Queen of Shadows by Sarah J. Maas
“Most people would probably think so. But as the land was officially released by the Allsbrooks years ago, I can technically appoint you lady of it. With Evangeline as your heir, should you wish it.”
Her friend had not voiced any plans for herself or her ward beyond retrieving Evangeline, had not asked to come with them, to start over in a new land, a new kingdom. Aelin had hoped it meant she wanted to join them in Terrasen, but—
Lysandra sank to the carpeted floor, staring at the box, at the ring.
“I know it’ll be a great deal of work—”
“I don’t deserve this. No one will ever want to serve me. Your people will resent you for appointing me.”
Aelin slid onto the ground, knee to knee with her friend, and took the box from the shape-shifter’s trembling hands. She pulled out the gold ring that she’d commissioned weeks ago. It had only been ready this morning, when Aelin and Rowan had slipped out to retrieve it, along with the real Wyrdkey.
“There is no one who deserves it more,” Aelin said, grabbing her friend’s hand and putting the ring on her finger. “There is no one else I’d want guarding my back. If my people cannot see the worth of a woman who sold herself into slavery for the sake of a child, who defended my court with no thought for her own life, then they are not my people. And they can burn in hell.”
Lysandra traced a finger over the coat of arms that Aelin had designed. “What’s the territory called?”
“I have no idea,” Aelin said. “‘Lysandria’ sounds good. So does ‘Lysandrius,’ or maybe ‘Lysandraland.’”
Lysandra gaped at her. “You are out of your mind.”
“Will you accept?”
“I don’t know the first thing about ruling a territory—about being a lady.”
“Well, I don’t know the first thing about ruling a kingdom. We’ll learn together.” She flashed her a conspirator’s grin. “So?”
Lysandra gazed at the ring, then lifted her eyes to Aelin’s face— and threw her arms around her neck, squeezing tight. She took that as a yes.
Aelin grimaced at the dull throb of pain, but held on. “Welcome to the court, Lady.”
Aelin honestly wanted nothing more than to climb into bed that evening, hopefully with Rowan beside her. But as they finished up dinner—their first meal together as a court—a knock sounded on the door. Aedion was answering it before Aelin could so much as set down her fork.
He returned with Dorian in tow, the king glancing between them all. “I wanted to see if you’d eaten—”
Aelin pointed with her fork to the empty seat beside Lysandra. “Join us.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Sit your ass down,” she told the new King of Adarlan. That morning he’d signed a decree freeing all the conquered kingdoms from Adarlan’s rule. She’d watched him do it, Aedion holding her hand tightly throughout, and wished that Nehemia had been there to see it.
Dorian moved to the table, amusement sparking in those haunted sapphire eyes. She introduced him again to Rowan, who bowed his head deeper than Aelin expected. Then she introduced Lysandra, explaining who she was and what she had become to Aelin, to her court.
Aedion watched them, his face tight, his lips a thin line. Their eyes met.
Ten years later, and they were all sitting together at a table again—no longer children, but rulers of their own territories. Ten years later, and here they were, friends despite the forces that had shattered and destroyed them.
Aelin looked at the kernel of hope glowing in that dining room and lifted her glass.
“To a new world,” the Queen of Terrasen said.
The King of Adarlan lifted his glass, such endless shadows dancing in his eyes, but—there. A glimmer of life. “To freedom.”
CHAPTER
87
The duke survived. So did Vernon.
A third of Morath had been blown out, and a good number of guards and servants with it, along with two covens and Elide Lochan.
A solid loss, but not nearly as devastating as it might have been. Manon herself had spilled three drops of her own blood in thanks to the Three-Faced Goddess that most of the covens had been out on a training exercise that day.
Manon stood in the duke’s council chamber, hands behind her back as the man ranted.
A major setback, he hissed at the other men who were assembled: war leaders and councilmen. It would take months to repair Morath, and with so many of their supplies incinerated, they would have to put their plans on hold.
Day and night, men hauled away the stones piled high above the ruins of the catacombs—searching, Manon knew, for the body of a woman who was no more than ash, and the stone she’d borne. Manon had not even told her Thirteen who now limped northward with that stone.
“Wing Leader,” the duke snapped, and Manon lazily turned her eyes toward him. “Your grandmother will be arriving in two weeks. I want your covens trained with the latest battle plans.”
She nodded. “As you will it.”
Battles. There would be battles, because even now that Dorian Havilliard was king, the duke had no plans to let go—not with this army. As soon as those witch towers were built and he found another source of shadowfire, Aelin Galathynius and her forces would be obliterated.
Manon quietly hoped that Elide would not be on those battlefields.
The council meeting was soon over, and Manon paused as she walked past Vernon on her way out. She put a hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin, and he yelped as she brought her iron teeth close to his ear. “Just because she is dead, Lord, do not think that I will forget what you tried to do to her.”
Vernon paled. “You can’t touch me.”
Manon dug her nails in deeper. “No, I can’t,” she purred into his ear. “But Aelin Galathynius is alive. And I hear that she has a score to settle.” She yanked out her nails and squeezed his shoulder, setting the blood running down Vernon’s green tunic before she stalked from the room.
“What now?” Asterin said as they studied the new aerie they’d commandeered from one of the lesser covens. “Your grandmother arrives, and then we fight in this war?”
Manon gazed out the open archway to the ashy sky beyond. “For now, we stay. We wait for my grandmother to bring those towers.”
She didn’t know what she’d do when she saw her grandmother. She glanced sidelong at her Second. “That human hunter … How did he die?”
Asterin’s eyes gleamed. For a moment she said nothing. Then: “He was old—very old. I think he went into the woods one day and lay down somewhere and never came back. He would have liked that, I think. I never found his body.”
But she’d looked.
“What was it like?” Manon asked quietly. “To love.”
For love was what it had been—what Asterin perhaps alone of all the Ironteeth witches had felt, had learned.
“It was like dying a little every day. It was like being alive, too. It was joy so complete it was pain. It destroyed me and unmade me and forged me. I hated it, because I knew I couldn’t escape it, and knew it would forever change me. And that witchling … I loved her, too. I loved her in a way I cannot describe—other than to tell you that it was the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt, greater than rage, than lust, than magic.” A soft smile. “I’m surprised you’re not giving me the ‘Obedience. Discipline. Brutality’ speech.”
Made into monsters.
“Things are changing,” Manon said.
“Good,” Asterin said. “We’re immortals. Things should change, and often, or they’ll get boring.”
Manon lifted her brows, and her Second grinned.
Manon shook her head and grinned back.
CHAPTER
88
With Rowan circling high above the castle on watch, and with their departure scheduled for dawn, Aelin took it upon herself to make one last trip to Elena’s tomb as the clock struck twelve.
Her plans, however, were ruined: the way to the tomb was blo
The sewers of Rifthold, apparently, were as clear of the Valg as the castle tunnels and catacombs, as if the demons had fled into the night when the king had fallen. For the moment, Rifthold was safe.
Aelin emerged from the hidden passageway, wiping the dust off her. “You two make so much noise, it’s ridiculous.” With her Fae hearing, she’d detected them minutes ago.
Dorian and Chaol were seated before her fireplace, the latter in a special wheeled chair that they’d acquired for him.
The king looked at her pointed ears, the elongated canines, and lifted a brow. “You look good, Majesty.” She supposed he hadn’t really noticed that day on the glass bridge, and she’d been in her human form until now. She grinned.
Chaol turned his head. His face was gaunt, but a flicker of determination shone there. Hope. He would not let his injury destroy him.
“I always look good,” Aelin said, plopping onto the armchair across from Dorian’s.
“Find anything interesting down there?” Chaol asked.
She shook her head. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look one last time. For old time’s sake.” And maybe bite Elena’s head off. After she got answers to all her questions. But the ancient queen was nowhere to be found.
The three of them looked at each other, and silence fell.
Aelin’s throat burned, so she turned to Chaol and said, “With Maeve and Perrington breathing down our necks, we might need allies sooner rather than later, especially if the forces in Morath block access to Eyllwe. An army from the Southern Continent could cross the Narrow Sea within a few days and provide reinforcements—push Perrington from the south while we hammer from the north.” She crossed her arms. “So I’m appointing you an official Ambassador for Terrasen. I don’t care what Dorian says. Make friends with the royal family, woo them, kiss their asses, do whatever you have to do. But we need that alliance.”
Chaol glanced at Dorian in silent request. The king nodded, barely a dip of his chin. “I’ll try.” It was the best answer she could hope for. Chaol reached into the pocket of his tunic and chucked the Eye toward her. She caught it in a hand. The metal had been warped, but the blue stone remained. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
“He was wearing that for months,” Dorian said as she tucked the amulet into her pocket, “yet it never reacted—even in peril. Why now?”
Aelin’s throat tightened. “Courage of the heart,” she said. “Elena once told me that courage of the heart was rare—and to let it guide me. When Chaol chose to …” She couldn’t form the words. She tried again. “I think that courage saved him, made the amulet come alive for him.” It had been a gamble, and a fool’s one, but—it had worked.
Silence fell again.
Dorian said, “So here we are.”
“The end of the road,” Aelin said with a half smile.
“No,” Chaol said, his own smile faint, tentative. “The beginning of the next.”
The following morning, Aelin yawned as she leaned against her gray mare in the castle courtyard.
Once Dorian and Chaol had left last night, Lysandra had entered and passed out in her bed with no explanation for why or what she’d been doing beforehand. And since she was utterly unconscious, Aelin had just climbed into bed beside her. She had no idea where Rowan had curled up for the night, but she wouldn’t have been surprised to look out her window and spy a white-tailed hawk perched on the balcony rail.
At dawn, Aedion had burst in, demanding why they weren’t ready to leave—to go home.
Lysandra had shifted into a ghost leopard and chased him out. Then she returned, lingering in her massive feline form, and again sprawled beside Aelin. They managed to get another thirty minutes of sleep before Aedion came back and chucked a bucket of water on them.
He was lucky to escape alive.
But he was right—they had little reason to linger. Not with so much to do in the North, so much to plan and heal and oversee.
They would travel until nightfall, where they’d pick up Evangeline at the Faliqs’ country home and then continue north, hopefully uninterrupted, until they reached Terrasen.
Home.
She was going home.
Fear and doubt curled in her gut—but joy flickered alongside them.
They’d readied themselves quickly, and now all that was left, she supposed, was good-bye.
Chaol’s injuries made taking the stairs impossible, but she’d crept into his room that morning to say good-bye—only to find Aedion, Rowan, and Lysandra already there, chatting with him and Nesryn. When they’d left, Nesryn following them out, the captain had merely squeezed Aelin’s hand and said, “Can I see it?”
She knew what he meant, and had held up her hands before her.
Ribbons and plumes and flowers of red and gold fire danced through his room, bright and glorious and elegant.
Chaol’s eyes had been lined with silver when the flames winked out. “It’s lovely,” he said at last.
She’d only smiled at him and left a rose of gold flame burning on his nightstand—where it would burn without heat until she was out of range.
And for Nesryn, who had been called away on captain duty, Aelin had left another gift: an arrow of solid gold, presented to her last Yulemas as a blessing of Deanna—her own ancestor. Aelin figured the sharpshooter would love and appreciate that arrow more than she ever would have, anyway.
“Do you need anything else? More food?” Dorian asked, coming to stand beside her. Rowan, Aedion, and Lysandra were already mounting their horses. They’d packed light, taking only the barest supplies. Mostly weapons, including Damaris, which Chaol had given to Aedion, insisting the ancient blade remain on these shores. The rest of their belongings would be shipped to Terrasen.
“With this group,” Aelin said to Dorian, “it’ll probably be a daily competition to see who can hunt the best.”
Dorian chuckled. Silence fell, and Aelin clicked her tongue. “You’re wearing the same tunic you had on a few days ago. I don’t think I ever saw you wear the same thing twice.”
A flicker in those sapphire eyes. “I think I have bigger things to worry about now.”
“Will you—will you be all right?”
“Do I have any option but to be?”
She touched his arm. “If you need anything, send word. It’ll be a few weeks before we reach Orynth, but—I suppose with magic returned, you can find a messenger to get word to me quickly.”
“Thanks to you—and to your friends.”
She glanced over her shoulder at them. They were all trying their best to look like they weren’t eavesdropping. “Thanks to all of us,” she said quietly. “And to you.”
Dorian gazed toward the city horizon, the rolling green foothills beyond. “If you had asked me nine months ago if I thought …” He shook his head. “So much has changed.”
“And will keep changing,” she said, squeezing his arm once. “But … There are things that won’t change. I will always be your friend.”
His throat bobbed. “I wish I could see her, just one last time. To tell her … to say what was in my heart.”
“She knows,” Aelin said, blinking against the burning in her eyes.
“I’ll miss you,” Dorian said. “Though I doubt the next time we meet will be in such … civilized circumstances.” She tried not to think about it. He gestured over her shoulder to her court. “Don’t make them too miserable. They’re only trying to help you.”
She smiled. To her surprise, a king smiled back.
“Send me any good books that you read,” she said.
“Only if you do the same.”
She embraced him one last time. “Thank you—for everything,” she whispered.
Dori
She moved to the head of the company, where Rowan rode a sleek black stallion. The Fae Prince caught her eye. Are you all right?
She nodded. I didn’t think saying good-bye would be so hard. And with everything that’s to come—
We’ll face it together. To whatever end.
She reached across the space between them and took his hand, gripping it tightly.
They held on to each other as they rode down the barren path, through the gateway she’d made in the glass wall, and into the city streets, where people paused what they were doing and gaped or whispered or stared.
But as they rode out of Rifthold, that city that had been her home and her hell and her salvation, as she memorized each street and building and face and shop, each smell and the coolness of the river breeze, she didn’t see one slave. Didn’t hear one whip.
And as they passed by the domed Royal Theater, there was music—beautiful, exquisite music—playing within.
Dorian didn’t know what awoke him. Perhaps it was that the lazy summer insects had stopped their nighttime buzzing, or perhaps it was the chilled wind that slithered into his old tower room, ruffling the curtains.
The moonlight gleaming on the clock revealed it was three in the morning. The city was silent.
He rose from the bed, touching his neck yet again—just to make sure. Whenever he woke from his nightmares, it took him minutes to tell if he was indeed awake—or if it was merely a dream and he was still trapped in his own body, enslaved to his father and that Valg prince. He had not told Aelin or Chaol about the nightmares. Part of him wished he had.
He could still barely remember what had happened while he’d worn that collar. He’d turned twenty—and had no recollection of it. There were only bits and pieces, glimpses of horror and pain. He tried not to think about it. Didn’t want to remember. He hadn’t told Chaol or Aelin that, either.
He already missed her, and the chaos and intensity of her court. He missed having anyone around at all. The castle was too big, too quiet. And Chaol was to leave in two days. He didn’t want to think about what missing his friend would be like.