Queen of Shadows

  Rowan gave a sharp nod of agreement—and Aedion supposed he should be flattered. Until Rowan said, “My cadre, as Aelin likes to call them, was a lethal unit because we stuck together and abided by the same code. Maeve might be a sadist, but she ensured that we all understood and followed it. Aelin would never force us into anything, and our code will be different—better—than Maeve’s. You and I are going to form the backbone of this court. We will shape and decide our own code.”

  “What? Obedience and blind loyalty?” He didn’t feel like getting a lecture. Even if Rowan was right, and every word out of the prince’s mouth was one that Aedion had dreamed of hearing for a decade. He should have been the one to initiate this conversation. Gods above, he’d had this conversation with Ren weeks ago.

  Rowan’s eyes glittered. “To protect and serve.”

  “Aelin?” He could do that; he had already planned on doing that.

  “Aelin. And each other. And Terrasen.” No room for argument, no hint of doubt.

  A small part of Aedion understood why his cousin had offered the prince the blood oath.

  “Who is that?” Lysandra said too innocently as Aelin escorted her up the stairs.

  “Rowan,” Aelin said, kicking open the apartment door.

  “He’s spectacularly built,” she mused. “I’ve never been with a Fae male. Or female, for that matter.”

  Aelin shook her head to try to clear the image from her mind. “He’s—” She swallowed. Lysandra was grinning, and Aelin hissed, setting down the bags on the great room floor and shutting the door. “Stop that.”

  “Hmm,” was all Lysandra said, dropping her boxes and bags beside Aelin’s. “Well, I have two things. One, Nesryn sent me a note this morning saying that you had a new, very muscled guest staying and to bring some clothes. So I brought clothes. Looking at our guest, I think Nesryn undersold him a good deal, so the clothes might be tight—not that I’m objecting to that one bit—but he can use them until you get others.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and Lysandra waved a slender hand. She’d thank Faliq later.

  “The other thing I brought you is news. Arobynn received a report last night that two prison wagons were spotted heading south to Morath—chock full of all those missing people.”

  She wondered if Chaol knew, and if he had tried to stop it. “Does he know that former magic-wielders are being targeted?”

  A nod. “He’s been tracking which people disappear and which get sent south in the prison wagons. He’s looking into all his clients’ lineages now, no matter how the families tried to conceal their histories after magic was banned, to see if he can use anything to his advantage. It’s something to consider when dealing with him … given your talents.”

  Aelin chewed on her lip. “Thank you for telling me that, too.”

  Fantastic. Arobynn, Lorcan, the king, the Valg, the key, Dorian … She had half a mind to stuff her face with every remaining morsel of food in the kitchen.

  “Just prepare yourself.” Lysandra glanced at a small pocket watch. “I need to go. I have a lunch appointment.” No doubt why Evangeline wasn’t with her.

  She was almost to the door when Aelin said, “How much longer—until you’re free of your debts?”

  “I still have a great deal to pay off, so—a while.” Lysandra paced a few steps, and then caught herself. “Clarisse keeps adding money as Evangeline grows, claiming that someone so beautiful would have made her double, triple what she originally told me.”

  “That’s despicable.”

  “What can I do?” Lysandra held up her wrist, where the tattoo had been inked. “She’ll hunt me until the day I die, and I can’t run with Evangeline.”

  “I could dig Clarisse a grave no one would ever discover,” Aelin said. And meant it.

  Lysandra knew she meant it, too. “Not yet—not now.”

  “You say the word, and it’s done.”

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

  Standing before a crate in the cavernous warehouse, Chaol studied the map Aelin had just handed him. He focused on the blank spots—trying not to stare at the warrior-prince on guard by the door.

  It was hard to avoid doing so when Rowan’s presence somehow sucked out all the air in the warehouse.

  Then there was the matter of the delicately pointed ears peeking out from the short silver hair. Fae—he’d never seen one other than Aelin in those brief, petrifying moments. And Rowan … Conveniently, in all her storytelling, Aelin had forgotten to mention that the prince was so handsome.

  A handsome Fae Prince, whom she’d spent months living and training with—while Chaol’s own life fell apart, while people died because of her actions—

  Rowan was watching Chaol as if he might be dinner. Depending on his Fae form, that might not be too far wrong.

  Every instinct was screaming at him to run, despite the fact that Rowan had been nothing but polite. Distant and intense, but polite. Still, Chaol didn’t need to see the prince in action to know that he would be dead before he could even draw his sword.

  “You know, he won’t bite,” Aelin crooned.

  Chaol leveled a stare at her. “Can you just explain what these maps are for?”

  “Anything you, Ress, or Brullo can fill in regarding these gaps in the castle defenses would be appreciated,” she said. Not an answer. There was no sign of Aedion among the stacked crates, but the general was probably listening from somewhere nearby with his keen Fae hearing.

  “For you to bring down the clock tower?” Chaol asked, folding up the map and tucking it into the inner pocket of his tunic.

  “Maybe,” she said. He tried not to bristle. But there was something settled about her now—as if some invisible tension in her face had vanished. He tried not to look toward the door again.

  “I haven’t heard from Ress or Brullo for a few days,” he said instead. “I’ll make contact soon.”

  She nodded, pulling out a second map—this one of the labyrinthine network of the sewers—and weighted down the ends with whatever small blades she had on her. A good number of them, apparently.

  “Arobynn learned that the missing prisoners were taken to Morath last night. Did you know?”

  Another failure that fell on his shoulders—another disaster. “No.”

  “They can’t have gotten far. You could gather a team and ambush the wagons.”

  “I know I could.”

  “Are you going to?”

  He laid a hand on the map. “Did you bring me here to prove a point about my uselessness?”

  She straightened. “I asked you to come because I thought it would be helpful for the both of us. We’re both—we’re both under a fair amount of pressure these days.”

  Her turquoise-and-gold eyes were calm—unfazed.

  Chaol said, “When do you make your move?”

  “Soon.”

  Again, not an answer. He said as evenly as he could, “Anything else I should know?”

  “I’d start avoiding the sewers. It’s your death warrant if you don’t.”

  “There are people trapped down there—we’ve found the nests, but no sign of the prisoners. I won’t abandon them.”

  “That’s all well and good,” she said, and he clenched his teeth at the dismissal in her tone, “but there are worse things than Valg grunts patrolling the sewers, and I bet they won’t turn a blind eye to anyone in their territory. I would weigh the risks if I were you.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “So are you going to ambush the prison wagons?”

  “Of course I am.” Even though the rebels’ numbers were down. So many of their people were either fleeing the city altogether or refusing to risk their necks in an increasingly futile battle.

  Was that concern flickering in her eyes? But she said, “They use warded locks on the wagons. And the doors are reinforced with iron. Bring the right tools.”

  He drew in a breath to snap at her about talking down to him, but—

  She would know abo
ut the wagons; she’d spent weeks in one.

  He couldn’t quite meet her stare as he straightened up to go.

  “Tell Faliq that Prince Rowan says thank you for the clothes,” Aelin said.

  What the hell was she talking about? Perhaps it was another jab.

  So he made for the door, where Rowan stepped aside with a murmured farewell. Nesryn had told him she’d spent the evening with Aedion and Aelin, but he hadn’t realized they might be … friends. He hadn’t considered that Nesryn might wind up unable to resist the allure of Aelin Galathynius.

  Though he supposed that Aelin was a queen. She did not falter. She did not do anything but plow ahead, burning bright.

  Even if it meant killing Dorian.

  They hadn’t spoken of it since the day of Aedion’s rescue. But it still hung between them. And when she went to free magic … Chaol would again have the proper precautions in place.

  Because he did not think she would put her sword down the next time.

  CHAPTER

  34

  Aelin knew she had things to do—vital things, terrible things—but she could sacrifice one day.

  Keeping to the shadows whenever possible, she spent the afternoon showing Rowan the city, from the elegant residential districts to the markets crammed with vendors selling goods for the summer solstice in two weeks.

  There was no sign or scent of Lorcan, thank the gods. But the king’s men were posted at a few busy intersections, giving Aelin an opportunity to point them out to Rowan. He studied them with trained efficiency, his keen sense of smell enabling him to pick out which ones were still human and which were inhabited by lesser Valg demons. From the look on his face, she honestly felt a little bad for any guard that came across him, demon or human. A little, but not much. Especially given that their presence alone somewhat ruined her plans for a peaceful, quiet day.

  She wanted to show Rowan the good parts of the city before dragging him into its underbelly.

  So she took him to one of Nesryn’s family’s bakeries, where she went so far as to buy a few of those pear tarts. At the docks, Rowan even convinced her to try some pan-fried trout. She’d once sworn never to eat fish, and had cringed as the fork had neared her mouth, but—the damned thing was delicious. She ate her entire fish, then snuck bites of Rowan’s, to his snarling dismay.

  Here—Rowan was here with her, in Rifthold. And there was so much more she wanted him to see, to learn about what her life had been like. She’d never wanted to share any of it before.

  Even when she’d heard the crack of a whip after lunch as they cooled themselves by the water, she’d wanted him with her to witness it. He’d silently stood with a hand on her shoulder as they watched the cluster of chained slaves hauling cargo onto one of the ships. Watched—and could do nothing.

  Soon, she promised herself. Putting an end to that was a high priority.

  They meandered back through the market stalls, one after another, until the smell of roses and lilies wafted by, the river breeze sweeping petals of every shape and color past their feet as the flower girls shouted about their wares.

  She turned to him. “If you were a gentleman, you’d buy me—”

  Rowan’s face had gone blank, his eyes hollow as he stared at one of the flower girls in the center of the square, a basket of hothouse peonies on her thin arm. Young, pretty, dark-haired, and— Oh, gods.

  She shouldn’t have brought him here. Lyria had sold flowers in the market; she’d been a poor flower girl before Prince Rowan had spotted her and instantly known she was his mate. A faerie tale—until she’d been slaughtered by enemy forces. Pregnant with Rowan’s child.

  Aelin clenched and unclenched her fingers, any words lodged in her throat. Rowan was still staring at the girl, who smiled at a passing woman, aglow with some inner light.

  “I didn’t deserve her,” Rowan said quietly.

  Aelin swallowed hard. There were wounds in both of them that had yet to heal, but this one … Truth. As always, she could offer him one truth in exchange for another. “I didn’t deserve Sam.”

  He looked at her at last.

  She’d do anything to get rid of the agony in his eyes. Anything.

  His gloved fingers brushed her own, then dropped back to his side.

  She clenched her hand into a fist again. “Come. I want to show you something.”

  Aelin scrounged up some dessert from the street vendors while Rowan waited in a shadowed alley. Now, sitting on one of the wooden rafters in the gilded dome of the darkened Royal Theater, Aelin munched on a lemon cookie and swung her legs in the open air below. The space was the same as she remembered it, but the silence, the darkness …

  “This used to be my favorite place in the entire world,” she said, her words too loud in the emptiness. Sunlight poured in from the roof door they’d broken into, illuminating the rafters and the golden dome, gleaming faintly off the polished brass banisters and the bloodred curtains of the stage below. “Arobynn owns a private box, so I went any chance I could. The nights I didn’t feel like dressing up or being seen, or maybe the nights I had a job and only an hour free, I’d creep in here through that door and listen.”

  Rowan finished his cookie and gazed at the dark space below. He’d been so quiet for the past thirty minutes—as if he’d pulled back into a place where she couldn’t reach him.

  She nearly sighed with relief as he said, “I’ve never seen an orchestra—or a theater like this, crafted around sound and luxury. Even in Doranelle, the theaters and amphitheaters are ancient, with benches or just steps.”

  “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.”

  Florine had said as much. Aelin sighed. “This place has been shut down for months, and yet I swear I can still hear the music floating in the air.”

  Rowan angled his head, studying the dark with those immortal senses. “Perhaps the music does live on, in some form.”

  The thought made her eyes sting. “I wish you could have heard it—I wish you had been there to hear Pytor conduct the Stygian Suite. Sometimes, I feel like I’m still sitting down in that box, thirteen years old and weeping from the sheer glory of it.”

  “You cried?” She could almost see the memories of their training this spring flash in his eyes: all those times music had calmed or unleashed her magic. It was a part of her soul—as much as he was.

  “The final movement—every damn time. I would go back to the Keep and have the music in my mind for days, even as I trained or killed or slept. It was a kind of madness, loving that music. It was why I started playing the pianoforte—so I could come home at night and make my poor attempt at replicating it.”

  She’d never told anyone that—never taken anyone here, either.

  Rowan said, “Is there a pianoforte in here?”

  “I haven’t played in months and months. And this is a horrible idea for about a dozen different reasons,” she said for the tenth time as she finished rolling back the curtains on the stage.

  She’d stood here before, when Arobynn’s patronage had earned them invitations to galas held on the stage for the sheer thrill of walking on sacred space. But now, amid the gloom of the dead theater, lit with the single candle Rowan had found, it felt like standing in a tomb.

  The chairs of the orchestra were still arranged as they probably had been the night the musicians had walked out to protest the massacres in Endovier and Calaculla. They were all still unaccounted for—and considering the array of miseries the king now heaped upon the world, death would have been the kindest option.

  Clenching her jaw, Aelin leashed the familiar, writhing anger.

  Rowan was standing beside the pianoforte near the fron
t right of the stage, running a hand over the smooth surface as if it were a prize horse.

  She hesitated before the magnificent instrument. “It seems like sacrilege to play that thing,” she said, the word echoing loudly in the space.

  “Since when are you the religious type, anyway?” Rowan gave her a crooked smile. “Where should I stand to best hear it?”

  “You might be in for a lot of pain at first.”

  “Self-conscious today, too?”

  “If Lorcan’s snooping about,” she grumbled, “I’d rather he not report back to Maeve that I’m lousy at playing.” She pointed to a spot on the stage. “There. Stand there, and stop talking, you insufferable bastard.”

  He chuckled, and moved to the spot she’d indicated.

  She swallowed as she slid onto the smooth bench and folded back the lid, revealing the gleaming white and black keys beneath. She positioned her feet on the pedals, but made no move to touch the keyboard.

  “I haven’t played since before Nehemia died,” she admitted, the words too heavy.

  “We can come back another day, if you want.” A gentle, steady offer.

  His silver hair glimmered in the dim candlelight. “There might not be another day. And—and I would consider my life very sad indeed if I never played again.”

  He nodded and crossed his arms. A silent order.

  She faced the keys and slowly set her hands on the ivory. It was smooth and cool and waiting—a great beast of sound and joy about to be awakened.

  “I need to warm up,” she blurted, and plunged in without another word, playing as softly as she could.

  Once she had started seeing the notes in her mind again, when muscle memory had her fingers reaching for those familiar chords, she began.

  It was not the sorrowful, lovely piece she had once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she’d played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing.

  Perhaps that was why she’d gone to hear it performed every year, after so much killing and torture and punishment: as a reminder of what she was, of what she struggled to keep.