Queen of Shadows

  “Right.” She swallowed hard, sheathing her knives and tugging off her gloves, if only because it gave her something to do with her hands. But then Chaol looked—to the empty finger where his amethyst ring had once been. The skin was soaked with the blood that had seeped in through the fabric, some red, some black and reeking.

  Chaol gazed at that empty spot—and when his eyes rose to hers again, it became hard to breathe. He stopped at the entrance to the narrow tunnel. Far enough, she realized. He’d taken her as far as he was willing to allow her to follow.

  “I have a lot to tell you,” she said before he could speak. “But I think I’d rather hear your story first. How you got here; what happened to Dorian. And Aedion. All of it.” Why you were meeting with Arobynn tonight.

  That tentative tenderness in his face hardened into a cold, grim resolve—and her heart cracked a bit at the sight of it. Whatever he had to say wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  But he just said, “Meet me in forty minutes,” and named an address in the slums. “I have to deal with this first.”

  He didn’t wait for a response before jogging down the tunnel after his companions.

  Aelin followed anyway.

  Aelin watched from a rooftop, monitoring the docks of the slums as Chaol and his companions approached the small boat. The crew didn’t dare lay anchor—only tying the boat to the rotted posts long enough for the rebels to pass the sagging victims into the arms of the waiting sailors. Then they were rowing hard, out into the dark curve of the Avery and hopefully to a larger ship at its mouth.

  She observed Chaol speak quickly to the rebels, Nesryn lingering when he’d finished. A short, clipped fight about something she couldn’t hear, and then the captain was walking alone, Nesryn and the others headed off in the opposite direction without so much as a backward glance.

  Chaol made it a block before Aelin silently dropped down beside him. He didn’t flinch. “I should have known better.”

  “You really should have.”

  Chaol’s jaw tightened, but he kept walking farther into the slums.

  Aelin examined the night-dark, sleeping streets. A few feral urchins darted past, and she eyed them from beneath her hood, wondering which were on Arobynn’s payroll and might report to him that she’d been spotted blocks away from her old home. There was no point in trying to hide her movements—she hadn’t wanted to, anyway.

  The houses here were ramshackle but not wrecked. Whatever working-class families dwelled within tried their best to keep them in shape. Given their proximity to the river, they were likely occupied by fishermen, dockworkers, and maybe the occasional slave on loan from his or her master. But no sign of trouble, no vagrants or pimps or would-be thieves lurking about.

  Almost charming, for the slums.

  “The story isn’t a pleasant one,” the captain began at last.

  Aelin let Chaol talk as they strode through the slums, and it broke her heart.

  She kept her mouth shut as he told her how he’d met Aedion and worked with him, and then how the king had captured Aedion and interrogated Dorian. It took considerable effort to keep from shaking the captain to demand how he could have been so reckless and stupid and taken so long to act.

  Then Chaol got to the part where Sorscha was beheaded, each word quieter and more clipped than the last.

  She had never learned the healer’s name, not in all the times the woman had patched and sewn her up. For Dorian to lose her … Aelin swallowed hard.

  It got worse.

  So much worse, as Chaol explained what Dorian had done to get him out of the castle. He’d sacrificed himself, revealing his power to the king. She was shaking so badly that she tucked her hands into her pockets and clamped her lips together to lock up the words.

  But they danced in her skull anyway, around and around.

  You should have gotten Dorian and Sorscha out the day the king butchered those slaves. Did you learn nothing from Nehemia’s death? Did you somehow think you could win with your honor intact, without sacrificing something? You shouldn’t have left him; how could you let him face the king alone? How could you, how could you, how could you?

  The grief in Chaol’s eyes kept her from speaking.

  She took a breath as he fell silent, mastering the anger and the disappointment and the shock. It took three blocks before she could think straight.

  Her wrath and tears would do no good. Her plans would change again—but not by much. Free Aedion, retrieve the Wyrdkey … she could still do it. She squared her shoulders. They were mere blocks away from her old apartment.

  At least she could have a place to lie low, if Arobynn hadn’t sold the property. He probably would have taunted her about it if he had—or perhaps left her to find it had a new owner. He loved surprises like that.

  “So now you’re working with the rebels,” she said to Chaol. “Or leading them, from the look of it.”

  “There are a few of us in charge. My territory covers the slums and docks—there are others responsible for different sections of the city. We meet as often as we dare. Nesryn and some of the city guards have been able to get in contact with a few of my men. Ress and Brullo, mostly. They’ve been looking for ways to get Dorian out. And Aedion. But that dungeon is impenetrable, and they’re watching the secret tunnels. We only went into their nest in the sewer tonight because we’d received word from Ress that there was some big meeting at the palace. Turns out they’d left more sentries behind than we’d anticipated.”

  The castle was impossible to get into—unless she accepted Arobynn’s help. Another decision. For tomorrow. “What have you heard about Dorian since you fled?”

  A flicker of shame shone in his bronze eyes. He had fled, though. He’d left Dorian in his father’s hands.

  She clenched her fingers into fists to keep from slamming his head into the side of a brick building. How could he have served that monster? How could he not have seen it, not have tried to kill the king anytime he got within striking range?

  She hoped that whatever Dorian’s father had done to him, however he’d been punished, the prince knew he was not the only one grieving. And after she retrieved Dorian, she would let him know, when he was ready to listen, that she understood—and that it would be hard and long and painful, but he might come back from it, the loss. When he did, with that raw magic of his, free when hers was not … It could be critical in defeating the Valg.

  “The king hasn’t publicly punished Dorian,” Chaol said. “Hasn’t even locked him up. As far as we can tell, he’s still attending events, and will be at this execution–birthday party of his.”

  Aedion—oh, Aedion. He knew who she was, what she had become, but Chaol hadn’t suggested whether her cousin might spit in her face the moment he laid eyes on her. She wouldn’t care about it until Aedion was safe, until he was free.

  “So, we’ve got Ress and Brullo inside, and eyes on the castle walls,” Chaol went on. “They say that Dorian seems to be behaving normally, but his demeanor is off. Colder, more distant—but that’s to be expected after Sorscha was—”

  “Did they report him wearing a black ring?”

  Chaol shuddered. “No—not a ring.” There was something about his tone that made her look at him and wish she didn’t have to hear his next words. Chaol said, “But one of the spies claimed that Dorian has a torque of black stone around his neck.”

  A Wyrdstone collar.

  For a moment, all Aelin could manage to do was stare at Chaol. The surrounding buildings pressed on her, a giant pit opening beneath the cobblestones she walked upon, threatening to swallow her whole.

  “You’re pale,” Chaol said, but he made no move to touch her.

  Good. She wasn’t entirely certain she could handle being touched without ripping his face off.

  But she took a breath, refusing to let the enormity of what had happened to Dorian hit her—for now at least. “Chaol, I don’t know what to say—about Dorian, and Sorscha, and Aedion. About you being here.”
She gestured to the slums around them.

  “Just tell me what happened to you all these months.”

  She told him. She told him what had happened in Terrasen ten years ago, and what had happened to her in Wendlyn. When she got to the Valg princes, she did not tell him about those collars, because—because he already looked sick. And she did not tell him of the third Wyrdkey—only that Arobynn had stolen the Amulet of Orynth, and she wanted it back. “So now you know why I’m here, and what I did, and what I plan to do.”

  Chaol didn’t reply for an entire block. He’d been silent throughout. He had not smiled.

  There was so little left of the guard she’d come to care for as he at last met her gaze, his lips a thin line. He said, “So you’re here alone.”

  “I told Rowan it would be safer for him to remain in Wendlyn.”

  “No,” he said a bit sharply, facing the street ahead. “I mean—you came back, but without an army. Without allies. You came back empty-handed.”

  Empty-handed. “I don’t know what you expected. You—you sent me to Wendlyn. If you’d wanted me to bring back an army, you should have been a little more specific.”

  “I sent you there for your safety, so you could get away from the king. And as soon as I realized who you were, how could I not assume you’d run to your cousins, to Maeve—”

  “Have you not been listening to anything I said? About what Maeve is like? The Ashryvers are at her beck and call, and if Maeve does not send aid, they will not send aid.”

  “You didn’t even try.” He paused on a deserted corner. “If your cousin Galan is a blockade runner—”

  “My cousin Galan is none of your concern. Do you even understand what I faced?”

  “Do you understand what it was like for us here? While you were off playing with magic, off gallivanting with your faerie prince, do you understand what happened to me—to Dorian? Do you understand what’s happening every day in this city? Because your antics in Wendlyn might very well have been the cause of all this.”

  Each word was like a stone to the head. Yes—yes, maybe, but … “My antics?”

  “If you hadn’t been so dramatic about it, hadn’t flaunted your defeat of Narrok and practically shouted at the king that you were back, he would never have called us to that room—”

  “You do not get to blame me for that. For his actions.” She clenched her fists as she looked at him—really looked at him, at the scar that would forever remind her of what he’d done, what she could not forgive.

  “So what do I get to blame you for?” he demanded as she started walking again, her steps swift and precise. “Anything?”

  He couldn’t mean that—couldn’t possibly mean it. “Are you looking for things to blame me for? How about the fall of the kingdoms? The loss of magic?”

  “The second one,” he said through his teeth, “at least I know without a doubt is not your doing.”

  She paused again. “What did you say?”

  His shoulders tightened. That was all she needed to see to know he’d planned to keep it from her. Not from Celaena, his former friend and lover, but from Aelin—Queen of Terrasen. A threat. Whatever this information about magic was, he hadn’t planned to tell her.

  “What, exactly, did you learn about magic, Chaol?” she said too quietly.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Tell me.”

  He shook his head, a gap in the streetlights shadowing his face. “No. Not a chance. Not with you so unpredictable.”

  Unpredictable. It was a mercy, she supposed, that magic was indeed stifled here, or else she might have turned the street to cinders around them, just to show him how very predictable she was.

  “You found a way to free it, didn’t you. You know how.”

  He didn’t try to pretend otherwise. “Having magic free would result only in chaos—it would make things worse. Perhaps make it easier for those demons to find and feed on magic-wielders.”

  “You might very well regret those words when you hear the rest of what I have to say,” she hissed, raging and roaring inside. She kept her voice low enough that no one nearby might overhear as she continued. “That collar Dorian is wearing—let me tell you what it does, and let’s see if you refuse to tell me then, if you dismiss what I’ve been doing these past months.” With every word, his face further drained of color. A small, wicked part of her reveled in it. “They target magic-wielders, feeding off the power in their blood. They drain the life from those that aren’t compatible to take in a Valg demon. Or, considering Rifthold’s new favorite pastime, just execute them to drum up fear. They feed on it—fear, misery, despair. It’s like wine to them. The lesser Valg, they can seize a mortal’s body through those black rings. But their civilization—a whole damn civilization,” she said, “is split into hierarchies like our own. And their princes want to come to our world very, very badly. So the king uses collars. Black Wyrdstone collars.” She didn’t think Chaol was breathing. “The collars are stronger, capable of helping the demons stay inside human bodies while they devour the person and power inside. Narrok had one inside him. He begged me at the end to kill him. Nothing else could. I witnessed monsters you cannot begin to imagine take on one of them and fail. Only flame, or beheading, ends it.

  “So you see,” she finished, “considering the gifts I have, you’ll find that you want to tell me what you know. I might be the only person capable of freeing Dorian, or at least giving him the mercy of killing him. If he’s even in there.” The last words tasted as horrible as they sounded.

  Chaol shook his head. Once. Twice. And she might have felt bad for the panic, for the grief and despair on his face. Until he said, “Did it even occur to you to send us a warning? To let any of us know about the king’s collars?”

  It was like a bucket of water had been dumped on her. She blinked. She could have warned them—could have tried. Later—she’d think about that later.

  “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Right now, we need to help Aedion and Dorian.”

  “There is no we.” He unfastened the Eye of Elena from around his neck and chucked it at her. It glimmered in the streetlights as it flew between them. She caught it with one hand, the metal warm against her skin. She didn’t look at it before sliding it into her pocket. He went on. “There hasn’t been a we for a while, Celaena—”

  “It’s Aelin now,” she snapped as loudly as she dared. “Celaena Sardothien doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “You’re still the same assassin who walked away. You came back only when it was useful for you.”

  It was an effort to keep from sending her fist into his nose. Instead she pulled the silver amethyst ring out of her pocket and grabbed his hand, slamming it into his gloved palm. “Why were you meeting with Arobynn Hamel tonight?”

  “How—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Tell me why.”

  “I wanted his help to kill the king.”

  Aelin started. “Are you insane? Did you tell him that?”

  “No, but he guessed it. I’d been trying to meet with him for a week now, and tonight he summoned me.”

  “You’re a fool for going.” She began walking again. Staying in one spot, however deserted, wasn’t wise.

  Chaol fell into step beside her. “I didn’t see any other assassins offering their services.”

  She opened her mouth, then shut it. She curled her fingers, then straightened them one by one. “The price won’t be gold or favors. The price will be the last thing you see coming. Likely the death or suffering of the people you care about.”

  “You think I didn’t know that?”

  “So you want to have Arobynn kill the king, and what? Put Dorian on the throne? With a Valg demon inside him?”

  “I didn’t know that until now. But it changes nothing.”

  “It changes everything. Even if you get that collar off, there’s no guarantee the Valg hasn’t taken root inside him. You might replace one monster with another.”

  “Why don’t
you say whatever it is you’re getting at, Aelin?” He hissed her name barely loud enough for her to hear.

  “Can you kill the king? When it comes down to it, could you kill your king?”

  “Dorian is my king.”

  It was an effort not to flinch. “Semantics.”

  “He killed Sorscha.”

  “He killed millions before her.” Perhaps a challenge, perhaps another question.

  His eyes flared. “I need to go. I’m meeting Brullo in an hour.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she said, glancing toward the glass castle towering over the northeastern quarter of the city. Perhaps she’d learn a bit more about what the Weapons Master knew about Dorian. And how she might be able to put down her friend. Her blood turned icy, sluggish.

  “No, you won’t,” Chaol said. Her head snapped toward him. “If you’re there, I have to answer too many questions. I won’t jeopardize Dorian to satisfy your curiosity.”

  He kept walking straight, but she turned the corner with a tight shrug. “Do what you want.”

  Noticing she was heading away, he halted. “And what are you going to be doing?”

  Too much suspicion in that voice. She paused her steps and arched an eyebrow. “Many things. Wicked things.”

  “If you give us away, Dorian will—”

  She cut him off with a snort. “You refused to share your information, Captain. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to withhold mine.” She made to walk down the street, toward her old apartment.

  “Not captain,” he said.

  She looked over her shoulder and studied him again. “What happened to your sword?”

  His eyes were hollow. “I lost it.”

  Ah. “So is it Lord Chaol, then?”

  “Just Chaol.”

  For a heartbeat, she pitied him, and part of her wished she could say it more kindly, more compassionately. “There’s no getting Dorian out. There’s no saving him.”

  “Like hell there isn’t.”

  “You’d be better off considering other contenders to put on the throne—”

  “Do not finish that sentence.” His eyes were wide, his breathing uneven.