not just Glendower he was mourning. It was all the versions of Gansey he had been in the last seven years. It was the Gansey who had pursued him with youthful optimism and purpose. And it was the Gansey who had pursued him with increasing worry. And it was this Gansey, who was going to have to die. Because it made a fatal sort of sense. They required a death to save Ronan and Adam. Blue’s kiss was supposed to be deadly to her true love. Gansey’s death had been foretold for this year. It was him. It was always going to be him.

Glendower was dead. He’d always been dead.

And Gansey kind of wanted to live.

Eventually, Gansey heard footsteps approaching in the leaves. This was terrible, too. He did not want to stand and show them his teary face and receive their pity; the idea of this well-meaning kindness was nearly as unbearable a thought as his approaching death. For the very first time, Gansey understood Adam Parrish perfectly.

He unfolded himself and stood with as much dignity as he could muster. But it was just Blue, and somehow there was no humiliation to her seeing that he’d been levelled. She just looked at him while he brushed the pine needles off his trousers, and then, after he had sat on the top of the picnic table, she sat beside him until the others left the cars to see what they were doing.