Queen of Shadows

Aelin twisted to avoid it, only to find a second arrow from the witch already there, anticipating her maneuver.

  A wall of muscle slammed into her, shielding her and shoving her to the stones.

  And the witch’s arrow went clean through Rowan’s shoulder.

  CHAPTER

  60

  For a moment, the world stopped.

  Rowan slammed onto the temple stones, his blood spraying on the aging rock.

  Aelin’s scream echoed down the ravine.

  But then he was up again, running and bellowing at her to go. Beneath the dark arrow protruding through his shoulder, blood already soaked his tunic, his skin.

  If he had been one inch farther behind, it would have hit his heart.

  Not forty paces down the bridge, the Wing Leader closed in on them. Aedion rained arrows on her sentinels with preternatural precision, keeping them at bay by the tree line.

  Aelin wrapped an arm around Rowan and they raced across the temple stones, his face paling as the wound gushed blood. She might have still been screaming, or sobbing—there was such a roaring silence in her.

  Her heart—it had been meant for her heart.

  And he had taken that arrow for her.

  The killing calm spread through her like hoarfrost. She’d kill them all. Slowly.

  They reached the second bridge just as Aedion’s barrage of arrows halted, his quiver no doubt emptied. She shoved Rowan onto the planks. “Run,” she said.

  “No—”

  “Run.”

  It was a voice that she’d never heard herself use—a queen’s voice—that came out, along with the blind yank she made on the blood oath that bound them together.

  His eyes flashed with fury, but his body moved as though she’d compelled him. He staggered across the bridge, just as—

  Aelin whirled, drawing Goldryn and ducking just as the Wing Leader’s sword swiped for her head.

  It hit stone, the pillar groaning, but Aelin was already moving—not toward the second bridge but back toward the first one, on the witches’ side.

  Where the other witches, without Aedion’s arrows to block them, were now racing from the cover of the woods.

  “You,” the Wing Leader growled, attacking again. Aelin rolled—right through Rowan’s blood—again dodging the fatal blow. She uncurled to her feet right in front of the first bridge, and two swings of Goldryn had the chains snapping.

  The witches skidded to a stop at the lip of the ravine as the bridge collapsed, cutting them off.

  The air behind her shifted, and Aelin moved—but not fast enough.

  Cloth and flesh tore in her upper arm, and she barked out a cry as the witch’s blade sliced her.

  She whirled, bringing Goldryn up for the second blow.

  Steel met steel and sparked.

  Rowan’s blood was at her feet, smeared across the temple stones.

  Aelin Galathynius looked at Manon Blackbeak over their crossed swords and let out a low, vicious snarl.

  Queen, savior, enemy, Manon didn’t give a shit.

  She was going to kill the woman.

  Their laws demanded it; honor demanded it.

  Even if she hadn’t slaughtered Baba Yellowlegs, Manon would have killed her just for that spell she’d used to freeze her in place.

  That was what she’d been doing with her feet. Etching some foul spell with the man’s blood.

  And now she was going to die.

  Wind-Cleaver pressed against the queen’s blade. But Aelin held her ground and hissed, “I’m going to rip you to shreds.”

  Behind them, the Thirteen gathered on the ravine’s edge, cut off. One whistle from Manon had half of them scrambling for the wyverns. She didn’t get to sound the second whistle.

  Faster than a human had a right to be, the queen swept out a leg, sending Manon tripping back. Aelin didn’t hesitate; she flipped the sword in her hand and lunged.

  Manon deflected the blow, but Aelin got past her guard and pinned her, slamming her head against stones that were damp with the Fae warrior’s blood. Splotches of dark bloomed in her vision.

  Manon drew in breath for the second whistle—the one to call off Asterin and her arrows.

  She was interrupted by the queen slamming her fist into Manon’s face.

  Black splintered further across her vision—but she twisted, twisted with every bit of her immortal strength, and they went flipping across the temple floor. The drop loomed, and then—

  An arrow whizzed right for the queen’s exposed back as she landed atop Manon.

  Manon twisted again, and the arrow bounced off the pillar instead. She threw Aelin from her, but the queen was instantly on her feet again, nimble as a cat.

  “She’s mine,” Manon barked across the ravine to Asterin.

  The queen laughed, hoarse and cold, circling as Manon got to her feet.

  Across the other side of the ravine, the two males were helping the wounded Fae warrior off the bridge, and the golden-haired warrior charged—

  “Don’t you dare, Aedion,” Aelin said, throwing out a hand in the male’s direction.

  He froze halfway across the bridge. Impressive, Manon admitted, to have them under her command so thoroughly.

  “Chaol, keep an eye on him,” the queen barked.

  Then, holding Manon’s gaze, Aelin sheathed her mighty blade across her back, the giant ruby in the pommel catching in the midday light.

  “Swords are boring,” the queen said, and palmed two fighting knives.

  Manon sheathed Wind-Cleaver along her own back. She flicked her wrists, the iron nails shooting out. She cracked her jaw, and her fangs descended. “Indeed.”

  The queen looked at the nails, the teeth, and grinned.

  Honestly—it was a shame that Manon had to kill her.

  Manon Blackbeak lunged, as swift and deadly as an adder.

  Aelin darted back, dodging each swipe of those lethal iron nails. For her throat, for her face, for her guts. Back, and back, circling around the pillars.

  It was only a matter of minutes before the wyverns arrived.

  Aelin jabbed with her daggers, and the witch sidestepped her, only to slash with her nails, right at Aelin’s neck.

  Aelin spun aside, but the nails grazed her skin. Blood warmed her neck and shoulders.

  The witch was so damn fast. And one hell of a fighter.

  But Rowan and the others were across the second bridge.

  Now she just had to get there, too.

  Manon Blackbeak feinted left and slashed right.

  Aelin ducked and rolled aside.

  The pillar shuddered as those iron claws gouged four lines deep into the stone.

  Manon hissed. Aelin made to drive her dagger into her spine; the witch lashed out with a hand and wrapped it clean around the blade.

  Blue blood welled, but the witch bore down on the blade until it snapped into three pieces in her hand.

  Gods above.

  Aelin had the sense to go in low with her other dagger, but the witch was already there—and Aedion’s shout rang in her ears as Manon’s knee drove up into her gut.

  The air knocked from her in a whoosh, but Aelin kept her grip on the dagger, even as the witch threw her into another pillar.

  The stone column rocked against the blow, and Aelin’s head cracked, agony arcing through her, but—

  A slash, directly for her face.

  Aelin ducked.

  Again, the stone shuddered beneath the impact.

  Aelin squeezed air into her body. Move—she had to keep moving, smooth as a stream, smooth as the wind of her carranam, bleeding and hurt across the way.

  Pillar to pillar, she retreated, rolling and ducking and dodging.

  Manon swiped and slashed, slamming into every column, a force of nature in her own right.

  And then back around, again and again, pillar after pillar absorbing the blows that should have shredded her face, her neck. Aelin slowed her steps, let Manon think she was tiring, growing clumsy—

/>   “Enough, coward,” Manon hissed, making to tackle Aelin to the ground.

  But Aelin swung around a pillar and onto the thin lip of bare rock beyond the temple platform, the drop looming, just as Manon collided with the column.

  The pillar groaned, swayed—and toppled to the side, hitting the pillar beside it, sending them both cracking to the ground.

  Along with the domed roof.

  Manon didn’t even have time to lunge out of the way as the marble crashed down on her.

  One of the few remaining witches on the other side of the ravine screamed.

  Aelin was already running, even as the rock island itself began trembling, as if whatever ancient force held this temple together had died the moment the roof crumbled.

  Shit.

  Aelin sprinted for the second bridge, dust and debris burning her eyes and lungs.

  The island jolted with a thunderous crack, so violent that Aelin stumbled. But there were the posts and the bridge beyond, Aedion waiting on the other side—an arm held out, beckoning.

  The island swayed again—wider and longer this time.

  It was going to collapse beneath them.

  There was a flicker of blue and white, a flash of red cloth, a glimmer of iron—

  A hand and a shoulder, grappling with a fallen column.

  Slowly, painfully, Manon heaved herself onto a slab of marble, her face coated in pale dust, blue blood leaking down her temple.

  Across the ravine, cut off entirely, the golden-haired witch was on her knees. “Manon!”

  I don’t think you’ve ever groveled for anything in your life, Wing Leader, the king had said.

  But there was a Blackbeak witch on her knees, begging whatever gods they worshipped; and there was Manon Blackbeak, struggling to rise as the temple island crumbled away.

  Aelin took a step onto the bridge.

  Asterin—that was the golden-haired witch’s name. She screamed for Manon again, a plea to rise, to survive.

  The island jolted.

  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.

  “Run!” Aedion roared from across the ravine.

  So she did.

  Aelin ran for Manon, leaping over the fallen stones, her ankle wrenching on loose debris.

  The island rocked with her every step, and the sunlight was scalding, as if Mala were holding that island aloft with every last bit of strength the goddess could summon in this land.

  Then Aelin was upon Manon Blackbeak, and the witch lifted hate-filled eyes to her. Aelin hauled off stone after stone from her body, the island beneath them buckling.

  “You’re too good a fighter to kill,” Aelin breathed, hooking an arm under Manon’s shoulders and hauling her up. The rock swayed to the left—but held. Oh, gods. “If I die because of you, I’ll beat the shit out of you in hell.”

  She could have sworn the witch let out a broken laugh as she got to her feet, nearly a dead weight in Aelin’s arms.

  “You—should let me die,” Manon rasped as they limped over the rubble.

  “I know, I know,” Aelin panted, her sliced arm aching with the weight of the witch it supported. They hurried over the second bridge, the temple rock swaying to the right—stretching the bridge behind them tightly over the drop and the shining river far, far below.

  Aelin tugged at the witch, gritting her teeth, and Manon stumbled into a staggering run. Aedion remained between the posts across the ravine, an arm still extended toward her—while his other lifted his sword high, ready for the Wing Leader’s arrival. The rock behind them groaned.

  Halfway—nothing but a death-plunge waiting for them. Manon coughed blue blood onto the wooden slats. Aelin snapped, “What the hell good are your beasts if they can’t save you from this kind of thing?”

  The island veered back in the other direction, and the bridge went taut—oh, shit—shit, it was going to snap. Faster they ran, until she could see Aedion’s straining fingers and the whites of his eyes.

  The rock cracked, so loudly it deafened her. Then came the tug and stretch of the bridge as the island began to crumble into dust, sliding to the side—

  Aelin lunged the last few steps, gripping Manon’s red cloak as the chains of the bridge snapped. The wooden slats dropped out from beneath them, but they were already leaping.

  Aelin let out a grunt as she slammed into Aedion. She whirled to see Chaol grabbing Manon and hauling her over the lip of the ravine, her cloak torn and covered in dust, fluttering in the wind.

  When Aelin looked past the witch, the temple was gone.

  Manon gasped for air, concentrating on her breathing, on the cloudless sky above her.

  The humans left her lying between the stone bridge posts. The queen hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye. She’d just dashed for the injured Fae warrior, his name like a prayer on her lips.

  Rowan.

  Manon had looked up in time to see the queen fall to her knees before the injured warrior in the grass, demanding answers from the brown-haired man—Chaol—who pressed a hand to the arrow wound in Rowan’s shoulder to stanch the bleeding. The queen’s shoulders were shaking.

  Fireheart, the Fae warrior murmured. Manon would have watched—would have, had she not coughed blood onto the bright grass and blacked out.

  When she awoke, they were gone.

  Only minutes had passed—because then there were booming wings, and Abraxos’s roar. And there were Asterin and Sorrel, rushing for her before their wyverns had fully landed.

  The Queen of Terrasen had saved her life. Manon didn’t know what to make of it.

  For she now owed her enemy a life debt.

  And she had just learned how thoroughly her grandmother and the King of Adarlan intended to destroy them.

  CHAPTER

  61

  The trek back through Oakwald was the longest journey of Aelin’s miserable life. Nesryn had removed the arrow from Rowan’s shoulder, and Aedion had found some herbs to chew and shove into the open wound to stanch the bleeding.

  But Rowan still sagged against Chaol and Aedion as they hurried through the forest.

  Nowhere to go. She had nowhere to take an injured Fae male in the capital city, in this entire shit-hole kingdom.

  Lysandra was pale and shaking, but she’d squared her shoulders and offered to help carry Rowan when one of them tired. None of them accepted. When Chaol at last asked Nesryn to take over, Aelin glimpsed the blood soaking his tunic and hands—Rowan’s blood—and nearly vomited.

  Slower—every step was slower as Rowan’s strength flagged.

  “He needs to rest,” Lysandra said gently. Aelin paused, the towering oaks pressing in around her.

  Rowan’s eyes were half-closed, his face drained of all color. He couldn’t even lift his head.

  She should have let the witch die.

  “We can’t just camp out in the middle of the woods,” Aelin said. “He needs a healer.”

  “I know where we can take him,” Chaol said. She dragged her eyes to the captain.

  She should have let the witch kill him, too.

  Chaol wisely averted his gaze and faced Nesryn. “Your father’s country house—the man who runs it is married to a midwife.”

  Nesryn’s mouth tightened. “She’s not a healer, but—yes. She might have something.”

  “Do you understand,” Aelin said very quietly to them, “that if I suspect they’re going to betray us, they
will die?”

  It was true, and maybe it made her a monster to Chaol, but she didn’t care.

  “I know,” Chaol said. Nesryn merely nodded, still calm, still solid.

  “Then lead the way,” Aelin said, her voice hollow. “And pray they can keep their mouths shut.”

  Joyous, frenzied barking greeted them, rousing Rowan from the half consciousness he’d fallen into during the last few miles to the little stone farmhouse. Aelin had barely breathed the entire time.

  But despite herself, despite Rowan’s injuries, as Fleetfoot raced across the high grass toward them, Aelin smiled a little.

  The dog leaped upon her, licking and whining and wagging her feathery, golden tail.

  She hadn’t realized how filthy and bloody her hands were until she put them on Fleetfoot’s shining coat.

  Aedion grunted as he took all of Rowan’s weight while Chaol and Nesryn jogged for the large, brightly lit stone house, dusk having fallen fully around them. Good. Fewer eyes to see as they exited Oakwald and crossed the freshly tilled fields. Lysandra tried to help Aedion, but he refused her again. She hissed at him and helped anyway.

  Fleetfoot danced around Aelin, then noticed Aedion, Lysandra, and Rowan, and that tail became a bit more tentative. “Friends,” she told her dog. She’d become huge since Aelin had last seen her. She wasn’t sure why it surprised her, when everything else in her life had changed as well.

  Aelin’s assurance seemed good enough for Fleetfoot, who trotted ahead, escorting them to the wooden door that had opened to reveal a tall midwife with a no-nonsense face that took one look at Rowan and tightened.

  One word. One damn word that suggested she might turn them in, and she was dead.

  But the woman said, “Whoever put that bloodmoss on the wound saved his life. Get him inside—we need to clean it before anything else can be done.”

  It took a few hours for Marta, the housekeeper’s wife, to clean, disinfect, and patch up Rowan’s wounds. Lucky, she kept saying—so lucky it didn’t hit anything vital.

  Chaol didn’t know what to do with himself other than carry away the bowls of bloodied water.

  Aelin just sat on a stool beside the cot in the spare room of the elegant, comfortable house, and monitored every move Marta made.