Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4)

by Sarah J. Maas

“I felt—I felt you.” “How?” So she told him—about his essence sliding into her, of feeling like she wore his skin, if only for a heartbeat.

Gods, how did he handle it, the weight of his power? He could crush bones into dust even without his magic; he could bring this whole building down with a few well-placed blows. She’d known—of course she’d known—but to feel it … The most powerful purebred Fae male in existence. To an ordinary human, he was as alien as the Valg.

He offered her a hand up, and she tried not to stare at it as she gripped it. Hard, callused, unbreakable—nearly impossible to kill. But there was a gentleness to his grip, a care reserved only for those he cherished and protected.

“The keys can corrupt an already black heart—or amplify a pure one. I’ve never heard anything about hearts that are somewhere in between.”

“The fact that you worry says enough about your intentions.”

“Lysandra’s jeweler,” Rowan said, “is a very talented person.” Aelin held up a replica of the amulet. She’d gotten the size, coloring, and weight almost perfect. She set it on her vanity like a discarded piece of jewelry. “Just in case anyone asks where it went.”

“I told Lysandra she could do it.” “Why?” She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging tight. “Because more than me, more than you or Aedion, Lysandra deserves to be the one who ends him.”

“It feels wrong,” she said, “to still wish that there had been some other way.” She took an uneven breath, the air clouding in front of her. “He was a bad man,” she whispered. “He was going to enslave me to his will, use me to take over Terrasen, maybe make himself king—maybe sire my—” She shuddered so violently that light shimmered off the gold in her dress. “But he also … I also owe him my life. All this time I thought it would be a relief, a joy to end him. But all I feel is hollow. And tired.”

And burn this dress.” “As you wish,” he said, pocketing the combs. “Such a pity, though. Your enemies would have fallen to their knees if they ever saw you in it.” He’d almost fallen to his knees when he’d first seen her earlier tonight.

Rowan stood with his queen in the rain, breathing in her scent, and let her steal his warmth for as long as she needed.

“I’m thinking that the next time I want to unsettle you, all I need to do is tell you how rarely I wear undergarments.” His pupils flared. “Is there a reason you do that, Princess?” “Is there any reason not to?”

Friends, but more. So much more, and she’d known it longer than she wanted to admit. Carefully, she stroked her thumb across his cheekbone, his face slick with the rain. It hit her like a stone—the wanting. She was a fool to have dodged it, denied it, even when a part of her had screamed it every morning that she’d blindly reached for the empty half of the bed.

Don’t touch me like that. A clear line in the sand. A line—because he was three hundred years old, and immortal, and had lost his flawless mate, and she was … She was young and inexperienced and his carranam and queen, and he wanted nothing more than that. If she hadn’t been so foolish, so stupidly unaware, maybe she would have realized that, understood that though she’d seen his eyes shine with hunger—hunger for her—it didn’t mean he wanted to act on it. Didn’t mean he might not hate himself for it. Oh, gods. What had she done?

A blessing from Temis, Goddess of Wild Things, who had once watched over her as a shape-shifter and who never forgot the caged beasts of the world.

He’s all yours.

He had understood that with Rowan, she was no longer afraid of him; with Rowan, Arobynn was now utterly unnecessary. Irrelevant. He’s all yours.

She would find that love again—one day. And it would be deep and unrelenting and unexpected, the beginning and the end and eternity, the kind that could change history, change the world.

For Wesley. For Sam. For Aelin. And for herself. For the child she’d been, for the seventeen-year-old on her Bidding night, for the woman she’d become, her heart in shreds, her invisible wound still bleeding. It was so very easy to sit up and slice the knife across Arobynn’s throat.

“You said you needed money for an army, Aedion. So here’s your money—all of it, and every coin for Terrasen. It was the least Arobynn owed us. That night I fought at the Pits, we were only there because I’d contacted the owners days before and told them to send out subtle feelers to Arobynn about investing. He took the bait—didn’t even question the timing of it. But I wanted to make sure he quickly earned back all the money he lost when I trashed the Vaults. So we wouldn’t be denied one coin owed to us.”

“She snuck into the bank—all those times that she slipped out in the middle of the night. And used all those daytime meetings with the Master of the Bank to get a better sense of the layout, where things were kept.”

And you know what I would have received? The Amulet of Orynth. That was all he left me.” “That was how you knew he truly had it—and where he kept it,” Rowan said. “From reading the will.”

“Your surprise needed to be genuine; even Lysandra didn’t know about the will.”

“I hope the dark god finds a special place for you in his realm,” she said, and a shiver went down Rowan’s spine at the midnight caress in her tone.

Aedion drew the Sword of Orynth and handed it to her. Aelin gazed down at the blade of her ancestors as she weighed it in her hands. When she raised her head, there was only icy determination in those remarkable eyes. A queen exacting justice. Then she lifted her father’s sword and severed Arobynn’s head from his body.

Dark flames—shadowfire—engulfed

Shadowfire ripped through the camp. People dropped to the ground, shrieking, pleading in tongues Manon didn’t understand. Some fainted from the pain; some died from it. The horses were bucking and screaming—such wretched sounds that even Manon’s spine stiffened.

I regret that I didn’t get to tell him what I really thought of him. I regret that I didn’t tell him what I’d done with you—to see the betrayal and shock in his eyes. I did it so fast, and had to go for the throat, and after I did, I just rolled over and listened—until it was done, but …”

“Trust me, having larger ones isn’t a blessing. My back hurts all the time.” Lysandra frowned down at her full breasts. “As soon as I get my powers back, these things will be the first to go.”

“If it wasn’t for Evangeline, I think I’d just turn into something with claws and fangs and live in the wilderness forever.”

“Of course I like luxury—you think I don’t love these gowns and jewels? But in the end … they’re replaceable. I’ve come to value the people in my life more.”

Catacombs. Aelin had never heard of catacombs beneath the sewers. Interesting.

“You know, I bet the men around here would cut out their snarling if you turned into a ghost leopard and snarled back at them.”

“Ghost leopard?” Aedion swore. “Do me a favor and never turn into one of those.”

“Devils cloaked in fur. They live up in the Staghorns, and during the winter they creep down to prey on livestock. As big as bears, some of them. Meaner. And when the livestock runs out, they prey on us.” Aelin patted Lysandra’s shoulder. “Sounds like your kind of creature.”

“They’re white and gray, so you can barely make them out against the snow and rock. You can’t really tell they’re on you until you’re staring right into their pale green eyes …” His smile faltered as Lysandra fixed her green eyes on him and cocked her head. Despite herself, Aelin laughed.

“You’ve come here before,” Rowan said. “You came to search the ruins.” That’s why you smelled of ash, too.

“Did you know that in addition to dealing opium, this man was rumored to sell hellfire?”

Hellfire—nearly impossible to attain or make, mostly because it was so lethal. Just a vat of it could take out half of a castle’s retainer wall.

“That’s how you’re planning to blow up the clock tower—with hellfire,”

“Aelin—I’ve seen it used, seen it wreck cities. It can literally melt people.” “Good. So we know it works, then.”

“These aren’t ordinary catacombs,” Rowan said, setting down his torch. “This was a temple.”

“There’s writing on the bones,”

Bone carver!

“It’s in every language—all in different handwriting,”

“Seems like this god of truth,” Aedion called from his wall, “was more of a Sin-Eater than anything. You should read some of the things people wrote—the horrible things they did. I think this was a place for them to be buried, and to confess on the bones of other sinners.”

“The language,” Aelin said to him. “It gets older and older the farther back we go. The way they spell the words, I mean.”

The god of truth …

“The Sword of Truth. That’s what they called Damaris. Legend said the bearer—Gavin—could see the truth when he wielded it.”

The Morrigan?! Truth teller?!

“Mala blessed Brannon, and she blessed Goldryn.” She peered into the gloom. “What if there was a god of truth—a Sin-Eater? What if he blessed Gavin, and this sword?”

The wall behind the altar was of pure stone—white marble—and carved in Wyrdmarks. And in the center was a giant rendering of the Eye of Elena.

“Whoever this god of truth was,” Rowan murmured, as if trying not to be overheard by the dead, “he was not a benevolent sort of deity.”