Queen of Shadows

  A soft laugh. “No need. She serves me well enough. Replaceable, though, should you decide you’d like to uphold your promise.”

  “Was that the test, then? To see if I follow through on my promises?” Beneath her gloves, the mark she’d carved into her palm burned like a brand.

  “It was a present.”

  “Stick with jewelry and clothes.” She rose and glanced down at her suit. “Or useful things.”

  His eyes followed hers and lingered. “You fill it out better than you did at seventeen.”

  And that was quite enough. She clicked her tongue and turned away, but he gripped her arm—right where those invisible blades would snap out. He knew it, too. A dare; a challenge.

  “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.” He came close enough to graze his lips against hers if she should sway a fraction of an inch. “If you want me to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, Majesty, I’ll do just that. But you’ll still get me what I need.”

  She didn’t dare pull back. There was always such a gleaming in his silver eyes—like the cold light before dawn. She’d never been able to look away from it.

  He angled his head, the sun catching in his auburn hair. “What about the prince, though?”

  “Which prince?” she said carefully.

  Arobynn gave a knowing smile, retreating a few inches. “There are three princes, I suppose. Your cousin, and then the two that now share Dorian Havilliard’s body. Does the brave captain know that his friend is currently being devoured by one of those demons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know that you might decide to do the smart thing and put the king’s son down before he can become a threat?”

  She held his stare. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one who’s been meeting with him.”

  His answering chuckle sent ice skittering over her bones. “So the captain has a hard time sharing with you. He seems to share everything just fine with his former lover—that Faliq girl. Did you know that her father makes the best pear tarts in the entire capital? He’s even supplying some for the prince’s birthday. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  It was her turn to blink. She’d known Chaol had at least one lover other than Lithaen, but … Nesryn? And how convenient for him not to tell her, especially when he’d thrown whatever nonsense he believed about her and Rowan in her face. Your faerie prince, he’d snapped. She doubted Chaol had done anything with the young woman since she’d left for Wendlyn, but … But she was feeling exactly what Arobynn wanted her to feel.

  “Why don’t you stay out of our business, Arobynn?”

  “Don’t you want to know why the captain came to me again last night?”

  Bastards, both of them. She’d warned Chaol not to tangle with Arobynn. To reveal that she didn’t know or to conceal that vulnerability … Chaol wouldn’t jeopardize her safety or her plans for tomorrow, regardless of what information he kept from her. She smirked at Arobynn. “No. I was the one who sent him there.” She sauntered toward the study doors. “You must truly be bored if you summoned me merely to taunt me.”

  A glimmer of amusement. “Good luck tomorrow. All the plans are in place, in case you were worried.”

  “Of course they are. I’d expect nothing less from you.” She flung open one of the doors and waved her hand in lazy dismissal. “See you around, Master.”

  Aelin visited at the Royal Bank again on her way home, and when she returned to her apartment, Lysandra was waiting, as they’d planned.

  Even better, Lysandra had brought food. Lots of food.

  Aelin plunked down at the kitchen table where Lysandra currently lounged.

  The courtesan was gazing toward the wide window above the kitchen sink. “You do realize you’ve got a shadow on the roof next door, don’t you?”

  “He’s harmless.” And useful. Chaol had men watching the Keep, the palace gates, and the apartment—all to monitor Arobynn. Aelin cocked her head. “Keen eyes?”

  “Your master taught me a few tricks over the years. To protect myself, of course.” To protect his investment, was what she didn’t need to say. “You read the letter, I take it?”

  “Every damn word.”

  Indeed, she’d read through Wesley’s letter again and again, until she had memorized the dates and names and accounts, until she had seen so much fire that she was glad her magic was currently stifled. It changed little of her plans, but it helped. Now she knew she wasn’t wrong, that the names on her own list were correct. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it,” Aelin said. “Burning it was the only way to stay safe.”

  Lysandra just nodded, picking at a piece of lint on the bodice of her rust-colored gown. The red sleeves were loose and billowing, with tight black velvet cuffs and gold buttons that glinted in the morning light as she reached for one of the hothouse grapes Aelin had bought yesterday. An elegant gown, but modest.

  “The Lysandra I knew used to wear far less clothing,” Aelin said.

  Lysandra’s green eyes flickered. “The Lysandra you knew died a long time ago.”

  So had Celaena Sardothien. “I asked you to meet me today so we could … talk.”

  “About Arobynn?”

  “About you.”

  Elegant brows narrowed. “And when do we get to talk about you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What are you doing in Rifthold? Aside from rescuing the general tomorrow.”

  Aelin said, “I don’t know you well enough to answer that question.”

  Lysandra merely cocked her head. “Why Aedion?”

  “He’s more useful to me alive than dead.” Not a lie.

  Lysandra tapped a manicured nail on the worn table. After a moment she said, “I used to be so jealous of you. Not only did you have Sam but also Arobynn … I was such a fool, believing that he gave you everything and denied you nothing, hating you because I always knew, deep down, that I was just a pawn for him to use against you—a way to make you fight for his affection, to keep you on your toes, to hurt you. And I enjoyed it, because I thought it was better to be someone’s pawn than nothing at all.” Her hand shook as she raised it to brush back a strand of her hair. “I think I would have continued on that way for my whole life. But then—then Arobynn killed Sam and arranged for your capture, and … and summoned me the night you were hauled to Endovier. Afterward, on the carriage ride home, I just cried. I didn’t know why. But Wesley was in the carriage with me. That was the night that everything changed between us.” Lysandra glanced at the scars around Aelin’s wrists, then at the tattoo marring her own.

  Aelin said, “The other night, you didn’t just come to warn me about Arobynn.”

  When Lysandra raised her head, her eyes were frozen. “No,” she said with soft savagery. “I came to help you destroy him.”

  “You must trust me a great deal to have said that.”

  “You wrecked the Vaults,” Lysandra said. “It was for Sam, wasn’t it? Because those people—they all worked for Rourke Farran, and were there when …” She shook her head. “It’s all for Sam, whatever you have planned for Arobynn. Besides, if you betray me, there’s little that can hurt me more than what I’ve already endured.”

  Aelin leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, trying not to think about the darkness the woman across from her had survived. “I went too long without demanding retribution. I have no interest in forgiveness.”

  Lysandra smiled—and there was no joy in it. “After he murdered Wesley, I lay awake in his bed and thought about killing him right there. But it didn’t seem like enough, and the debt didn’t belong only to me.”

  For
a moment, Aelin couldn’t say anything. Then she shook her head. “You honestly mean to imply that you’ve been waiting for me this whole time?”

  “You loved Sam as much as I loved Wesley.”

  Her chest hollowed out, but she nodded. Yes, she’d loved Sam—more than she’d ever loved anyone. Even Chaol. And reading in Wesley’s letter exactly what Arobynn had ordered Rourke Farran to do to Sam had left a raging wound in the core of her. Sam’s clothes were still in the two bottom drawers of her dresser, where Arobynn had indeed unpacked them. She’d worn one of his shirts to bed these past two nights.

  Arobynn would pay.

  “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.”

  Lysandra heaved a sigh. “Oh, thank the gods. Now I can talk to someone about clothes without being asked how so-and-so would approve of it, or gobble down a box of chocolates without someone telling me I’d better watch my figure—tell me you like chocolates. You do, right? I remember stealing a box from your room once when you were out killing someone. They were delicious.”

  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.”

  The courtesan had no idea how close she was to the truth. Aelin wondered how the woman would react to her other form—to the elongated canines. Somehow, she doubted Lysandra would call her a monster for it—or for the flames at her command.

  Lysandra’s smile flickered. “Everything’s set for tomorrow?”

  “Is that worry I detect?”

  “You’re just going to waltz into the palace and think a different hair color will keep you from being noticed? You trust Arobynn that much?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Lysandra’s shrug was the definition of nonchalance. “I happen to know a thing or two about playing different roles. How to turn eyes away when you don’t want to be seen.”

  “I do know how to be stealthy, Lysandra. The plan is sound. Even if it was Arobynn’s idea.”

  “What if we killed two birds with one stone?”

  She might have dismissed it, might have shut her down, but there was such a wicked, feral gleam in the courtesan’s eyes.

  So Aelin rested her forearms on the table. “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  For every person Chaol and the rebels saved, it seemed there were always several more who made it to the butchering block.

  The sun was setting as he and Nesryn crouched on a rooftop flanking the small square. The only people who’d bothered to watch were the typical lowlifes, content to breathe in the misery of others. That didn’t bother him half as much as the decorations that had been put up in honor of Dorian’s birthday tomorrow: red and gold streamers and ribbons hung across the square like a net, while baskets of blue and white flowers bordered its outer edges. A charnel house bedecked in late-spring cheer.

  Nesryn’s bowstring groaned as she pulled it back farther.

  “Steady,” he warned her.

  “She knows what she’s doing,” Aelin muttered from a few feet away.

  Chaol cut her a glance. “Remind me why you’re here?”

  “I wanted to help—or is this an Adarlanians-only rebellion?”

  Chaol stifled his retort and turned his glare onto the square below.

  Tomorrow, everything he cared about depended on her. Antagonizing her wouldn’t be smart, even if it killed him to leave Dorian in her hands. But—

  “About tomorrow,” he said tightly, not taking his attention off the execution about to unfold. “You don’t touch Dorian.”

  “Me? Never,” Aelin purred.

  “It’s not a joke. You. Don’t. Hurt. Him.”

  Nesryn ignored them and angled her bow to the left. “I can’t get a clear shot at any of them.”

  Three men now stood before the block, a dozen guards around them. The boards of the wooden platform were already deeply stained with red from weeks of use. Gatherers monitored the massive clock above the execution platform, waiting for the iron hand to hit the six o’clock evening marker. They’d even tied gold and crimson ribbons to the clock’s lower rim. Seven minutes now.

  Chaol made himself look at Aelin. “Do you think you’ll be able to save him?”

  “Maybe. I’ll try.” No reaction in her eyes, in her posture.

  Maybe. Maybe. He said, “Does Dorian actually matter, or is he a pawn for Terrasen?”

  “Don’t even start with that.” For a moment he thought she was done, but then she spat, “Killing him, Chaol, would be a mercy. Killing him would be a gift.”

  “I can’t make the shot,” Nesryn said again—a bit more sharply.

  “Touch him,” Chaol said, “and I’ll make sure those bastards down there find Aedion.”

  Nesryn silently turned to them, slackening her bow. It was the only card he had to play, even if it made him a bastard as well.

  The wrath Chaol found in Aelin’s eyes was world-ending.

  “You bring my court into this, Chaol,” Aelin said with lethal softness, “and I don’t care what you were to me, or what you have done to help me. You betray them, you hurt them, and I don’t care how long it takes, or how far you go: I’ll burn you and your gods-damned kingdom to ash. Then you’ll learn just how much of a monster I can be.”

  Too far. He’d gone too far.

  “We’re not enemies,” Nesryn said, and though her face was calm, her eyes darted between them. “We have enough shit to worry about tomorrow. And right now.” She pointed with her arrow toward the square. “Five minutes until six. Do we go down there?”

  “Too public,” Aelin said. “Don’t risk exposing yourself. There’s another patrol a quarter mile away, headed in this direction.”

  Of course she knew about it. “Again,” Chaol said, “why are you here?” She’d just … snuck up on them. With far too much ease.

  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.

  And he knew—he knew that she was aware of the history between them. And she didn’t particularly care. He couldn’t tell whether or not it was a relief.

  “I’m debating ordering Arobynn’s men off the mission tomorrow,” Aelin said, those turquoise eyes fixed on Nesryn’s face, on her hands, on her bow. “I want Faliq on wall duty instead.”

  “No,” Chaol said.

  “Are you her keeper?” He didn’t deign to respond. Aelin crooned, “I thought so.”

  But Nesryn wouldn’t be on wall duty—and neither would he. He was too recognizable to risk being close to the palace, and Aelin and h
er piece-of-shit master had apparently decided he’d be better off running interference along the border of the slums, making sure the coast was clear. “Nesryn has her orders already.”

  In the square, people began swearing at the three men who were watching the clock with pale, gaunt faces. Some of the onlookers even threw bits of spoiled food at them. Maybe this city did deserve Aelin Galathynius’s flames. Maybe Chaol deserved to burn, too.

  He turned back to the women.

  “Shit,” Aelin swore, and he looked behind him in time to see the guards shove the first victim—a sobbing, middle-aged man—toward the block, using the pommels of their swords to knock his knees out from under him. They weren’t waiting until six. Another prisoner, also middle-aged, began shaking, and a dark stain spread across the front of his pants. Gods.

  Chaol’s muscles were locked, and even Nesryn couldn’t draw her bow fast enough as the ax rose.

  A thud silenced the city square. People applauded—applauded. The sound covered the second thud of the man’s head falling and rolling away.

  Then Chaol was in another room, in the castle that had once been his home, listening to the thud of flesh and bone on marble, red mist coating the air, Dorian screaming—

  Oath-breaker. Liar. Traitor. Chaol was all of those things now, but not to Dorian. Never to his true king.

  “Take out the clock tower in the garden,” he said, the words barely audible. He felt Aelin turn toward him. “And magic will be free. It was a spell—three towers, all built of Wyrdstone. Take out one, and magic is free.”

  She glanced northward without so much as a blink of surprise, as though she could see all the way to the glass castle. “Thank you,” she murmured. That was it.

  “It’s for Dorian’s sake.” Perhaps cruel, perhaps selfish, but true. “The king is expecting you tomorrow,” he went on. “What if he stops caring about the public knowing and unleashes his magic on you? You know what happened with Dorian.”