Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass #4)(78)
Author: Sarah J. Maas

“Things to consider,” Rowan said, “should we need an ally to punch through the southern lines.” Gods, they were actually talking about this. War—war was coming. And they might not all survive it.

“So what are they waiting for?” Aedion said, pacing. “Why not attack now?”

Aelin’s voice was soft—cold. “Me. They’re waiting for me to make my move.”

None of them contradicted her.

Chaol’s voice was strained as he shoved aside his swarming thoughts. “Anything else?”

Nesryn reached into her tunic and pulled out a letter. She handed it to Aedion. “From your second in command. They all worry for you.”

“There’s a tavern down the block. Give me five minutes, and I’ll have a reply for you,” Aedion said, already striding away. Nesryn followed him, giving Chaol a silent nod. The general said over his shoulder to Rowan and Aelin, his heavy hood concealing any telltale features, “I’ll see you at home.”

Meeting over.

But Aelin suddenly said, “Thank you.”

Nesryn paused, somehow knowing the queen had spoken to her.

Aelin put a hand on her heart. “For all that you’re risking—thank you.”

Nesryn’s eyes flickered as she said, “Long live the queen.”

But Aelin had already turned away.

Nesryn met Chaol’s gaze, and he followed after her and Aedion.

An indestructible army, possibly led by Erawan, if the King of Adarlan were insane enough to raise him.

An army that could crush any human resistance.

But … but maybe not if they allied with magic-wielders.

That is, if the magic-wielders, after all that had been done to them, even wanted to bother saving their world.

“Talk to me,” Rowan said from behind her as Aelin stormed down street after street.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t form the thoughts, let alone the words.

How many spies and rebels had lost their lives to get that information? And how much worse would it feel when she sent people to their deaths—when she had to watch her soldiers butchered by those monsters? If Elena had thrown her a bone tonight, somehow leading that opium monger to the Sin-Eater’s temple so that they might find it, she wasn’t feeling particularly grateful.

“Aelin,” Rowan said, quietly enough for only her and the alley rats to hear.

She’d barely survived Baba Yellowlegs. How would anyone survive an army of witches trained in combat?

He gripped her elbow, forcing her to stop. “We’ll face this together,” he breathed, his eyes shining bright and canines gleaming. “As we have in the past. To whatever end.”

She trembled—trembled like a gods-damned coward—and yanked free, stalking away. She didn’t even know where she was going—only that she had to walk, had to find a way to sort herself out, sort the world out, before she stopped moving, or else she would never move again.

Wyverns. Witches. A new, even bigger army. The alley pressed in on her, sealing as tightly as one of those flooded sewer tunnels.

“Talk to me,” Rowan said again, keeping a respectful distance behind.

She knew these streets. A few blocks down, she would find one of the Valg sewer entrances. Maybe she’d jump right in and hack a few of them to pieces. See what they knew about the Dark King Erawan, and whether he was still slumbering under that mountain.

Maybe she wouldn’t bother with questions at all.

There was a strong, broad hand at her elbow, yanking her back against a hard male body.

But the scent wasn’t Rowan’s.

And the knife at her throat, the blade pressing so hard that her skin stung and split …

“Going somewhere, Princess?” Lorcan breathed into her ear.

Rowan had thought he knew fear. He had thought he could face any danger with a clear head and ice in his veins.

Until Lorcan appeared from the shadows, so fast that Rowan hadn’t even scented him, and put that knife against Aelin’s throat.

“You move,” Lorcan snarled in Aelin’s ear, “and you die. You speak, and you die. Understand?”

Aelin said nothing. If she nodded, she’d slice her throat open on the blade. Blood was shining there already, just above her collarbone, filling the alley with its scent.

The smell of it alone sent Rowan sliding into a frozen, murderous calm.

“Understand?” Lorcan hissed, jostling her enough that her blood flowed a bit faster. Still she said nothing, obeying his order. Lorcan chuckled. “Good. I thought so.”

The world slowed and spread around Rowan with sharp clarity, revealing every stone of the buildings and the street, and the refuse and rubbish around them. Anything to give him an advantage, to use as a weapon.

If he’d had his magic, he would have choked the air from Lorcan’s lungs by now, would have shattered through Lorcan’s own dark shields with half a thought. If he’d had his magic, he would have had a shield of their own around them from the start, so this ambush could never happen.

Aelin’s eyes met his.

And fear—that was genuine fear shining there.

She knew she was in a compromised position. They both knew that no matter how fast he was, she was, Lorcan’s slice would be faster.

Lorcan smiled at Rowan, his dark hood off for once. No doubt so that Rowan could see every bit of triumph in Lorcan’s black eyes. “No words, Prince?”

“Why?” was all Rowan could ask. Every action, every possible plan still left him too far away. He wondered whether Lorcan realized that if he killed her, Lorcan himself would be next. Then Maeve. And maybe the world, for spite.

Lorcan craned his head to look at Aelin’s face. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Where is the Wyrdkey?”

Aelin tensed, and Rowan willed her not to speak, not to taunt Lorcan. “We don’t have it,” Rowan said. Rage—unending, cataclysmic rage—pounded through him.

Exactly what Lorcan wanted. Exactly how Rowan had witnessed the demi-Fae warrior manipulate their enemies for centuries. So Rowan locked that rage down. Tried to, at least.

“I could snap this neck of yours so easily,” Lorcan said, grazing his nose against the side of her throat. Aelin went rigid. The possessiveness in that touch alone half blinded him with feral wrath. It was an effort to stifle it again as Lorcan murmured onto her skin, “You’re so much better when you don’t open that hideous mouth.”

“We don’t have the key,” Rowan said again. He’d slaughter Lorcan in the way only immortals learned and liked to kill: slowly, viciously, creatively. Lorcan’s suffering would be thorough.

“What if I told you we were working for the same side?” Lorcan said.

“I’d tell you that Maeve works for only one side: her own.”

“Maeve didn’t send me here.”

Rowan could almost hear the words Aelin was struggling to keep in. Liar. Piece-of-shit liar.

“Then who did?” Rowan demanded.

“I left.”

“If we’re on the same side, then put your rutting knife down,” Rowan growled.

Lorcan chuckled. “I don’t want to hear the princess yapping. What I have to say applies to both of you.” Rowan waited, taking every second to assess and reassess their surroundings, the odds. At last, Lorcan loosened the blade slightly. Blood slid down Aelin’s neck, onto her suit. “You made the mistake of your short, pathetic mortal life when you gave Maeve that ring.”

Through the lethal calm, Rowan felt the blood drain from his face.

“You should have known better,” Lorcan said, still gripping Aelin around the waist. “You should have known she wasn’t some sentimental fool, pining after her lost love. She had plenty of things from Athril—why would she want his ring? His ring, and not Goldryn?”

“Stop dancing around it and tell us what it is.”

“But I’m having so much fun.”

Rowan leashed his temper so hard that he choked on it.

“The ring,” Lorcan said, “wasn’t some family heirloom from Athril. She killed Athril. She wanted the keys, and the ring, and he refused, and she killed him. While they fought, Brannon stole them away, hiding the ring with Goldryn and bringing the keys here. Didn’t you ever wonder why the ring was in that scabbard? A demon-hunting sword—and a ring to match.”

“If Maeve wants to kill demons,” Rowan said, “we won’t complain.”

“The ring doesn’t kill them. It grants immunity from their power. A ring forged by Mala herself. The Valg could not harm Athril when he wore it.”

Aelin’s eyes widened even more, the scent of her fear shifting to something far deeper than dread of bodily harm.

“The bearer of that ring,” Lorcan went on, smiling at the terror coating her smell, “need never fear being enslaved by Wyrdstone. You handed her your own immunity.”

“That doesn’t explain why you left.”

Lorcan’s face tightened. “She slaughtered her lover for the ring, for the keys. She will do far worse to attain them now that they are on the playing board again. And once she has them … My queen will make herself a god.”

“So?” The knife remained too close to Aelin’s neck to risk attacking.

“It will destroy her.”