Queen of Shadows

  “It was. I tried to kill you. And what happened to Chaol—”

  “Chaol chose. He chose to buy you time—because your father was to blame. Your father, and the Valg prince inside him, did that to you, and to Sorscha.”

  He almost vomited at the name. It would dishonor her to never say it again, to never speak of her again, but he didn’t know if he could let out those two syllables without a part of him dying over and over again.

  “You’re not going to believe me,” Aelin went on. “What I’ve just said, you’re not going to believe me. I know it—and that’s fine. I don’t expect you to. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

  “You’re the Queen of Terrasen. You can’t be.”

  “Says who? We are the masters of our own fates—we decide how to go forward.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re my friend, Dorian.”

  A flicker of memory, from the haze of darkness and pain and fear. I came back for you.

  “You both came back,” he said.

  Her throat bobbed. “You pulled me out of Endovier. I figured I could return the favor.”

  Dorian looked at the carpet, at all the threads woven together. “What do I do now?” They were gone: the woman he’d loved—and the man he’d hated. He met her stare. No calculation, no coldness, no pity in those turquoise eyes. Just unflinching honesty, as there had been from the very start with her. “What do I do?”

  She had to swallow before she said, “You light up the darkness.”

  Chaol Westfall opened his eyes.

  The Afterworld looked an awful lot like a bedroom in the stone castle.

  There was no pain in his body, at least. Not like the pain that had slammed into him, followed by warring blackness and blue light. And then nothing at all.

  He might have yielded to the exhaustion that threatened to drag him back into unconsciousness, but someone—a man—let out a rasping breath, and Chaol turned his head.

  There were no sounds, no words in him as he found Dorian seated in a chair beside the bed. Bruised shadows were smudged beneath his eyes; his hair was unkempt, as if he’d been running his hands through it, but—but beyond his unbuttoned jacket, there was no collar. Only a pale line marring his golden skin.

  And his eyes … Haunted, but clear. Alive.

  Chaol’s vision burned and blurred.

  She had done it. Aelin had done it.

  Chaol’s face crumpled.

  “I didn’t realize I looked that bad,” Dorian said, his voice raw.

  He knew then—that the demon inside the prince was gone.

  Chaol wept.

  Dorian surged from the chair and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He grabbed Chaol’s hand, squeezing it as he pressed his brow against his. “You were dead,” the prince said, his voice breaking. “I thought you were dead.”

  Chaol at last mastered himself, and Dorian pulled back far enough to scan his face. “I think I was,” he said. “What—what happened?”

  So Dorian told him.

  Aelin had saved his city.

  And saved his life, too, when she’d slipped the Eye of Elena into his pocket.

  Dorian’s hand gripped Chaol’s a bit tighter. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” Chaol admitted, flexing his free hand. His chest ached from where the blast had hit him, but the rest of him felt—

  He didn’t feel anything.

  He couldn’t feel his legs. His toes.

  “The healers that survived,” Dorian said very quietly, “said you shouldn’t even be alive. Your spine—I think my father broke it in a few places. They said Amithy might have been able to …” A flicker of rage. “But she died.”

  Panic, slow and icy, crept in. He couldn’t move, couldn’t—

  “Rowan healed two of the injuries higher up. You would have been … paralyzed”—Dorian choked on the word—“from the neck down otherwise. But the lower fracture … Rowan said it was too complex, and he didn’t dare trying to heal it, not when he could make it worse.”

  “Tell me there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Chaol managed to say.

  If he couldn’t walk—if he couldn’t move—

  “We won’t risk sending you to Wendlyn, not with Maeve there. But the healers at the Torre Cesme could do it.”

  “I’m not going to the Southern Continent.” Not now that he’d gotten Dorian back, not now that they’d all somehow survived. “I’ll wait for a healer here.”

  “There are no healers left here. Not magically gifted ones. My father and Perrington wiped them out.” Cold flickered in those sapphire eyes. Chaol knew that what his father had claimed, what Dorian had still done to him despite it, would haunt the prince for a while.

  Not the prince—the king.

  “The Torre Cesme might be your only hope of walking again,” Dorian said.

  “I’m not leaving you. Not again.”

  Dorian’s mouth tightened. “You never left me, Chaol.” He shook his head once, sending tears slipping down his face. “You never left me.”

  Chaol squeezed his friend’s hand.

  Dorian glanced toward the door a moment before a hesitant knock sounded, and smiled faintly. Chaol wondered just what Dorian’s magic allowed him to detect, but then the king wiped away his tears and said, “Someone’s here to see you.”

  The handle quietly lowered and the door cracked open, revealing a curtain of inky black hair and a tan, pretty face. Nesryn beheld Dorian and bowed deeply, her hair swaying with her.

  Dorian rose to his feet, waving a hand in dismissal. “Aedion might be the new head of castle security, but Miss Faliq is my temporary Captain of the Guard. Turns out, the guards find Aedion’s style of leadership to be … What’s the word, Nesryn?”

  Nesryn’s mouth twitched, but her eyes were on Chaol, as if he were a miracle, as if he were an illusion. “Polarizing,” Nesryn murmured, striding right for him, her gold-and-crimson uniform fitting her like a glove.

  “There’s never been a woman in the king’s guard before,” Dorian said, heading for the door. “And since you’re now Lord Chaol Westfall, the King’s Hand, I needed someone to fill the position. New traditions for a new reign.”

  Chaol broke Nesryn’s wide-eyed stare to gape at his friend. “What?”

  But Dorian was at the door, opening it. “If I have to be stuck with king duty, then you’re going to be stuck right there with me. So go to the Torre Cesme and heal fast, Chaol. Because we’ve got work to do.” The king’s gaze flicked to Nesryn. “Fortunately, you already have a knowledgeable guide.” Then he was gone.

  Chaol stared up at Nesryn, who was holding a hand over her mouth.

  “Turns out I wound up breaking my promise to you after all,” he said. “Since I technically can’t walk out of this castle.”

  She burst into tears.

  “Remind me to never make a joke again,” he said, even as the crushing, squeezing panic set in. His legs—no. No … They wouldn’t be sending him to the Torre Cesme unless they knew there was a possibility he would walk again. He would accept no other alternative.

  Nesryn’s thin shoulders shook as she wept.

  “Nesryn,” he croaked. “Nesryn—please.”

  She slid onto the floor beside his bed and buried her face in her hands. “When the castle shattered,” she said, her voice cracking, “I thought you were dead. And when I saw the glass coming for me, I thought I’d be dead. But then the fire came, and I prayed … I prayed she’d somehow saved you, too.”

  Rowan had been the one who’d done that, but Chaol wasn’t about to correct her.

  She lowered her hands, at last looking at his body beneath the blankets. “We will fix this. We will go to the Southern Continent, and I will make them heal you. I’ve seen the wonders they can do, and I know they can do it. And—”

  He reached for her hand. “Nesryn.”

  “And now you’re a lord,” she went on, shaking her head. “You were a lord before, I mean, but—you are the king’s second in command. I know it’s??
?I know we—”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Chaol said.

  She met his stare at last. “I don’t expect anything of you—”

  “We’ll figure it out. You might not even want a crippled man.”

  She pulled back. “Do not insult me by assuming I’m that shallow or fickle.”

  He choked on a laugh. “Let’s have an adventure, Nesryn Faliq.”

  CHAPTER

  85

  Elide couldn’t stop crying as the witches flew northward.

  She didn’t care that she was flying, or that death loomed on every side.

  What Kaltain had done … She didn’t dare open her clenched fist for fear the fabric and the little stone would be ripped away in the wind.

  At sunset, they landed somewhere in Oakwald. Elide didn’t care about that, either. She lay down and passed into a deep sleep, still wearing Kaltain’s dress, that bit of cloak clutched in her hand.

  Someone covered her with a cloak in the night, and when she awoke, there was a set of clothes—flying leathers, a shirt, pants, boots—beside her. The witches were sleeping, their wyverns a mass of muscle and death around them. None of them stirred as Elide strode to the nearest stream, stripped off that dress, and sat in the water, watching the two pieces of her loose chain swaying in the current until her teeth were chattering.

  When she had dressed, the clothes a bit big, but warm, Elide tucked that scrap of cloak and the stone it contained into one of her inner pockets.

  Celaena Sardothien.

  She’d never heard that name—didn’t know where to start looking. But to repay the debt she owed Kaltain …

  “Don’t waste your tears on her,” Manon said from a few feet away, a pack dangling from her clean hands. She must have washed off the blood and dirt the night before. “She knew what she was doing, and it wasn’t for your sake.”

  Elide wiped at her face. “She still saved our lives—and put an end to those poor witches in the catacombs.”

  “She did it for herself. To free herself. And she was entitled to. After what they did, she was entitled to rip the entire damn world to shreds.”

  Instead, she’d taken out a third of Morath.

  Manon was right. Kaltain hadn’t cared if they’d cleared the blast. “What do we do now?”

  “We’re going back to Morath,” Manon said plainly. “But you’re not.”

  Elide started.

  “This is as far as we can take you without raising suspicions,” Manon said. “When we return, if your uncle survived, I’ll tell him you must have been incinerated in the blast.”

  And with that blast, all evidence of what Manon and her Thirteen had done to get Elide out of the dungeons would also have been erased.

  But to leave her here … The world opened wide and brutal around her. “Where do I go?” Elide breathed. Endless woods and hills surrounded them. “I—I can’t read, and I have no map.”

  “Go where you will, but if I were you, I’d head north, and stick to the forest. Stay out of the mountains. Keep going until you hit Terrasen.”

  That had never been part of the plan. “But—but the king—Vernon—”

  “The King of Adarlan is dead,” Manon said. The world stopped. “Aelin Galathynius killed him and shattered his glass castle.”

  Elide covered her mouth with a hand, shaking her head. Aelin … Aelin …

  “She was aided,” Manon went on, “by Prince Aedion Ashryver.”

  Elide began sobbing.

  “And rumor has it Lord Ren Allsbrook is working in the North as a rebel.”

  Elide buried her face in her hands. Then there was a hard, iron-tipped hand on her shoulder.

  A tentative touch.

  “Hope,” Manon said quietly.

  Elide lowered her hands and found the witch smiling at her. Barely a tilt to her lips, but—a smile, soft and lovely. Elide wondered if Manon even knew she was doing it.

  But to go to Terrasen … “Things will get worse, won’t they,” Elide said.

  Manon’s nod was barely perceptible.

  South—she could still go south, run far, far away. Now that Vernon thought she was dead, no one would ever come looking for her. But Aelin was alive. And strong. And maybe it was time to stop dreaming of running. Find Celaena Sardothien—she would do that, to honor Kaltain and the gift she’d been given, to honor the girls like them, locked in towers with no one to speak for them, no one who remembered them.

  But Manon had remembered her.

  No—she would not run.

  “Go north, Elide,” Manon said, reading the decision in Elide’s eyes and extending the pack. “They are in Rifthold, but I bet they won’t be there for long. Get to Terrasen and lie low. Keep off the roads, avoid inns. There’s money in that pack, but use it sparingly. Lie and steal and cheat if you have to, but get to Terrasen. Your queen will be there. I’d suggest not mentioning your mother’s heritage to her.”

  Elide considered, shouldering the pack. “Having Blackbeak blood does not seem like such a horrible thing,” she said quietly.

  Those gold eyes narrowed. “No,” Manon said. “No, it does not.”

  “How can I thank you?”

  “It was a debt already owed,” Manon said, shaking her head when Elide opened her mouth to ask more. The witch handed her three daggers, showing her where to tuck one into her boot, storing one in her pack, and then sheathing the other at her hip. Finally, she bade Elide to take off her boots, revealing the shackles she’d squeezed inside. Manon removed a small skeleton key and unlocked the chains, still clamped to her ankles.

  Cool, soft air caressed her bare skin, and Elide bit her lip to keep from weeping again as she tugged her boots back on.

  Through the trees, the wyverns were yawning and grumbling, and the sounds of the Thirteen laughing flitted past. Manon looked toward them, that faint smile returning to her mouth. When Manon turned back, the heir of the Blackbeak Witch-Clan said, “When war comes—which it will if Perrington survived—you should hope you do not see me again, Elide Lochan.”

  “All the same,” Elide said, “I hope I do.” She bowed to the Wing Leader.

  And to her surprise, Manon bowed back.

  “North,” Manon said, and Elide supposed it was as much of a good-bye as she’d get.

  “North,” Elide repeated, and set off into the trees.

  Within minutes, she’d passed beyond the sounds of the witches and their wyverns and was swallowed up by Oakwald.

  She gripped the straps of her pack as she walked.

  Suddenly, the animals went silent, and the leaves rustled and whispered. A moment later, thirteen great shadows passed overhead. One of them—the smallest—lingered, sweeping back a second time, as if in farewell.

  Elide didn’t know if Abraxos could see through the canopy, but she raised a hand in farewell anyway. A joyous, fierce cry echoed in response, and then the shadow was gone.

  North.

  To Terrasen. To fight, not run.

  To Aelin and Ren and Aedion—grown and strong and alive.

  She did not know how long it would take or how far she would have to walk, but she would make it. She would not look back.

  Walking under the trees, the forest buzzing around her, Elide pressed a hand against the pocket inside her leather jacket, feeling the hard little lump tucked there. She whispered a short prayer to Anneith for wisdom, for guidance—and could have sworn a warm hand brushed her brow as if in answer. It straightened her spine, lifted her chin.

  Limping, Elide began the long journey home.

  CHAPTER

  86

  “This is the last of your clothes,” Lysandra said, toeing the trunk that one of the servants had just dropped off. “I thought I had a shopping problem. Don’t you ever throw anything away?”

  From her perch on the velvet ottoman in the center of the enormous closet, Aelin stuck out her tongue. “Thank you for getting it all,” she said. There was no point in unpacking the clothes Lysandra had brought from
her old apartment, just as there was no point in returning there. It didn’t help that Aelin couldn’t bring herself to leave Dorian alone. Even if she’d finally managed to get him out of that room and walking around the castle.

  He looked like the living dead, especially with that white line around his golden throat. She supposed he had every right to.

  She’d been waiting for him outside of Chaol’s room. When she heard Chaol speak at last, she had summoned Nesryn as soon as she’d mastered the tears of relief that had threatened to overwhelm her. After Dorian had emerged, when he’d looked at her and his smile had crumpled, she’d taken the king right back into his bedroom and sat with him for a good long while.

  The guilt—that would be as heavy a burden for Dorian as his grief.

  Lysandra put her hands on her hips. “Any other tasks for me before I retrieve Evangeline tomorrow?”

  Aelin owed Lysandra more than she could begin to express, but—

  She pulled a small box from her pocket.

  “There’s one more task,” Aelin said, holding the box out to Lysandra. “You’ll probably hate me for it later. But you can start by saying yes.”

  “Proposing to me? How unexpected.” Lysandra took the box but didn’t open it.

  Aelin waved a hand, her heart pounding. “Just—open it.”

  With a wary frown, Lysandra opened the lid and cocked her head at the ring inside—the movement purely feline. “Are you proposing to me, Aelin Galathynius?”

  Aelin held her friend’s gaze. “There’s a territory in the North, a small bit of fertile land that used to belong to the Allsbrook family. Aedion took it upon himself to inform me that the Allsbrooks have no use for it, so it’s been sitting open for a while.” Aelin shrugged. “It could use a lady.”

  The blood drained from Lysandra’s face. “What.”

  “It’s plagued by ghost leopards—hence the engraving on the ring. But I suppose if there were anyone capable of handling them, it’d be you.”

  Lysandra’s hands shook. “And—and the key symbol above the leopard?”

  “To remind you of who now holds your freedom. You.”

  Lysandra covered her mouth, staring at the ring, then at Aelin. “Are you out of your mind?”