Queen of Shadows

  He shouldn’t have gotten in.

  There had been witches everywhere, and she’d set sentinels from another coven to guard the halls so that none of the duke’s men could catch them unawares.

  As one, the Thirteen turned toward the handsome young man.

  And as one, they flinched as he smiled, and a wave of darkness crashed into them.

  Darkness without end, darkness even Manon’s eyes couldn’t penetrate, and—

  And Manon was again standing before that Crochan witch, a dagger in her hand.

  “We pity you … for what you do to your children … You force them to kill and hurt and hate until there is nothing left inside of them—of you. That is why you are here,” the Crochan wept … “Because of the threat you posed to the monster you call grandmother when you chose mercy and you saved your rival’s life.”

  Manon violently shook her head, blinking. Then it was gone. There was only darkness, and the Thirteen, shouting to one another, struggling, and—

  A golden-haired young man had been in that room with the Yellowlegs, Elide had said.

  Manon started prowling through the darkness, navigating the room by memory and smell. Some of her Thirteen were nearby; some had backed against the walls. And the otherworldly reek of the man, of the demon inside him—

  The smell wrapped around her fully, and Manon drew Wind- Cleaver.

  Then there he was, chuckling as someone—Ghislaine—started screaming. Manon had never heard that sound. She’d never heard any of them scream with … with fear. And pain.

  Manon hurtled into a blind sprint and tackled him to the ground. No sword—she didn’t want a sword for this execution.

  Light cracked around her, and there was his handsome face, and that collar. “Wing Leader,” he grinned, in a voice that was not from this world.

  Manon’s hands were around his throat, squeezing, her nails ripping through his skin.

  “Were you sent here?” she demanded.

  Her eyes met his—and the ancient malice in them shrank back. “Get away,” he hissed.

  Manon did no such thing. “Were you sent here?” she roared.

  The young man surged up, but then Asterin was there, pinning his legs. “Make him bleed,” she said from behind Manon.

  The creature continued thrashing. And in the darkness, some of the Thirteen were still shouting in agony and terror. “Who sent you?” Manon bellowed.

  His eyes shifted—turning blue, turning clear. It was with a young man’s voice that he said, “Kill me. Please—please kill me. Roland—my name was Roland. Tell my—”

  Then blackness spread across his eyes again, along with pure panic at whatever he beheld in Manon’s face, and in Asterin’s over her shoulder. The demon inside the man shrieked: “Get away!”

  She’d heard and seen enough. Manon squeezed harder, her iron nails shredding through mortal flesh and muscle. Black, reeking blood coated her hand, and she ripped harder into him, until she got to the bone and slashed through it, and his head thumped against the floor.

  Manon could have sworn he sighed.

  The darkness vanished, and Manon was instantly on her feet, gore dripping from her hands as she surveyed the damage.

  Ghislaine sobbed in the corner, all the color leeched from her rich, dark skin. Thea and Kaya were both tearstained and silent, the two lovers gaping at each other. And Edda and Briar, both of her Shadows, both born and raised in darkness … they were on their hands and knees, puking. Right alongside the green-eyed demon twins, Faline and Fallon.

  The rest of the Thirteen were unharmed. Still flush with color, some panting from the momentary surge of rage and energy, but … Fine.

  Had only some of them been targeted?

  Manon looked at Asterin—at Sorrel, and Vesta, and Lin, and Imogen.

  Then at the ones that had been drained.

  They all met her gaze this time.

  Get away, the demon had screamed—as if in surprise and terror.

  After looking her in the eyes.

  Those who had been affected … their eyes were ordinary colors. Brown and blue and green. But the ones who hadn’t …

  Black eyes, flecked with gold.

  And when he’d looked at Manon’s eyes …

  Gold eyes had always been prized among Blackbeaks. She’d never wondered why.

  But now wasn’t the time. Not with this reeking blood soaking into her skin.

  “This was a reminder,” Manon said, her voice bouncing hollowly off the stones. She turned from the room. Leave them to each other. “Get rid of that body.”

  Manon waited until Kaltain was alone, drifting up one of the forgotten spiraling staircases of Morath, before she pounced.

  The woman didn’t flinch as Manon pinned her against the wall, her iron nails digging into Kaltain’s pale, bare shoulders. “Where does the shadowfire come from?”

  Dark, empty eyes met hers. “From me.”

  “Why you? What magic is it? Valg power?”

  Manon studied the collar around the woman’s thin throat.

  Kaltain gave a small, dead smile. “It was mine—to start. Then it was … melded with another source. And now it is the power of every world, every life.”

  Nonsense. Manon pushed her harder into the dark stone. “How do you take that collar off?”

  “It does not come off.”

  Manon bared her teeth. “And what do you want with us? To put collars on us?”

  “They want kings,” Kaltain breathed, her eyes flickering with some strange, sick delight. “Mighty kings. Not you.”

  More drivel. Manon growled—but then there was a delicate hand on her wrist.

  And it burned.

  Oh, gods, it burned, and her bones were melting, her iron nails had become molten ore, her blood was boiling—

  Manon leaped back from Kaltain, and only gripping her wrist told her that the injuries weren’t real. “I’m going to kill you,” Manon hissed.

  But shadowfire danced on Kaltain’s fingertips even as the woman’s face went blank again. Without a word, as if she had done nothing, Kaltain walked up the stairs and vanished.

  Alone in the stairwell, Manon cradled her arm, the echo of pain still reverberating through her bones. Slaughtering that tribe with Wind-Cleaver, she told herself, had been a mercy.

  CHAPTER

  52

  As they left the Sin-Eater’s temple, Chaol marveled at how strange it was to be working with Aelin and her court. How strange it was to not be fighting her for once.

  He shouldn’t have even gone with them, given how much there was to do. Half the rebels had left Rifthold, more fleeing every day, and those who remained were pushing to relocate to another city. He’d kept them in line as much as he could, relying on Nesryn to back him up whenever they started to bring up his own past with the king. There were still people going missing, being executed—still people whom they rescued as often as they could from the butchering blocks. He would keep doing it until he was the last rebel left in this city; he would stay to help them, to protect them. But if what they’d learned about Erawan was true …

  Gods help them all.

  Back on the city street, he turned in time to see Rowan offer a helping hand to pull Aelin out of the sewers. She seemed to hesitate, but then gripped it, her hand swallowed by his.

  A team, solid and unbreaking.

  The Fae Prince hoisted her up and set her on her feet. Neither of them immediately let go of the other.

  Chaol waited—waited for that twist and tug of jealousy, for the bile of it to sting him.

  But there was nothing. Only a flickering relief, perhaps, that …

  That Aelin had Rowan.

  He must be feeling truly sorry for himself, he decided.

  Footsteps sounded, and they all went still, weapons drawn, just as—

  “I’ve been looking for you for an hour,” Nesryn said, hurrying out of the alley shadows. “What’s—” She noticed their grim faces. They’d left the hellfire d
own there, hidden in a sarcophagus, for safekeeping—and to keep themselves from being melted should things go very wrong.

  He was surprised Aelin had let him know that much—though how she planned to get into the castle, she hadn’t told him.

  Just tell Ress and Brullo and the others to stay the hell away from the clock tower was her only warning so far. He’d almost demanded to know what her plans were for the other innocents in the castle, but … It had been nice. To have one afternoon with no fighting, with no one hating him. To feel like he was part of their unit.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” Chaol said to her. But Nesryn’s face was pale. “What is it?”

  Aelin, Rowan, and Aedion stalked up to them with that unnatural, immortal silence.

  Nesryn squared her shoulders. “I received word from Ren. He got into some minor trouble on the border, but he’s fine. He has a message for you—for us.” She brushed back a strand of her inky hair. Her hand trembled slightly.

  Chaol braced himself, fought against the urge to put a hand on her arm. “The king,” Nesryn went on, “has been building an army down in Morath, under Duke Perrington’s supervision. The Valg guards around Rifthold are the first of them. More are coming up this way.”

  Valg footsoldiers, then. Morath, it seemed, might very well be their first or last battleground.

  Aedion cocked his head, the Wolf incarnate. “How many?”

  “Too many,” Nesryn said. “We haven’t gotten a full count. Some are camped inside mountains surrounding the war camp—never out all at once, never in full sight. But it’s an army greater than any he’s assembled before.”

  Chaol’s palms became slick with sweat.

  “And more than that,” Nesryn said, her voice hoarse, “the king now has an aerial cavalry of Ironteeth witches—a host three thousand strong—who have been secretly training in the Ferian Gap to ride wyverns that the king has somehow managed to create and breed.”

  Gods above.

  Aelin lifted her head, gazing up at the brick wall as if she could see that aerial army there, the movement revealing the ring of scars around her neck.

  Dorian—they needed Dorian on the throne. Needed this shut down.

  “You are certain of this?” Aedion said.

  Rowan was staring at Nesryn, his face the portrait of a cold, calculating warrior, and yet—yet he’d somehow moved closer to Aelin.

  Nesryn said tightly, “We lost many spies to attain that information.”

  Chaol wondered which of them had been her friends.

  Aelin spoke, her voice flat and hard. “Just to make sure I have it right: we are now facing three thousand bloodthirsty Ironteeth witches on wyverns. And a host of deadly soldiers gathering in the south of Adarlan, likely to cut off any alliance between Terrasen and the southern kingdoms.”

  Leaving Terrasen stranded. Say it, Chaol silently beseeched her. Say that you need Dorian—free and alive.

  Aedion mused, “Melisande might be capable of uniting with us.” He pinned Chaol with an assessing stare—a general’s stare. “Do you think your father knows about the wyverns and witches? Anielle is the closest city to the Ferian Gap.”

  His blood chilled. Was that why his father had been so keen to get him home? He sensed Aedion’s next question before the general spoke. “He doesn’t wear a black ring,” Chaol said. “But I doubt you’d find him a pleasant ally—if he bothered to ally with you at all.”

  “Things to consider,” Rowan said, “should we need an ally to punch through the southern lines.” Gods, they were actually talking about this. War—war was coming. And they might not all survive it.

  “So what are they waiting for?” Aedion said, pacing. “Why not attack now?”

  Aelin’s voice was soft—cold. “Me. They’re waiting for me to make my move.”

  None of them contradicted her.

  Chaol’s voice was strained as he shoved aside his swarming thoughts. “Anything else?”

  Nesryn reached into her tunic and pulled out a letter. She handed it to Aedion. “From your second in command. They all worry for you.”

  “There’s a tavern down the block. Give me five minutes, and I’ll have a reply for you,” Aedion said, already striding away. Nesryn followed him, giving Chaol a silent nod. The general said over his shoulder to Rowan and Aelin, his heavy hood concealing any telltale features, “I’ll see you at home.”

  Meeting over.

  But Aelin suddenly said, “Thank you.”

  Nesryn paused, somehow knowing the queen had spoken to her.

  Aelin put a hand on her heart. “For all that you’re risking—thank you.”

  Nesryn’s eyes flickered as she said, “Long live the queen.”

  But Aelin had already turned away.

  Nesryn met Chaol’s gaze, and he followed after her and Aedion.

  An indestructible army, possibly led by Erawan, if the King of Adarlan were insane enough to raise him.

  An army that could crush any human resistance.

  But … but maybe not if they allied with magic-wielders.

  That is, if the magic-wielders, after all that had been done to them, even wanted to bother saving their world.

  “Talk to me,” Rowan said from behind her as Aelin stormed down street after street.

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t form the thoughts, let alone the words.

  How many spies and rebels had lost their lives to get that information? And how much worse would it feel when she sent people to their deaths—when she had to watch her soldiers butchered by those monsters? If Elena had thrown her a bone tonight, somehow leading that opium monger to the Sin-Eater’s temple so that they might find it, she wasn’t feeling particularly grateful.

  “Aelin,” Rowan said, quietly enough for only her and the alley rats to hear.

  She’d barely survived Baba Yellowlegs. How would anyone survive an army of witches trained in combat?

  He gripped her elbow, forcing her to stop. “We’ll face this together,” he breathed, his eyes shining bright and canines gleaming. “As we have in the past. To whatever end.”

  She trembled—trembled like a gods-damned coward—and yanked free, stalking away. She didn’t even know where she was going—only that she had to walk, had to find a way to sort herself out, sort the world out, before she stopped moving, or else she would never move again.

  Wyverns. Witches. A new, even bigger army. The alley pressed in on her, sealing as tightly as one of those flooded sewer tunnels.

  “Talk to me,” Rowan said again, keeping a respectful distance behind.

  She knew these streets. A few blocks down, she would find one of the Valg sewer entrances. Maybe she’d jump right in and hack a few of them to pieces. See what they knew about the Dark King Erawan, and whether he was still slumbering under that mountain.

  Maybe she wouldn’t bother with questions at all.

  There was a strong, broad hand at her elbow, yanking her back against a hard male body.

  But the scent wasn’t Rowan’s.

  And the knife at her throat, the blade pressing so hard that her skin stung and split …

  “Going somewhere, Princess?” Lorcan breathed into her ear.

  Rowan had thought he knew fear. He had thought he could face any danger with a clear head and ice in his veins.

  Until Lorcan appeared from the shadows, so fast that Rowan hadn’t even scented him, and put that knife against Aelin’s throat.

  “You move,” Lorcan snarled in Aelin’s ear, “and you die. You speak, and you die. Understand?”

  Aelin said nothing. If she nodded, she’d slice her throat open on the blade. Blood was shining there already, just above her collarbone, filling the alley with its scent.

  The smell of it alone sent Rowan sliding into a frozen, murderous calm.

  “Understand?” Lorcan hissed, jostling her enough that her blood flowed a bit faster. Still she said nothing, obeying his order. Lorcan chuckled. “Good. I thought so.”

  The world s
lowed and spread around Rowan with sharp clarity, revealing every stone of the buildings and the street, and the refuse and rubbish around them. Anything to give him an advantage, to use as a weapon.

  If he’d had his magic, he would have choked the air from Lorcan’s lungs by now, would have shattered through Lorcan’s own dark shields with half a thought. If he’d had his magic, he would have had a shield of their own around them from the start, so this ambush could never happen.

  Aelin’s eyes met his.

  And fear—that was genuine fear shining there.

  She knew she was in a compromised position. They both knew that no matter how fast he was, she was, Lorcan’s slice would be faster.

  Lorcan smiled at Rowan, his dark hood off for once. No doubt so that Rowan could see every bit of triumph in Lorcan’s black eyes. “No words, Prince?”

  “Why?” was all Rowan could ask. Every action, every possible plan still left him too far away. He wondered whether Lorcan realized that if he killed her, Lorcan himself would be next. Then Maeve. And maybe the world, for spite.

  Lorcan craned his head to look at Aelin’s face. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Where is the Wyrdkey?”

  Aelin tensed, and Rowan willed her not to speak, not to taunt Lorcan. “We don’t have it,” Rowan said. Rage—unending, cataclysmic rage—pounded through him.

  Exactly what Lorcan wanted. Exactly how Rowan had witnessed the demi-Fae warrior manipulate their enemies for centuries. So Rowan locked that rage down. Tried to, at least.

  “I could snap this neck of yours so easily,” Lorcan said, grazing his nose against the side of her throat. Aelin went rigid. The possessiveness in that touch alone half blinded him with feral wrath. It was an effort to stifle it again as Lorcan murmured onto her skin, “You’re so much better when you don’t open that hideous mouth.”

  “We don’t have the key,” Rowan said again. He’d slaughter Lorcan in the way only immortals learned and liked to kill: slowly, viciously, creatively. Lorcan’s suffering would be thorough.

  “What if I told you we were working for the same side?” Lorcan said.

  “I’d tell you that Maeve works for only one side: her own.”

  “Maeve didn’t send me here.”