Queen of Shadows

Lysandra gaped at her. “You are out of your mind.”

“Will you accept?”

“I don’t know the first thing about ruling a territory—about being a lady.”

“Well, I don’t know the first thing about ruling a kingdom. We’ll learn together.” She flashed her a conspirator’s grin. “So?”

Lysandra gazed at the ring, then lifted her eyes to Aelin’s face— and threw her arms around her neck, squeezing tight. She took that as a yes.

Aelin grimaced at the dull throb of pain, but held on. “Welcome to the court, Lady.”

Aelin honestly wanted nothing more than to climb into bed that evening, hopefully with Rowan beside her. But as they finished up dinner—their first meal together as a court—a knock sounded on the door. Aedion was answering it before Aelin could so much as set down her fork.

He returned with Dorian in tow, the king glancing between them all. “I wanted to see if you’d eaten—”

Aelin pointed with her fork to the empty seat beside Lysandra. “Join us.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“Sit your ass down,” she told the new King of Adarlan. That morning he’d signed a decree freeing all the conquered kingdoms from Adarlan’s rule. She’d watched him do it, Aedion holding her hand tightly throughout, and wished that Nehemia had been there to see it.

Dorian moved to the table, amusement sparking in those haunted sapphire eyes. She introduced him again to Rowan, who bowed his head deeper than Aelin expected. Then she introduced Lysandra, explaining who she was and what she had become to Aelin, to her court.

Aedion watched them, his face tight, his lips a thin line. Their eyes met.

Ten years later, and they were all sitting together at a table again—no longer children, but rulers of their own territories. Ten years later, and here they were, friends despite the forces that had shattered and destroyed them.

Aelin looked at the kernel of hope glowing in that dining room and lifted her glass.

“To a new world,” the Queen of Terrasen said.

The King of Adarlan lifted his glass, such endless shadows dancing in his eyes, but—there. A glimmer of life. “To freedom.”

87

The duke survived. So did Vernon.

A third of Morath had been blown out, and a good number of guards and servants with it, along with two covens and Elide Lochan.

A solid loss, but not nearly as devastating as it might have been. Manon herself had spilled three drops of her own blood in thanks to the Three-Faced Goddess that most of the covens had been out on a training exercise that day.

Manon stood in the duke’s council chamber, hands behind her back as the man ranted.

A major setback, he hissed at the other men who were assembled: war leaders and councilmen. It would take months to repair Morath, and with so many of their supplies incinerated, they would have to put their plans on hold.

Day and night, men hauled away the stones piled high above the ruins of the catacombs—searching, Manon knew, for the body of a woman who was no more than ash, and the stone she’d borne. Manon had not even told her Thirteen who now limped northward with that stone.

“Wing Leader,” the duke snapped, and Manon lazily turned her eyes toward him. “Your grandmother will be arriving in two weeks. I want your covens trained with the latest battle plans.”

She nodded. “As you will it.”

Battles. There would be battles, because even now that Dorian Havilliard was king, the duke had no plans to let go—not with this army. As soon as those witch towers were built and he found another source of shadowfire, Aelin Galathynius and her forces would be obliterated.

Manon quietly hoped that Elide would not be on those battlefields.

The council meeting was soon over, and Manon paused as she walked past Vernon on her way out. She put a hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin, and he yelped as she brought her iron teeth close to his ear. “Just because she is dead, Lord, do not think that I will forget what you tried to do to her.”

Vernon paled. “You can’t touch me.”

Manon dug her nails in deeper. “No, I can’t,” she purred into his ear. “But Aelin Galathynius is alive. And I hear that she has a score to settle.” She yanked out her nails and squeezed his shoulder, setting the blood running down Vernon’s green tunic before she stalked from the room.

“What now?” Asterin said as they studied the new aerie they’d commandeered from one of the lesser covens. “Your grandmother arrives, and then we fight in this war?”

Manon gazed out the open archway to the ashy sky beyond. “For now, we stay. We wait for my grandmother to bring those towers.”

She didn’t know what she’d do when she saw her grandmother. She glanced sidelong at her Second. “That human hunter … How did he die?”

Asterin’s eyes gleamed. For a moment she said nothing. Then: “He was old—very old. I think he went into the woods one day and lay down somewhere and never came back. He would have liked that, I think. I never found his body.”

But she’d looked.

“What was it like?” Manon asked quietly. “To love.”

For love was what it had been—what Asterin perhaps alone of all the Ironteeth witches had felt, had learned.

“It was like dying a little every day. It was like being alive, too. It was joy so complete it was pain. It destroyed me and unmade me and forged me. I hated it, because I knew I couldn’t escape it, and knew it would forever change me. And that witchling … I loved her, too. I loved her in a way I cannot describe—other than to tell you that it was the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt, greater than rage, than lust, than magic.” A soft smile. “I’m surprised you’re not giving me the ‘Obedience. Discipline. Brutality’ speech.”

Made into monsters.

“Things are changing,” Manon said.

“Good,” Asterin said. “We’re immortals. Things should change, and often, or they’ll get boring.”

Manon lifted her brows, and her Second grinned.

Manon shook her head and grinned back.

88

With Rowan circling high above the castle on watch, and with their departure scheduled for dawn, Aelin took it upon herself to make one last trip to Elena’s tomb as the clock struck twelve.

Her plans, however, were ruined: the way to the tomb was blocked by rubble from the explosion. She’d spent fifteen minutes searching for a way in, with both her hands and her magic, but had no luck. She prayed Mort hadn’t been destroyed—though perhaps the skull door knocker would have embraced his strange, immortal existence coming to an end at last.

The sewers of Rifthold, apparently, were as clear of the Valg as the castle tunnels and catacombs, as if the demons had fled into the night when the king had fallen. For the moment, Rifthold was safe.

Aelin emerged from the hidden passageway, wiping the dust off her. “You two make so much noise, it’s ridiculous.” With her Fae hearing, she’d detected them minutes ago.

Dorian and Chaol were seated before her fireplace, the latter in a special wheeled chair that they’d acquired for him.

The king looked at her pointed ears, the elongated canines, and lifted a brow. “You look good, Majesty.” She supposed he hadn’t really noticed that day on the glass bridge, and she’d been in her human form until now. She grinned.

Chaol turned his head. His face was gaunt, but a flicker of determination shone there. Hope. He would not let his injury destroy him.

“I always look good,” Aelin said, plopping onto the armchair across from Dorian’s.

“Find anything interesting down there?” Chaol asked.

She shook her head. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look one last time. For old time’s sake.” And maybe bite Elena’s head off. After she got answers to all her questions. But the ancient queen was nowhere to be found.

The three of them looked at each other, and silence fell.

Aelin’s throat burned, so she turned to Chaol and said, “With Maeve and Perrington breathing down our necks, we might need allies sooner rather than later, especially if the forces in Morath block access to Eyllwe. An army from the Southern Continent could cross the Narrow Sea within a few days and provide reinforcements—push Perrington from the south while we hammer from the north.” She crossed her arms. “So I’m appointing you an official Ambassador for Terrasen. I don’t care what Dorian says. Make friends with the royal family, woo them, kiss their asses, do whatever you have to do. But we need that alliance.”