Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4)

by Sarah J. Maas

What a shame that the current owner of the Vaults, a former underling of Rourke Farran and a dealer of flesh and opiates, had accidentally run into her knives. Repeatedly.

“It’s Aelin now,” she snapped as loudly as she dared. “Celaena Sardothien doesn’t exist anymore.”

You do not get to pick and choose which parts of her to love, Dorian had once said to him. He’d been right. So painfully right.

But she was her own champion now. And she would not add another name of her beloved dead to her flesh.

Nehemia would have done the same.

If she herself could change so much in two years, perhaps so could Lysandra. 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.

“You will need to lie low with your cousin once he escapes tomorrow,” Arobynn said. “Should you decide not to fulfill your end of the bargain … you’ll find out very quickly, Celaena darling, how deadly this city can be for those on the run—even fire-breathing bitch-queens.” “No more declarations of love or offers to walk over coals for me?” A sensual laugh. “You were always my favorite dance partner.”

“I’m sorry,” Aelin said. “For the years I spent being a monster toward you, for whatever part I played in your suffering. I wish I’d been able to see myself better. I wish I’d seen everything better. I’m sorry.” Lysandra blinked. “We were both young and stupid, and should have seen each other as allies. But there’s nothing to prevent us from seeing each other that way now.” Lysandra gave her a grin that was more wolfish than refined. “If you’re in, I’m in.” That fast—that easily—the offer of friendship was tossed her way. Rowan might have been her dearest friend, her carranam, but … she missed female companionship. Deeply. Though an old panic rose up at the thought of Nehemia not being there anymore to provide it— and part of her wanted to throw the offer back in Lysandra’s face just because she wasn’t Nehemia—she forced herself to stare down that fear. Aelin said hoarsely, “I’m in.”

Aelin waved a hand toward the boxes of goodies on the table. “You brought chocolate—as far as I’m concerned, you’re my new favorite person.” Lysandra chuckled, a surprisingly deep, wicked sound—probably a laugh she never let Arobynn or her clients hear. “Some night soon, I’ll sneak back in here and we can eat chocolates until we vomit.” “We’re such refined, genteel ladies.” “Please,” Lysandra said, waving a manicured hand, “you and I are nothing but wild beasts wearing human skins. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Reciting what she’d learned in the quiet of her apartment, Aelin donned the clothes Arobynn had sent over, checking and rechecking that there were no surprises and everything was where she needed it to be. She let each step, each reminder of her plan anchor her, keep her from dwelling too long on what would come when the festivities began. And then she went to save her cousin.

Gods, this castle—the same in every possible way, but different. Or maybe it was she who was different.

“When you shatter the chains of this world and forge the next, remember that art is as vital as food to a kingdom. Without it, a kingdom is nothing, and will be forgotten by time. I have amassed enough money in my miserable life to not need any more—so you will understand me clearly when I say that wherever you set your throne, no matter how long it takes, I will come to you, and I will bring music and dancing.”

“Give our king the performance he deserves.”

As she watched them go, Aelin willed the blood in her veins into black fire. Aedion—her focus was on Aedion, not on the tyrant seated at the front of the room, the man who had murdered her family, murdered Marion, murdered her people. If these were her last moments, then at least she would go down fighting, to the sound of exquisite music. It was time. One breath—another. She was the heir of fire. She was fire, and light, and ash, and embers. She was Aelin Fireheart, and she bowed for no one and nothing, save the crown that was hers by blood and survival and triumph.

An ordinary, believable pause—no cause for alarm. The guards went back to watching the dancers. But the dancer looked up at Aedion beneath lowered brows. Even disguised as an aristo man, there was wicked, vicious triumph in her turquoise-and-gold eyes. Behind them, across the hall, the dancers shattered their roses on the floor, and Aedion grinned at his queen as the entire world went to hell.

She was a whirling cloud of death, a queen of shadows, and these men were already carrion.

Manon climbed into the saddle and was glad to lose herself in the sky.

Nesryn said, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stay the course, but also plot another one. Adapt.”

She just stretched out her legs like a cat and said, “I’m ready to accept your thanks for my spectacular rescue at any time, you know.” He couldn’t stop the tears leaking down his face, even as he rasped, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” A smile tugged at her lips, and her eyes—their eyes—sparkled. “Hello, Aedion.” Hearing his name on her tongue snapped something loose, and he had to close his eyes, his body barking in pain as it shook with the force of the tears trying to get out of him. When he’d mastered himself, he said hoarsely, “Thank you for your spectacular rescue. Let’s never do it again.” She snorted, her eyes lined with silver. “You’re exactly the way I dreamed you’d be.”

They talked and talked, until Aedion’s voice became hoarse, and then Aelin bullied him into drinking a glass of water.

They’d been forged of the same ore, two sides of the same golden, scarred coin.

Manon had endured a fairly shitty day, which was saying something, given her century of existence.

Strange, that feeling of belonging.

Rowan was the most powerful full-blooded Fae male alive. And his scent was all over her. Yet she had no gods-damned idea.

“This one,” she said, pointing to a jagged scar by her elbow. Aedion came around the couch to sit beside her. He took up nearly half of the damn thing. “The Pirate Lord of Skull’s Bay gave that to me after I trashed his entire city, freed his slaves, and looked damn good while doing it.” Aedion took the bottle of wine and drank from it. “Has anyone ever taught you humility?” “You didn’t learn it, so why should I?”

She laughed, and squeezed him. He was here, and he wasn’t something she’d made up, some wild dream she’d had, and— “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.”

Fae warriors: invaluable in a fight—and raging pains in her ass at all other times.

Don’t you even dare, a voice hissed in her head. Right. She’d call that voice Common Sense—and she’d listen to it from now on.

Even without her magic, Aelin was a living wildfire, more so now with the red hair—a creature of such roaring emotions that he could sometimes only watch her and marvel. And her face. That gods-damned face. While they’d been in Wendlyn, it had taken him a while to realize she was beautiful. Months, actually, to really notice it. And for these past few weeks, against his better judgment, he’d thought often about that face—especially that smart-ass mouth. But he hadn’t remembered just how stunning she was until she’d taken off her hood earlier, and it had struck him stupid.

She dumped in the mushrooms. “You’re even more dramatic than I am.” Aedion snorted. “Hurry up with the eggs. I’m going to die of starvation.” “Make the bacon, or you don’t get to eat any.” Aedion could hardly move fast enough.

Lysandra’s smile was a thing of savage, dark beauty.

“There were six of them, and one of those stone demons, you bitch, and you knew it.” So he had found a way to kill one of the Wyrdhounds. Interesting—and good. “You know, I’m really rather tired of being called that. You’d think five centuries would give you enough time to come up with something more creative.”

“Demons and dining,” Aelin said. “A delightful combination.” Only Lysandra smiled.

“Even before I knew who you were, Aelin, I knew that what you were working toward … It was worth it.” “What is?” Her throat tightened. “A world where people like me don’t have to hide.” Lysandra turned away, but Aelin grabbed her by the hand. Lysandra smiled a bit.

“Hello, Sam,” she breathed onto the river breeze. She said nothing for a time, content to be near him, even in this form. The sun warmed her hair, a kiss of heat along her scalp. A trace of Mala, perhaps, even here. She began talking, quietly and succinctly, telling Sam about what had happened to her ten years ago, telling him about these past nine months. When she was done, she stared up at the oak leaves rustling overhead and dragged her fingers through the soft grass. “I miss you,” she said. “Every day, I miss you. And I wonder what you would have made of all this. Made of me. I think—I think you would have been a wonderful king. I think they would have liked you more than me, actually.” Her throat tightened. “I never told you—how I felt. But I loved you, and I think a part of me might always love you. Maybe you were my mate, and I never knew it. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering about that. Maybe I’ll see you again in the Afterworld, and then I’ll know for sure. But until then … until then I’ll miss you, and I’ll wish you were here.” She would not apologize, nor say it was her fault. Because his death wasn’t her fault. And tonight … tonight she would settle that debt.

“Be on your guard, and keep your fat mouths shut. Especially with the Valg commander. No matter what you hear or see, just keep your fat mouths shut. No psychotic territorial bullshit.” Aedion chuckled. “Remind me to tell you tomorrow how charming you are.” But she wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

Rowan was watching her, an asp ready to strike. But his brows bunched slightly, as if to say, You really threw a dagger at her head? Arobynn began talking about a time Aelin had brawled with Lysandra and they’d rolled down the stairs, scratching and yowling like cats, so Aelin looked at Rowan a moment longer. I was a tad hotheaded. I’m beginning to admire Lysandra more and more. Seventeen-year-old Aelin must have been a delight to deal with. She fought the twitching in her lips. I would pay good money to see seventeen-year-old Aelin meet seventeen-year-old Rowan. His green eyes glittered. Arobynn was still talking. Seventeen-year-old Rowan wouldn’t have known what to do with you. He could barely speak to females outside his family. Liar—I don’t believe that for a second. It’s true. You would have scandalized him with your nightclothes—even with that dress you have on. She sucked on her teeth. He would probably have been even more scandalized to learn I’m not wearing any undergarments beneath this dress. The table rattled as Rowan’s knee banged into it.

It had been with a child’s hands that she’d last held it, and with a child’s eyes that she’d last seen the cerulean blue front with the ivory stag and the golden star between its antlers. The immortal stag of Mala Fire-Bringer, brought over to these lands by Brannon himself and set free in Oakwald Forest. The amulet glinted in Arobynn’s hands as he removed it from his neck. The third and final Wyrdkey.

One last time—you have to wear this mask one last time, and then you can bury Celaena Sardothien forever. She opened her eyes, her shoulders squaring and her chin lifting, even as the rest of her went fluid with feline grace. Aedion gaped, and she knew there was nothing of the cousin he’d come to know in her face. She glanced at him, then Rowan, a cruel smile spreading as she leaned over to open the carriage door. “Don’t get in my way,” she told them. She swept from the carriage, her cloak flapping in the spring wind as she stormed up the steps of the Keep and kicked open the front doors.

“We’re not whores for your men to use.” “You are sacred vessels,” the duke said. “It is an honor to be chosen.” “I find that a very male thing to assume.”

“I missed you,” he said quietly, his gaze darting between her mouth and eyes. “When I was in Wendlyn. I lied when I said I didn’t. From the moment you left, I missed you so much I went out of my mind. I was glad for the excuse to track Lorcan here, just to see you again. And tonight, when he had that knife at your throat …” The warmth of his callused finger bloomed through her as he traced a path over the cut on her neck. “I kept thinking about how you might never know that I missed you with only an ocean between us. But if it was death separating us … I would find you. I don’t care how many rules it would break. Even if I had to get all three keys myself and open a gate, I would find you again. Always.”

The remaining bridge—the bridge to her friends, to Rowan, to safety—still held. Aelin had felt it before: a thread in the world, a current running between her and someone else. She’d felt it one night, years ago, and had given a young healer the money to get the hell out of this continent. She’d felt the tug—and had decided to tug back. Here it was again, that tug—toward Manon, whose arms buckled as she collapsed to the stone. Her enemy—her new enemy, who would have killed her and Rowan if given the chance. A monster incarnate. But perhaps the monsters needed to look out for each other every now and then.

Manon gazed westward across the mountains. Hope, Elide had said—hope for a better future. For a home. Not obedience, brutality, discipline. But hope.

“You look like shit,” Lysandra said to Aelin. Then she remembered Evangeline, who stared at her wide-eyed, and winced. “Sorry.” Evangeline refolded her napkin in her lap, every inch the dainty little queen. “You said I’m not to use such language—and yet you do.” “I can curse,” Lysandra said as Aelin suppressed a smile, “because I’m older, and I know when it’s most effective. And right now, our friend looks like absolute shit.”

“Och,” Aelin said, even as her own eyes filled. “I hate you for being so beautiful, even when you cry.” “Do you know how much money—” “Did you think I’d leave you enslaved to her?” “I don’t … I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how to thank you—” “You don’t need to.” Lysandra put her face in her hands and sobbed. “I’m sorry if you wanted to do the proud and noble thing and stick it out for another decade,” Aelin began. Lysandra only wept harder. “But you have to understand that there was no rutting way I was going to leave without—” “Shut up, Aelin,” Lysandra said through her hands. “Just—shut up.” She lowered her hands, her face now puffy and splotchy. Aelin sighed. “Oh, thank the gods. You can look hideous when you cry.” Lysandra burst out laughing.

“We do not look back, Chaol. It helps no one and nothing to look back. We can only go on.” There she was, that queen looking out at him, a hint of the ruler she was becoming. And it knocked the breath out of him, because it made him feel so strangely young—when she now seemed so old. “What if we go on,” he said, “only to more pain and despair? What if we go on, only to find a horrible end waiting for us?” Aelin looked northward, as if she could see all the way to Terrasen. “Then it is not the end.”

The flicker of fear in her eyes told him enough—told him that her behavior at dinner might have been mostly bravado to keep Aedion calm. “I know the odds.” “You and I have always relished damning the odds.” She tried and failed to smile. He leaned in, sliding a hand around her waist, the lace and silk smooth against his fingers, her body warm and firm beneath it, and whispered in her ear, “Even when we’re apart tomorrow, I’ll be with you every step of the way. And every step after—wherever that may be.”

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

Then she smiled with every last shred of courage, of desperation, of hope for the glimmer of that glorious future. “Let’s go rattle the stars.”

Celaena Sardothien halted a healthy distance away and lifted her chin. “Tell His Majesty that his Champion has returned—and she’s brought him one hell of a prize.”