Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass #4)(36)
Author: Sarah J. Maas

“And who am I fighting as, exactly?”

“I told the owners you were trained by the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert. You remember them, don’t you? Give the pit-lord whatever name you want.”

Prick. She’d never forget those months in the Red Desert. Or who had sent her there.

She jerked her chin at Lysandra. “Aren’t you a little fussy for this sort of place?”

“And here I was thinking you and Lysandra had become friends after your dramatic rescue.”

“Arobynn, let’s go watch somewhere else,” Lysandra murmured. “The fight’s ending.”

She wondered what it was like to have to endure the man who had slaughtered your lover. But Lysandra’s face was a mask of worried, wary mindlessness—another skin she wore as she idly cooled herself with a gorgeous fan of lace and ivory. So out of place in this cesspit.

“Pretty, isn’t it? Arobynn gave it to me,” Lysandra said, noticing her attention.

“A small trinket for such a tremendously talented lady,” Arobynn said, leaning down to kiss Lysandra’s bare neck.

Aelin clamped down on her disgust so hard that she choked on it.

Arobynn sauntered off into the crowd like a snake through the grass, catching the eye of the willowy pit-lord. When he was deep enough into the crowd, Aelin stepped closer to Lysandra. The courtesan glanced away from her, and Aelin knew it wasn’t an act.

So softly no one could hear, Aelin said, “Thank you—for the other day.”

Lysandra kept her eyes on the crowd and the bloodied fighters around them. They landed on the Valg, and she quickly looked at Aelin again, shifting so that the crowd formed a wall between her and the demons across the pit. “Is he all right?”

“Yes—just resting and eating as much as he can,” Aelin said. And now that Aedion was safe … she would soon have to begin fulfilling her little favor to Arobynn. Though she doubted her former master had long to live once Aedion recovered and found out what sort of danger Arobynn was putting her in. Let alone what he’d done to her throughout the years.

“Good,” Lysandra said, the crowd keeping them cocooned.

Arobynn clapped the pit-lord on the shoulder and stalked back toward them. Aelin tapped her foot until the King of the Assassins was between them again.

Chaol subtly moved within earshot, a hand on his sword.

Aelin just braced her hands on her hips. “Who shall my opponent be?”

Arobynn inclined his head toward a pack of the Valg guards. “Whichever one of them you desire. I just hope you choose one in less time than it’s taken you to decide which one to hand over to me.”

So that was what this was about. Who had the upper hand. And if she refused, with the debt unpaid … He could do worse. So much worse.

“You’re insane,” Chaol said to Arobynn, following his line of sight.

“So he speaks,” Arobynn purred. “You’re welcome, by the way—for the little tip.” He flicked his gaze toward the gathered Valg. So they were a gift for the captain, then.

Chaol glared. “I don’t need you to do my work—”

“Stay out of it,” Aelin snapped, hoping Chaol would understand the ire wasn’t for him. He turned back toward the blood-splattered sand, shaking his head. Let him be mad; she had plenty to rage at him for anyway.

The crowd died down, and the pit-lord called for the next fighter.

“You’re up,” Arobynn said, smiling. “Let’s see what those things are capable of.”

Lysandra squeezed his arm, as if pleading for him to let it go. “I would keep back,” Aelin said to her, cracking her neck. “You wouldn’t want to get blood on that pretty dress.”

Arobynn chuckled. “Put on a good show, would you? I want the owners impressed—and pissing themselves.”

Oh, she would put on a show. After days cooped up in the apartment at Aedion’s side, she had energy to spare.

And she didn’t mind spilling some Valg blood.

She shoved through the crowd, not daring to draw more attention to Chaol by saying good-bye. People took one look at her and backed away. With the suit, the boots, and the mask, she knew she was Death incarnate.

Aelin dropped into a swagger, her hips shifting with each step, rolling her shoulders as if loosening them. The crowd grew louder, restless.

She sidled up to the willowy pit-lord, who looked her over and said, “No weapons.”

She merely cocked her head and lifted her arms, turning in a circle, and even allowed the pit-lord’s little minion to pat her down with his sweaty hands to prove that she was unarmed.

As far as they could tell.

“Name,” the pit-lord demanded. Around her, gold was already flashing.

“Ansel of Briarcliff,” she said, the mask distorting her voice to a gravelly rasp.

“Opponent.”

Aelin looked across the pit, to the crowd gathered, and pointed. “Him.”

The Valg commander was already grinning at her.

24

Chaol didn’t know what the hell to think as Aelin leaped into the pit, landing on her haunches. But the crowd had seen whom she’d pointed to and was already in a frenzy, shoving to the front, passing gold as last-minute bets were made.

He had to plant his heels to keep from being knocked over the open lip of the pit. No ropes or railings here. If you fell in, you were fair game. A small part of him was glad Nesryn was on watch in the back. And a smaller part of him was glad for a night without more fruitless hunting for the new Valg nests. Even if it meant dealing with Aelin for a few hours. Even if Arobynn Hamel had given him this little gift. A gift that, he hated to admit, he sorely needed and did appreciate. But that was no doubt how Arobynn operated.

Chaol wondered what the price would be. Or whether his fear of a potential price was payment enough for the King of the Assassins.

Dressed head to toe in black, Aelin was a living shadow, pacing like a jungle cat on her side of the pit as the Valg commander jumped in. He could have sworn the ground shuddered.

They were both insane—Aelin and her master. Arobynn had said to choose any one of the Valg. She’d picked their leader.

They’d barely spoken since their fight after Aedion’s rescue. Frankly, she didn’t deserve a word out of him, but when she’d hunted him down an hour ago, interrupting a meeting that was so secret that they’d disclosed the location to the rebel leaders only an hour before … Maybe he was a fool, but he couldn’t in good conscience say no. If only because Aedion would have slaughtered him for it.

But since the Valg were here … Yes, this night had been useful after all.

The pit-lord began shouting the rules. Simply: there were none, save for no blades. Just hands and feet and wits.

Gods above.

Aelin stilled her pacing, and Chaol had to elbow an overeager man in the stomach to keep from being shoved into the pit.

The Queen of Terrasen was in a fighting pit in the slums of Rifthold. No one here, he’d wager, would believe it. He was hardly able to believe it himself.

The pit-lord roared for the match to begin, and then—

They moved.

The commander lunged with a punch so swift most men would have had their heads spun around. But Aelin dodged and caught his arm in one hand, locking it into a hold he knew was bone-snapping. As the commander’s face twisted with pain, she drove her knee up into the side of his head.

It was so fast, so brutal, even the crowd didn’t know what the hell had happened until the commander was staggering back, and Aelin was dancing on her toes.

The commander laughed, straightening. It was the only break Aelin gave him before she went on the offensive.

She moved like a midnight storm. Whatever training she’d had in Wendlyn, whatever that prince had taught her … Gods help them all.

Punch after punch, block, lunge, duck, spin … The crowd was a writhing thing, foaming at the mouth at the swiftness, the skill.

Chaol had seen her kill. It had been a while since he’d seen her fight for the enjoyment of it.

And she was enjoying the hell out of this.

An opponent worthy of her, he supposed as she locked her legs around the commander’s head and rolled, flipping him.

Sand sprayed around them. She wound up on top, driving her fist down into the man’s cold, handsome face—

Only to be hurled off with a twist so swift that Chaol could hardly follow the movement. Aelin hit the bloodied sand and uncoiled to her feet just as the commander attacked once more.

Then they were again a blur of limbs and blows and darkness.

Across the pit, Arobynn was wide-eyed, grinning, a starving man before a feast. Lysandra clung to his side, her knuckles white as she gripped his arm. Men were whispering in Arobynn’s ear, their eyes locked on the pit, as hungry as Arobynn. Either the owners of the Pits or prospective clients, bargaining for the use of the woman fighting with such wild wrath and wicked delight.

Aelin landed a kick to the commander’s stomach that sent him slamming into the rock wall. He slumped, gasping for air. The crowd cheered, and Aelin flung out her arms, turning in a slow circle, Death triumphant.

The crowd’s answering roar made Chaol wonder if the ceiling would come crashing down.

The commander hurtled for her, and Aelin whirled, catching him and locking his arms and neck into a hold not easily broken. She looked at Arobynn, as if in question.