Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4)

by Sarah J. Maas

“It’s starting to get so hot, and I hate sweating when I sleep. Plus, you’re practically a furnace. So it’s either this or I sleep naked. You can sleep in the bathtub if you have a problem with it.” His growl rattled the room. “You’ve made your point.”

“Are all your nightclothes like that?” “So curious about my negligees, Prince. Whatever would the others say? Maybe you should issue a decree to clarify.”

“Is there a specific color you’d like me to wear? If I’m going to scandalize you, I should at least do it in something you like.” “You’re a menace.”

“Gold. Not yellow—real, metallic gold.” “You’re out of luck,” she said into her pillow. “I would never own anything so ostentatious.” She could almost feel him smiling at her as she fell asleep.

Thirty minutes later, Rowan was still staring up at the ceiling, teeth gritted as he calmed the roaring in his veins that was steadily shredding through his self-control. That gods-damned nightgown. Shit. He was in such deep, unending shit.

Maeve has several blood-sworn members in her court.”

“In Terrasen, there was only one.” She stirred the onions. “Things change. New traditions for a new court. You can swear it right now if you wish.”

“Not now. Not until I see you crowned. Not until we can be in front of a crowd, in front of the world.” She dumped in the mushrooms. “You’re even more dramatic than I am.”

The crowns of the conquered nations, the demon prince said. More will be added soon. Perhaps the crowns of other worlds, too.

“Get out,” he said, his eyes flaring like embers.

Her black, filmy dress like woven night, Kaltain was facing a kneeling, trembling young soldier, her pale hand outstretched toward his contorted face. And all over her, an unholy aura of dark fire burned.

The young soldier—one of Perrington’s own—was silently sobbing as tendrils of that black fire floated from Kaltain’s fingertips and slithered over his skin, leaving no marks. The human turned pain-filled gray eyes to Manon. Please, he mouthed.

The duke surged for her, but then a silken female voice breathed, “Shadowfire.”

“Where does this shadowfire come from?” Manon demanded. The woman was so small, so thin. The dress was barely more than cobwebs and shadows.

Cobwebs and shadows? Like Nuala and Cerridwen?!

“From me,” Kaltain said, in a voice that was dead and hollow and yet vicious. “It has always been there—asleep. And now it has been awoken. Shaped anew.”

The duke had stopped to observe the young woman, like he was figuring out some sort of puzzle, like he was waiting for something else.

“It does this,” she whispered, and curled her delicate fingers. The shadowfire shot from her hand and wrapped around the soldier like a second skin.

But no burns marred his skin. As if the shadowfire summoned only pain, as if it tricked the body into thinking it was being incinerated.

the Yellowlegs coven hadn’t been seen or heard from since entering the chamber beneath the Keep.

They were warriors—they were Ironteeth witches. They weren’t chattel to be bred. They weren’t to be experimented upon.

“There are princes, you know—among the Valg. Powerful, cunning princes, capable of splattering people on walls. They’ve been very keen to test themselves against your kind. Perhaps they’ll pay a visit to your barracks. See who survives the night. It’d be a good way to weed out the lesser witches. I have no use for weak soldiers in my armies, even if it decreases your numbers.”

she met his gaze, met every inch of blackness within it. And found something slithering inside that had no place in this world.

“You do not wish to learn what is being bred and forged under those mountains, Blackbeak. Don’t bother sending your scouts in. They won’t see daylight again. Consider yourself warned.”

A flame that did not leave burns—loosed upon thousands. It would be glorious, even if it was grotesque.

Two weapons—Kaltain, and whatever her grandmother was making. That was why the Matron had stayed in the Fangs with the other High Witches.

Whatever this new weapon was, whatever the three High Witches came up with … The humans wouldn’t stand a chance.

She’d planned to sleep for only an hour. She must have slept for at least four. Abraxos didn’t move behind her, his wing still shielding her.

Someone was inside her room. Waiting for her. So she’d kept walking, all the way to the moonlit aerie, where her uncle wouldn’t dare go.

To her left, Abraxos had watched her from where he’d sprawled on his belly, his depthless eyes wide, unblinking. When she’d come close enough to smell the carrion on his breath, she’d said, “I need somewhere to sleep. Just for tonight.” His tail moved slightly, the iron spikes clinking on the stones. Wagging. Like a dog—sleepy, but pleased to see her. There was no growl to be heard, no glint of iron teeth readying to gulp her down in two bites.

Hay crunched, and Abraxos sidled closer. Elide had tensed—might have sprung to her feet and bolted. The wyvern had extended one wing toward her as if in invitation. To sit beside him. “Please don’t eat me,” she’d whispered. He’d huffed, as if to say, You wouldn’t be much of a mouthful.

As she reached his side, she could hardly breathe as she extended a hand and stroked the curving, scaly hide. It was surprisingly soft, like worn leather. And toasty, as if he were a furnace.

That wing had gracefully lowered, folding down until it became a wall of warm membrane between her and the chill wind. She’d leaned farther into his softness and delightful heat, letting it sink into her bones.

Manon crooned, “If you had any backbone, Elide, you would have stayed beside Abraxos until we left.”

Abraxos had tensed, his tail shifting over the stones. The useless beast was worried for the girl. Manon narrowed her eyes at him. “Isn’t your kind supposed to eat young women?” He glared at her.

Elide held her ground as Manon prowled closer. And Manon, despite herself, was impressed.

A girl who was not afraid to sleep against a wyvern, who had enough common sense to tell when danger might be approaching … Per...

“We do not tolerate cowards in the Blackbeak ranks,”

“You were the one waiting in her room,” Asterin said. “A dose of fear goes a long way in humans.”

Cunning—that was how she would get around the duke, with his schemes and his weapons. She might work for his king, but she would not tolerate being left ignorant.

Manon had said, “Going somewhere?” Gods, her voice. Like a snake hidden up a tree.

“The duke said you spoke—why will you not say a word to me?” Vernon.

“So beautiful,” her uncle murmured to whomever it was. “Like a moonless night.”

in his voice. “Perhaps it’s fate that we ran into each other here. He watches you so closely.” Vernon paused. “Together,” he said quietly, reverently. “Together, we shall create wonders that will make the world tremble.”

“Kaltain,” her uncle rumbled, a demand and a threat and a promise. The silent young woman—the one who never spoke, who never looked at anything, who had such marks on her. Elide had seen her only a few times. Had seen how little she responded. Or fought back.

“I was wondering when you’d show your fangs, Elide. Or should I say your iron teeth?” He knew, then.

Vernon chuckled. “You two could be sisters,” he said casually. “Fascinating,” Elide said, guiding the lady up the steps—even as the effort to keep balanced made her leg throb in agony. “Until next time,” her uncle said from behind them, and she didn’t want to know who he meant.

“Where can I take you that is safe?” Nowhere—there was nowhere here that was safe. But slowly, as if it took her a lifetime to remember how to do it, the lady slid her eyes to Elide.

Darkness and death and black flame; despair and rage and emptiness. And yet—a kernel of understanding.

Lorcan. Shit. The stories he’d heard about Lorcan had been full of glory and gore—mostly the latter. A male who didn’t make mistakes, and who was ruthless with those who did.

“Your queen gave you an order to stop—for your own good. Because she needs you healthy, and because it pains her to see you injured. Do not ignore her command next time.”