Queen of Shadows

  “This is our home,” Harding said.

  “Not anymore.” She picked at her nails. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Master,” she purred, and the man cringed at the attention. “I own this house and everything in it. Tern, Harding, and Mullin haven’t yet paid back their debts to poor Arobynn, so I own everything they have here—even their clothes. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll let them keep those, since their taste is shit-awful anyway. But their weapons, their client lists, the Guild … All of that is mine. I get to decide who’s in and who’s out. And since these three saw fit to accuse me of murdering my master, I say they’re out. If they try to work again in this city, on this continent, then by law and by the laws of the Guild, I have the right to hunt them down and chop them into itty-bitty pieces.” She batted her eyelashes. “Or am I wrong?”

  The Master’s gulp was audible. “You are correct.”

  Tern took a step toward her. “You can’t—you can’t do this.”

  “I can, and I will. Queen of the Assassins sounds so nice, doesn’t it?” She waved to the door. “See yourselves out.”

  Harding and Mullin made to move, but Tern flung his arms out, stopping them. “What the hell do you want from us?”

  “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind seeing you three gutted and hanging from the chandeliers by your insides, but I think it would ruin these very beautiful carpets that I’m now the owner of.”

  “You can’t just toss us out. What will we do? Where will we go?”

  “I hear hell is particularly nice at this time of year.”

  “Please—please,” Tern said, his breath coming fast.

  She stuffed her hands into her pockets and surveyed the room. “I suppose …” She made a thoughtful sound. “I suppose I could sell you the house, and the land, and the Guild.”

  “You bitch—” Tern spat, but Harding stepped forward. “How much?” he asked.

  “How much were the property and the Guild valued at, Master?”

  The Master looked like a man walking up to the gallows as he opened his file again and found the sum. Astronomical, outrageous, impossible for the three of them to pay.

  Harding ran a hand through his hair. Tern had turned a spectacular shade of purple.

  “I take it you don’t have that much,” Aelin said. “Too bad. I was going to offer to sell it all to you at face value—no markup.”

  She made to turn away, but Harding said, “Wait. What if we all paid together—the three of us and the others. So we all owned the house and the Guild.”

  She paused. “Money’s money. I don’t give a shit where you get it from, so long as it’s given to me.” She angled her head toward the Master. “Can you have the papers drawn up today? Providing they come through with the money, of course.”

  “This is insane,” Tern murmured to Harding.

  Harding shook his head. “Be quiet, Tern. Just—be quiet.”

  “I … ,” the Master said. “I—I can have them made up and ready within three hours. Will that be adequate time for you to provide proof of sufficient funds?”

  Harding nodded. “We’ll find the others and tell them.”

  She smiled at the Master and at the three men. “Congratulations on your new freedom.” She pointed to the door again. “And as I am mistress of this house for another three hours … get out. Go find your friends, get your money together, and then sit on the curb like the trash you are until the Master returns.”

  They wisely obeyed, Harding clamping down on Tern’s hand to keep him from giving her a vulgar gesture. When the Master of the Bank left, the assassins spoke to their colleagues, and every inhabitant of the house filed outside one by one, even the servants. She didn’t care what the neighbors made of it.

  Soon the giant, beautiful manor house was empty save for her, Aedion, and Rowan.

  They silently followed as she walked through the door to the lower levels and descended into the dark to see her master one last time.

  Rowan didn’t know what to make of it. A whirlwind of hate and rage and violence, that was what she’d become. And none of these piss-poor assassins had been surprised—not even a blink at her behavior. From Aedion’s pale face, he knew the general was thinking the same thing, contemplating the years she’d spent as that unyielding and vicious creature. Celaena Sardothien—that was who she’d been then, and who she’d become today.

  He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t reach her when she was that person. Hated that he’d snapped at her last night, had panicked at the touch of her hands. Now she’d shut him out entirely. This person she’d become today had no kindness, no joy.

  He followed her down into the dungeons, where candles lit a path toward the room where her master’s body was being kept. She was still swaggering, hands in her pockets, not caring that Rowan lived or breathed or even existed. Not real, he told himself. An act.

  But she’d avoided him since last night, and today she had actually stepped away from his touch when he’d dared to reach for her. That had been real.

  She strode through the open door into the same room where Sam had lain. Red hair spilled out from underneath the white silk sheet covering the naked body on the table, and she paused before it. Then she turned to Rowan and Aedion.

  She stared at them, waiting. Waiting for them to—

  Aedion swore. “You switched the will, didn’t you?”

  She gave a small, cold smile, her eyes shadowed. “You said you needed money for an army, Aedion. So here’s your money—all of it, and every coin for Terrasen. It was the least Arobynn owed us. That night I fought at the Pits, we were only there because I’d contacted the owners days before and told them to send out subtle feelers to Arobynn about investing. He took the bait—didn’t even question the timing of it. But I wanted to make sure he quickly earned back all the money he lost when I trashed the Vaults. So we wouldn’t be denied one coin owed to us.”

  Holy burning hell.

  Aedion shook his head. “How—how the hell did you even do it?”

  She opened her mouth, but Rowan said quietly, “She snuck into the bank—all those times that she slipped out in the middle of the night. And used all those daytime meetings with the Master of the Bank to get a better sense of the layout, where things were kept.” This woman, this queen of his … A familiar thrill raced through his blood. “You burned the originals?”

  She didn’t even look at him. “Clarisse would have been a very rich woman, and Tern would have become King of the Assassins. And you know what I would have received? The Amulet of Orynth. That was all he left me.”

  “That was how you knew he truly had it—and where he kept it,” Rowan said. “From reading the will.”

  She shrugged again, dismissing the shock and admiration he couldn’t keep from his face. Dismissing him.

  Aedion scrubbed at his face. “I don’t even know what to say. You should have told me so I didn’t act like a gawking fool up there.”

  “Your surprise needed to be genuine; even Lysandra didn’t know about the will.” Such a distant answer—closed and heavy. Rowan wanted to shake her, demand she talk to him, look at him. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if she wouldn’t let him near, if she pulled away again while Aedion was watching.

  Aelin turned back to Arobynn’s body and flipped the sheet away from his face, revealing a jagged wound that sliced across his pale neck.

  Lysandra had mangled him.

  Arobynn’s face had been arranged in an expression of calm, but from the blood Rowan had seen in the bedroom, the man had been very much awake while he choked on his own blood.

  Aelin peered down at her former master, her face blank save for a slight tightening around her mouth. “I hope the dark god finds a special place for you in his realm,” she said, and a shiver went down Rowan’s spine at the midnight caress in her tone.

  She extended a hand behind her to Aedion. “Give me your sword.”

  Aedion drew the Sword of Orynth and handed it to her. Aelin gazed down at the bla
de of her ancestors as she weighed it in her hands.

  When she raised her head, there was only icy determination in those remarkable eyes. A queen exacting justice.

  Then she lifted her father’s sword and severed Arobynn’s head from his body.

  It rolled to the side with a vulgar thud, and she smiled grimly at the corpse.

  “Just to be sure,” was all she said.

  PART TWO

  Queen of Light

  CHAPTER

  48

  Manon beat Asterin in the breakfast hall the morning after her outburst regarding the Yellowlegs coven. No one asked why; no one dared.

  Three unblocked blows.

  Asterin didn’t so much as flinch.

  When Manon was finished, the witch just stared her down, blue blood gushing from her broken nose. No smile. No wild grin.

  Then Asterin walked away.

  The rest of the Thirteen monitored them warily. Vesta, now Manon’s Third, looked half inclined to sprint after Asterin, but a shake of Sorrel’s head kept the red-haired witch still.

  Manon was off-kilter all day afterward.

  She’d told Sorrel to stay quiet about the Yellowlegs, but wondered if she should tell Asterin to do the same.

  She hesitated, thinking about it.

  You let them do this.

  The words danced around and around in Manon’s head, along with that preachy little speech Elide had made the night before. Hope. What drivel.

  The words were still dancing when Manon stalked into the duke’s council chamber twenty minutes later than his summons demanded.

  “Do you delight in offending me with your tardiness, or are you incapable of telling time?” the duke said from his seat. Vernon and Kaltain were at the table, the former smirking, the latter staring blankly ahead. No sign of shadowfire.

  “I’m an immortal,” Manon said, taking a seat across from them as Sorrel stood guard by the doors, Vesta in the hall outside. “Time means nothing to me.”

  “A little sass from you today,” Vernon said. “I like it.”

  Manon leveled a cold look at him. “I missed breakfast this morning, human. I’d be careful if I were you.”

  The lord only smiled.

  She leaned back in her chair. “Why did you summon me this time?”

  “I need another coven.”

  Manon kept her face blank. “What of the Yellowlegs you already have?”

  “They are recovering well and will be ready for visitors soon.”

  Liar.

  “A Blackbeak coven this time,” the duke pressed.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want one, and you’ll provide one, and that’s all you need to know.”

  You let them do this.

  She could feel Sorrel’s gaze on the back of her head.

  “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.”

  A flash of yellowing teeth. “Pick your strongest coven, and send them downstairs.”

  “That will require some consideration.”

  “Do it fast, or I will pick myself.”

  You let them do this.

  “And in the meantime,” the duke said as he rose from his seat in a swift, powerful movement, “prepare your Thirteen. I have a mission for you.”

  Manon sailed on a hard, fast wind, pushing Abraxos even as clouds gathered, even as a storm broke around the Thirteen. Out. She had to get out, had to remember the bite of the wind on her face, what unchecked speed and unlimited strength were like.

  Even if the rush of it was somewhat diminished by the rider she held in front of her, her frail body bundled up against the elements.

  Lightning cleaved the air so close by that Manon could taste the tang of the ether, and Abraxos veered, plunging into rain and cloud and wind. Kaltain didn’t so much as flinch. Shouts burst from the men riding with the rest of the Thirteen.

  Thunder cracked, and the world went numb with the sound. Even Abraxos’s roar was muted in her dulled ears. The perfect cover for their ambush.

  You let them do this.

  The rain soaking through her gloves turned to warm, sticky blood.

  Abraxos caught an updraft and ascended so fast that Manon’s stomach dropped. She held Kaltain tightly, even though the woman was harnessed in. Not one reaction from her.

  Duke Perrington, riding with Sorrel, was a cloud of darkness in Manon’s peripheral vision as they soared through the canyons of the White Fangs, which they had so carefully mapped all these weeks.

  The wild tribes would have no idea what was upon them until it was too late.

  She knew there was no way to outrun this—no way to avoid it.

  Manon kept flying through the heart of the storm.

  When they reached the village, blended into the snow and rock, Sorrel swooped in close enough for Kaltain to hear Perrington. “The houses. Burn them all.”

  Manon glanced at the duke, then at her charge. “Should we land—”

  “From here,” the duke ordered, and his face became grotesquely soft as he spoke to Kaltain. “Do it now, pet.”

  Below, a small female figure slipped out of one of the heavy tents. She looked up, shouting.

  Dark flames—shadowfire—engulfed her from head to toe. Her scream was carried to Manon on the wind.

  Then there were others, pouring out as the unholy fire leaped upon their houses, their horses.

  “All of them, Kaltain,” the duke said over the wind. “Keep circling, Wing Leader.”

  Sorrel met Manon’s stare. Manon quickly looked away and reeled Abraxos back around the pass where the tribe had been camped. There were rebels among them; Manon knew because she’d tracked them herself.

  Shadowfire ripped through the camp. People dropped to the ground, shrieking, pleading in tongues Manon didn’t understand. Some fainted from the pain; some died from it. The horses were bucking and screaming—such wretched sounds that even Manon’s spine stiffened.

  Then it vanished.

  Kaltain sagged in Manon’s arms, panting, gasping down raspy breaths.

  “She’s done,” Manon said to the duke.

  Irritation flickered on his granite-hewn face. He observed the people running about, trying to help those who were weeping or unconscious—or dead. Horses fled in every direction.

  “Land, Wing Leader, and put an end to it.”

  Any other day, a good bloodletting would have been enjoyable. But at his order …

  She’d scouted this tribe for him.

  You let them do this.

  Manon barked the command to Abraxos, but his descent was slow—as if giving her time to reconsider. Kaltain was shuddering in Manon’s arms, nearly convulsing. “What’s wrong with you?” Manon said to the woman, half wondering if she should stage an accident that would end with the woman’s neck snapped on the rocks.

  Kaltain said nothing, but the lines of her body were locked tight, as if frozen despite the fur she’d been wrapped in.

  Too many eyes—there were too many eyes on them for Manon to kill her. And if she was so valuable to the duke, Manon had no doubt he’d take one—or all—of the Thirteen as retribution. “Hurry, Abraxos,” she said, and he picked up his pace with a snarl. She ignored the disobedience, the disapproval, in the sound.

  They landed on a flattened bit of mountain ledge, and Manon left Kaltain in Abraxos’s care as she stomped through the sleet and snow toward the panicking village.

  The Thirteen silently fell into rank behind her. She didn’t glance at them; part of her didn’t dare to see what might be on their faces.

  The villagers halted as they beheld the coven standing atop the rock outcropping jutting over the hollow where they’d made their home.

  Manon drew Wind-Cleaver. And then the screaming started anew.

  CHAPTER

  49

  By midafternoon, Aelin had signed all the
documents the Master of the Bank brought over, abandoned the Keep to its horrible new owners, and Aedion still hadn’t wrapped his mind around everything that she had done.

  Their carriage deposited them at the edge of the slums, and they kept to the shadows as they made their way home, silent and unseen. Yet when they reached the warehouse, Aelin kept walking toward the river several blocks away without so much as a word. Rowan took a step to follow, but Aedion cut him off.

  He must have had a death wish, because Aedion even raised his brows a bit at the Fae Prince before he sauntered down the street after her. He’d heard their little fight on the roof last night thanks to his open bedroom window. Even now, he honestly couldn’t decide if he was amused or enraged by Rowan’s words—Don’t touch me like that—when it was obvious the warrior-prince felt quite the opposite. But Aelin—gods above, Aelin was still figuring it out.

  She was stomping down the street with delightful temper as she said, “If you’ve come along to reprimand—oh.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to turn around.”

  “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.”

  She rolled her eyes and continued on. They walked silently for block after block until they reached the glimmering brown river. A decrepit, filthy length of cobblestone walkway ran along the water’s edge. Below, abandoned and crumbling posts were all that was left of an ancient dock.

  She stared out across the muddy water, crossing her arms. The afternoon light was nearly blinding as it reflected off the calm surface. “Out with it,” she said.

  “Today—who you were today … that wasn’t entirely a mask.”

  “That bothers you? You saw me cut down the king’s men.”

  “It bothers me that the people we met today didn’t bat an eye at that person. It bothers me that you were that person for a time.”

  “What do you want me to tell you? Do you want me to apologize for it?”

  “No—gods, no. I just …” The words were coming out all wrong. “You know that when I went to those war camps, when I became general … I let the lines blur, too. But I was still in the North, still home, among our people. You came here instead, and had to grow up with those piece-of-shit men, and … I wish I’d been here. I wish Arobynn had somehow found me, too, and raised us together.”