Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4)

by Sarah J. Maas

But there was a thing waiting in the darkness, and he could not bring himself to fight it for much longer.

You should have gotten Dorian and Sorscha out the day the king butchered those slaves. Did you learn nothing from Nehemia’s death? Did you somehow think you could win with your honor intact, without sacrificing something? You shouldn’t have left him; how could you let him face the king alone? How could you, how could you, how could you?

Chaol glanced again at the ring. He should melt it, but money was scarce. He’d already used up much of what he’d snatched from the tomb. And he would need it now more than ever. Now that Dorian was … Was … Dorian was gone.

“And I suppose you would know everything about getting tangled up with people, given how many suitors are lined up outside your father’s bakeries.” A cheap shot, maybe, but they’d always been blunt with each other. She hadn’t ever seemed bothered by it, anyway. That faint gleam of amusement returned to her eyes as Nesryn put her hands in her pockets and turned away. “This is why I never get too involved. Too messy.” Why she didn’t let anyone in. Ever. He debated asking why—pushing about it. But limiting the questions about their pasts was part of their deal, and had been from the start.

A month ago, Rowan had covered her scars from Endovier with a stunning, scrolling tattoo, written in the Old Language of the Fae—the stories of her loved ones and how they’d died. She would not have Rowan ink another name on her flesh.

As she headed for the bedroom, she could already sense the reinforcement added to every weak spot she possessed. The specifications must have been sent months before the suit arrived, by the man who did indeed know about the knee that sometimes twanged, the body parts she favored in combat, the speed with which she moved. All of Arobynn’s knowledge of her, wrapped around her in cloth and steel and darkness. She paused before the standing mirror against the far wall of the bedroom. A second skin. Perhaps made less scandalous by the exquisite detailing, the extra padding, the pockets, the bits of armored decoration—but there was not one inch left to the imagination. She let out a low whistle. Very well, then.

Aelin squeezed the bridge of her nose with two fingers, then lifted her head. “You know I have to kill your driver.” “No, you don’t!” the man cried, scrambling to grab the reins. “I swear—swear I won’t breathe a word about this place.” Aelin stalked to the hansom cab, the rain instantly soaking her cloak. The driver could report the location of the warehouse, could endanger everything, but— Aelin peered at the rain-flecked cab permit framed by the door, illuminated by the little lantern hanging above. “Well, Kellan Oppel of sixty-three Baker Street, apartment two, I suppose you won’t tell anyone.” White as death, the driver nodded.

And for a moment, she wondered how another young woman’s life would have been different if she had stopped to talk to her—really talk to Kaltain Rompier, instead of dismissing her as a vapid courtier. What would have happened if Nehemia had tried to see past Kaltain’s mask, too. Evangeline was climbing into the rain-gleaming carriage beside Lysandra when Aelin appeared at the warehouse door and said, “Wait.”

The man looked him over, those black eyes full of delight. “I should have done this years ago. I don’t know why I wasted so much time waiting to see whether you’d have any power. Foolish of me.” He tried to speak, tried to move, tried to do anything with that mortal body of his. But the demon gripped his mind like a fist, and the muscles of his face slid into a smile as he said, “It is my pleasure to serve, Majesty.”

“Take off your hood,” Brullo said quietly. Aelin looked up. “Why, and no.” “I want to see your face.” Aelin went still. But Nesryn turned back and leaned a hand on the table. “I saw her face last night, Brullo, and it’s as pretty as before. Don’t you have a wife to ogle, anyway?”

“You touch Abraxos, and I’ll peel the skin from your bones.”

They were halfway to her room when Asterin said, “What are you going to do?” Manon didn’t know. And she couldn’t ask her grandmother, not without looking unsure or incapable of following orders. “I’ll figure it out.” “But you’re not going to give a Blackbeak Coven over to him for this—this breeding.” “I don’t know.” Maybe it wouldn’t be bad—to join their bloodline with the Valg. Maybe it’d make their forces stronger. Maybe the Valg would know how to break the Crochan curse. Asterin grabbed her by the elbow, nails digging in. Manon blinked at the touch, at the outright demand in it. Never before had Asterin even come close to— “You cannot allow this to happen,” Asterin said. “I’ve had enough of orders for one day. You give me another, and you’ll find your tongue on the floor.”

A spy for Vernon, or one with her own agenda? Manon had no idea. But anyone with witch-blood in their veins was worth keeping an eye on. Or Thirteen.

Aelin studied Nesryn a bit too thoughtfully. “How good’s your accuracy, Faliq?” “I don’t miss,” Nesryn said. Aelin’s teeth gleamed. “My kind of woman.” She gave Chaol a knowing smile.

“One sign, Dorian,” she said. “Just give me one sign that you’re in there.” The Valg prince laughed low and harsh, that beautiful face twisted with ancient brutality. His sapphire eyes were empty as he said, “I am going to destroy everything you love.” She raised her father’s sword in both hands, advancing still. “You’d never do it,” the thing said. “Dorian,” she repeated, her voice breaking. “You are Dorian.” Seconds—she had seconds left to give him. Her blood dripped onto the gravel, and she let it pool there, her eyes fixed on the prince as she began tracing a symbol with her foot. The demon chuckled again. “Not anymore.” She gazed into those eyes, at the mouth she’d once kissed, at the friend she’d once cared for so deeply, and begged, “Just one sign, Dorian.” But there was nothing of her friend in that face, no hesitation or twinge of muscle against the attack as the prince lunged.

“You lied to us,” Nesryn said. The arrow remained pointed at Aedion, who was sizing up Nesryn, his hands curling as if he were imagining his fingers wrapped around her throat. “You and Chaol are fools,” Aelin said, even as a part of her heaved in relief, even as she wanted to admit that what she’d been about to do made her a fool as well. Aelin lowered the sword to her side. The thing inside Dorian hissed at her, “You will regret this moment, girl.” Aelin just whispered, “I know.” Aelin didn’t give a shit what happened to Nesryn. She

“What happened?” he demanded. She swallowed once. “I killed a lot of people today. I’m not in the mood to analyze it.” “That’s never bothered you before.”

“I do not owe you an apology,” she said to Chaol. “Don’t talk down to me like you’re my queen,” he snapped. “No, I’m not your queen. But you are going to have to decide soon whom you serve, because the Dorian you knew is gone forever. Adarlan’s future does not depend on him anymore.”

“I’m surprised the seal isn’t broken. Though if you were a good spy, you would know how to do it without breaking the wax.” “If I were a good spy,” Elide breathed, “I could also read.” A bit of truth to temper the witch’s distrust. The witch blinked, and then sniffed, as if trying to detect a lie. “You speak well for a mortal, and your uncle is a lord. Yet you cannot read?” Elide nodded. More than the leg, more than the drudgery, it was that miserable shortcoming that hounded her. Her nurse, Finnula, couldn’t read—but Finnula had been the one to teach her how to take note of things, to listen, and to think. During the long days when they’d had nothing to do but needlepoint, her nurse had taught her to mark the little details—each stitch—while also never losing sight of the larger image. There will come a day when I am gone, Elide, and you will need to have every weapon in your arsenal sharp and ready to strike.

“Look at me.” Elide obeyed. The witch hissed, and Elide flinched as she shoved Elide’s hair out of her eyes. A few strands fell to the ground, sliced off by the iron nails. “I don’t know what game you’re playing—if you’re a spy, if you’re a thief, if you’re just looking out for yourself. But do not pretend that you are some meek, pathetic little girl when I can see that vicious mind working behind your eyes.”

Elide said, “Your mount doesn’t seem evil.” Abraxos’s tail thumped on the ground, the iron spikes in it glinting. A giant, lethal dog. With wings. Manon huffed a cold laugh, strapping the saddle into place. “No. However he was made, something went wrong with that part.” Elide didn’t think that constituted going wrong, but kept her mouth shut.

“You soft-hearted worm,” Manon hissed at Abraxos once the cunning, many-faced girl was gone. The girl might be hiding secrets, but her lineage wasn’t one of them. She had no idea that witch-blood flowed strong in her mortal veins. “A crippled leg and a few chains, and you’re in love?” Abraxos nudged her with his snout, and Manon gave him a firm but gentle slap before leaning against his warm hide and ripping open the letter addressed in her grandmother’s handwriting.

“Because we can,” the duke said simply. “And because this world has too long dwelled in ignorance and archaic tradition. It is time to see what might be improved.” Manon made a show of contemplating and then nodding as she strode out. But she had not missed the words—this world. Not this land, not this continent. This world. She wondered whether her grandmother had considered the idea that they might one day have to fight to keep the Wastes—fight the very men who had helped them take back their home. And wondered what would become of these Valg-Ironteeth witchlings in that world.

Nesryn said, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stay the course, but also plot another one. Adapt.” His mouth had gone dry. “Were you ever hurt? For your heritage?” Nesryn glanced toward the roaring hearth, her face like ice. “I became a city guard because not a single one of them came to my aid the day the other schoolchildren surrounded me with stones in their hands. Not one, even though they could hear my screaming.”

“Whatever you had to do to survive, whatever you did from spite or rage or selfishness … I don’t give a damn. You’re here—and you’re perfect. You always were, and you always will be.” She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear that.

Asterin’s black eyes seemed to devour her whole. “You would hear that wind, girl,” she said with expert quiet, “because anyone with Ironteeth blood does. I’m surprised your mother never told you. It’s passed on through the maternal line.” Witch-blood. Ironteeth blood. In her veins—in her mother’s lineage. It wasn’t possible. Her blood flowed red; she had no iron teeth or nails. Her mother had been the same. If there was ancestry, it was so old that it had been forgotten, but … “My mother died when I was a child,” she said, turning away and nodding her farewell to the head cook. “She never told me anything.” “Pity,” Asterin said. The servants all gawked at Elide as she limped out, their questioning eyes telling her enough: they hadn’t heard. A small relief, then. Gods—oh, gods. Witch-blood.

“Blue,” she whispered. “My blood runs blue.” “Good choice, witchling,” Manon said, and the word was a challenge and an order. She turned away, but glanced over her shoulder. “Welcome to the Blackbeaks.” Witchling. Elide stared after her. She had likely just made the biggest mistake of her life, but … it was strange. Strange, that feeling of belonging.

“You risked everything—multiple lives—to get out one man. I think you find this city and its citizens to be expendable.” Aelin hissed, “Need I remind you, Captain, that you went to Endovier and did not blink at the slaves, at the mass graves? Need I remind you that I was starved and chained, and you let Duke Perrington force me to the ground at Dorian’s feet while you did nothing? And now you have the nerve to accuse me of not caring, when many of the people in this city have profited off the blood and misery of the very people you ignored?”

But the male grabbed her to him, his massive arms wrapping around her tightly and lifting her up. Nesryn made to approach, but Aedion stopped her with a hand on her arm. Aelin was laughing as she cried, and the male was just holding her, his hooded head buried in her neck. As if he were breathing her in. “Who is that?” Nesryn asked. Aedion smiled. “Rowan.”

“Why are you crying?” he asked, trying to push her back far enough to read her face again. But she held on to him, so fiercely she could feel the weapons beneath his clothes. It would all be fine, even if it went to hell, so long as he was here with her. “I’m crying,” she sniffled, “because you smell so rutting bad my eyes are watering.”

Rowan’s head was still angled as he asked, “Your mothers were cousins, Prince, but who sired you?” Aedion lounged in his chair. “Does it matter?” “Do you know?” Rowan pressed. Aedion shrugged. “She never told me—or anyone.” “I’m guessing you have some idea?” Aelin asked. Rowan said, “He doesn’t look familiar to you?” “He looks like me.” “Yes, but—” He sighed. “You met his father. A few weeks ago. Gavriel.”

Aelin’s eyes—their eyes, the eyes of their mothers—were soft. Open. “This changes nothing,” she said. “About who you are, what you mean to me. Nothing.” But it did. It changed everything. Explained everything: the strength, the speed, the senses; the lethal, predatory instincts he’d always struggled to keep in check. Why Rhoe had been so hard on him during his training. Because if Evalin knew who his father was, then Rhoe certainly did, too. And Fae males, even half-Fae males, were deadly. Without the control Rhoe and his lords had drilled into him from an early age, without the focus … They’d known. And kept it from him.

Aelin pointed at the door. “Get the hell out. I don’t want to see you again for a good while.” The feeling was mutual. All his plans, everything he’d worked for … Without the blood oath he was just a general; just a landless prince of the Ashryver line. Aedion stalked to the front door and flung it open so hard he almost ripped it off its hinges. Aelin didn’t call after him.

Aelin heard the bathroom door close, then running water as Rowan washed up with the toiletries she’d left out for him. Not a monster—not for what she’d done, not for her power, not when Rowan was there. She’d thank the gods every damn day for the small mercy of giving her a friend who was her match, her equal, and who would never look at her with horror in his eyes. No matter what happened, she’d always be grateful for that. But … Improper. Improper indeed. He didn’t know how improper she could be. She opened the top drawer of the oak dresser. And slowly smiled.

The demon laughed. Spineless human. No wonder she lost her head. He tried to shut out the voice. Tried to. He wished that woman had killed him.

“What is that?” Manon repeated. The duke surged for her, but then a silken female voice breathed, “Shadowfire.” Perrington froze, as if surprised she had spoken. “Where does this shadowfire come from?” Manon demanded. The woman was so small, so thin. The dress was barely more than cobwebs and shadows. It was cold in the mountain camp, even for Manon. Had she refused a cloak, or did they just not care? Or perhaps, with this fire … Perhaps she did not need one at all. “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.”

Like a doll, like a ghost, Kaltain turned, that midnight gown swirling with her, and stalked toward the heavy red curtains, slipping through them as if she were no more than mist.

“What do you plan to use this shadowfire for? Torture?” A flash of ire at yet another question. The duke said tightly, “I have not yet decided. For now, she will experiment like this. Perhaps later, she will learn to incinerate the armies of our enemies.” A flame that did not leave burns—loosed upon thousands. It would be glorious, even if it was grotesque. “And are there armies of enemies gathering? Will you use this shadowfire on them?” The duke again cocked his head, the scars on his face thrown into stark contrast in the dim lantern light. “Your grandmother didn’t tell you, then.” “About what?” she bit out. The duke strode toward the curtained-off part of the room. “About the weapons she has been making for me—for you.” “What weapons?” She didn’t bother wasting time with tactical silence.

Two weapons—Kaltain, and whatever her grandmother was making. That was why the Matron had stayed in the Fangs with the other High Witches. If the three of them were combining their knowledge, wisdom, and cruelty to develop a weapon to use against the mortal armies …

“Please don’t eat me,” she’d whispered. He’d huffed, as if to say, You wouldn’t be much of a mouthful. Shivering, Elide rose. He seemed bigger with every step. But that wing remained extended, as if she were the animal in need of calming. 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. Carefully, aware of the head he angled to watch her every move, she sat down against him, her back instantly warmed. 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. She hadn’t even realized that she’d tumbled into sleep. And now … they were here.

Asterin said, “Do we tell the Yellowlegs and Bluebloods?” “No,” Manon said, her voice like death and bloodshed. “Blackbeaks only.” “Even if another coven winds up volunteering for the next round?” Asterin said. Manon gave a snarl that made the hair on Elide’s neck rise. “We can only tug so much at the leash.” “Leashes can snap,” Asterin challenged. “So can your neck,” Manon said.

The human went pale as death. “I can’t.” “You can, and you will,” Manon said. “You’re mine now.” She felt Asterin’s attention on her—the disapproval and surprise. Manon went on, “You find a way into that chamber, you give me the details, you keep quiet about what you learn, and you live. If you betray me, if you tell anyone … then we’ll toast to you at your wedding party to a handsome Valg husband, I suppose.” The girl’s hands were shaking. Manon smacked them down to her sides. “We do not tolerate cowards in the Blackbeak ranks,” she hissed. “Or did you think your protection was free?” Manon pointed to the door. “You’re to stay in my chambers if your own are compromised. Go wait at the bottom of the stairs.”

No one wanted to talk to her the first two days. They just eyed her and told her where to haul things or when to singe her hands or what to scrub until her back hurt. But yesterday—yesterday she had seen the torn, blood-soaked clothes come in. Blue blood, not red. Witch-blood.

Elide put a hand on the woman’s elbow again. “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. Kaltain merely walked away, that dress hissing on the stones. There were bruises that looked like fingerprints around her other arm. As if someone had gripped her too hard. This place. These people— Elide fought her nausea, watching until the woman vanished around a corner.

“There’s no place like this anywhere, perhaps. Even in Terrasen.” “Then you’ll have to build one.” “With what money? You think people are going to be happy to starve while I build a theater for my own pleasure?” “Perhaps not right away, but if you believe one would benefit the city, the country, then do it. Artists are essential.”

“I thought we were friends,” she said. “We are friends,” he said carefully. “Friends don’t spend time with each other only when they’re feeling sorry for themselves. Or bite each other’s heads off for asking difficult questions.”

“Give me a good reason not to spill your blood,” Rowan said. “If I die, Maeve will offer aid to the King of Adarlan against you.” “Bullshit,” Aelin spat. “Friends close but enemies closer, right?” Lorcan said.

Immortal. Unyielding. Blooded with power. “Brute.” “Brat.” She loosed a breathy laugh. “Did you really lure Lorcan into a sewer with one of those creatures?” “It was such an easy trap that I’m actually disappointed he fell for it.” Rowan chuckled. “You never stop surprising me.” “He hurt you. I’m never going to forgive that.”

“Plenty of people have hurt me. If you’re going to go after every one, you’ll have a busy life ahead of you.” She didn’t smile. “What he said—about me getting old—” “Don’t. Just—don’t start with that. Go to sleep.”

It explained so much. You and I are nothing but beasts wearing human skins. Lysandra turned her attention to Aelin. “No one knows this. Not even Arobynn.” Her face was hard. A challenge and a question lay in those eyes. Secrets—Nehemia had kept secrets from her, too. Aelin didn’t say anything. Lysandra’s mouth tightened as she turned to Rowan. “How’d you know?” A shrug, even as Aelin felt his attention on her and knew he could read the emotions biting at her. “I met a few shifters, centuries ago. Your scents are the same.”