Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4)

by Sarah J. Maas

Rowan rotated his shoulder again, and soft footsteps sounded on the carpet. “I’ve been thinking,” Rowan started, and then forgot everything he was going to say as he bolted upright in bed. Aelin leaned against the closet doorway, clad in a nightgown of gold. Metallic gold—as he’d requested.

Hot damn

She said softly, “You make me want to live, Rowan. Not survive; not exist. Live.”

Adding this to the end of my vows

The message had been written in giant black letters, the reek coming off them sure enough that of Valg blood, as if someone with very, very sharp nails had ripped open one of the guards and used him as a paint bucket.

Manon

None of them were aware of what was to occur, or who was making her way across the city.

The halls were so quiet. Even the queen’s court was sealed and silent. Rumor had it the queen had been cloistered in the mountains since Aedion’s rescue and had taken half her court with her. The rest had vanished as well, to escape either the rising summer heat—or the horrors that had come to rule their kingdom.

What’s the queen up to?

“I do wonder,” the king mused, leaning back on his throne, “who has been conspiring more: the captain, or you, Champion. Or should I call you Aelin?”

Uh oh

Darkness surged from Dorian, leaking like blood in water, and Chaol’s head gave a burst of pain as— Aelin ran, exploding through the glass doors.

Why would Chaol’s head hurt?

Her breath was a flame in her throat.

The sun through the windows warmed Chaol’s back—as if in an embrace, as if in comfort. As if to tell him it was time.

Chaol spread his arms wide as the darkness hit him, shattered him, obliterated him until there was nothing but light—burning blue light, warm and welcoming.

A phantom pain lanced through his ribs, brutally violent and nauseating. His knees buckled. Not pain from a wound of his—but another’s.

Aedion took a breath—one of his last, he realized. Rowan straightened as best he could, stalwart against the death that now beckoned, and Aedion could have sworn the prince whispered Aelin’s name. More shouting from the soldiers in the back; some in the front turning to see what the panic was about behind them. Aedion didn’t care. Not with a row of swords before them, gleaming like the teeth of some mighty beast. The commander’s hand came down. And was ripped clean off by a ghost leopard.

Lysandra!

Aelin drew her father’s sword. “You killed Chaol,” she said, the words hollow. “The boy didn’t even land a single blow.” He smirked at the Sword of Orynth. “I doubt you will, either.”

He's not dead

Dorian lifted his hands to the Wyrdstone collar—cold, smooth, thrumming. Don’t, the demon shrieked. Don’t! There were tears running down Aelin’s face as Dorian gripped the black stone encircling his throat. And, bellowing his grief, his rage, his pain, he snapped the collar from his neck.

OH MY GOD

The wicked will tell us anything to haunt our thoughts long after, Nehemia had warned her.

A wind shoved against her, brutal and unforgiving, her bones groaning as it pushed her up, not down.

Rowan

The wind tore at her, and it sounded like it was roaring her name.

But she’d felt that ripple in the world, could have sworn she heard the wind singing her name, heard panicked shouts—and then nothing.

She is a witch!

“The prince is waiting in the catacombs.”

Both guards collapsed to the ground, revealing Manon Blackbeak standing behind them. Blood ran down her hands, her forearms. And Manon’s golden eyes glowed as if they were living embers as she looked at the two guards gripping Elide. As she beheld the disheveled robe.

Hurry, Blackbeak, whispered a strange, soft female voice in her head that was at once old and young and wise. You race against doom.

Faster, Blackbeak! that sage voice barked. And as a little wind pushed at Manon’s feet as if it could hurry her along, she knew that it was a goddess peering over her shoulder, a lady of wise things. Who perhaps had watched over Elide her entire life, muted without magic, but now that it was free …

It did not seem like a weakness to fight for those who could not defend themselves. Even if they weren’t true witches. Even if they meant nothing to her.

Down the halls they flew, as if the god of wind were pushing at their heels.

And Aelin—that brilliant, insane fool—had taken a tremendous risk in weaving her power with his. The prince had raw magic that could be shaped into anything. Aelin could have burnt herself out in a second. Rowan turned his head and glared at her. And found Aelin glaring back.

“I save the world,” Aelin said, her voice like gravel, “and yet I wake up to you being pissy.”

“Next time we need to save the world, we do it together.” She smiled faintly. “Deal.”

He shifted his arm so he could brush her hair back. His fingers lingered along her jaw. “You make me want to live, too, Aelin Galathynius,” he said. “Not exist—but live.” He cupped her cheek, and took a steadying breath—as if he’d thought about every word these past three days, over and over again. “I spent centuries wandering the world, from empires to kingdoms to wastelands, never settling, never stopping—not for one moment. I was always looking toward the horizon, always wondering what waited across the next ocean, over the next mountain. But I think … I think that whole time, all those centuries, I was just looking for you.”

She gazed at the closed bedroom door, as if she could still see the prince and queen inside. “That,” she said, more to herself than to him. “That is what I am going to find one day.” “A gorgeous Fae warrior?” Aedion said, shifting a bit. Lysandra chuckled, wiping away her tears, and gave him a knowing look before walking away.

A few hours later, Dorian was still in that bedroom, working up the nerve to survey what he’d done. The castle he’d destroyed; the people he’d killed. He’d seen the wall: proof of his enemy’s power … and mercy. Not his enemy. Aelin.

“You’re not going to believe me,” Aelin went on. “What I’ve just said, you’re not going to believe me. I know it—and that’s fine. I don’t expect you to. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.” “You’re the Queen of Terrasen. You can’t be.” “Says who? We are the masters of our own fates—we decide how to go forward.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re my friend, Dorian.”

“We’ll figure it out. You might not even want a crippled man.” She pulled back. “Do not insult me by assuming I’m that shallow or fickle.” He choked on a laugh. “Let’s have an adventure, Nesryn Faliq.”

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.

Isn't it 11?

The duke survived. So did Vernon.

Fuck

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.”

There was a massive shadow perched atop it. Dorian froze. Not a shadow but a giant beast, its claws gripping the wall, its wings tucked into its body, shimmering faintly in the glow of the full moon. Shimmering like the white hair of the rider atop it.

Manon

Lysandra used the journey to test out her abilities—sometimes flying with Rowan overhead, sometimes running as a pretty black dog alongside Fleetfoot, sometimes spending days in her ghost leopard form and pouncing on Aedion whenever he least expected it.

Aedion touched her shoulder. “Welcome home, Aelin.” A land of towering mountains—the Staghorns—spread before them, with valleys and rivers and hills; a land of untamed, wild beauty. Terrasen. And the smell—of pine and snow … How had she never realized that Rowan’s scent was of Terrasen, of home? Rowan came close enough to graze her shoulder and murmured, “I feel as if I’ve been looking for this place my entire life.”

“Right there,” Aedion said, pointing to a small, weather-worn granite boulder carved with whorls and swirls. “Once we pass that rock, we’re on Terrasen soil.” Not quite daring to believe she wasn’t still asleep, Aelin walked toward that rock, whispering the Song of Thanks to Mala Fire-Bringer for leading her to this place, this moment. Aelin ran a hand over the rough rock, and the sun-warmed stone tingled as if in greeting. Then she stepped beyond the stone. And at long last, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was home.