Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass #4) by Sarah J. Maas

She opened her mouth, but Rowan said quietly, “She snuck into the bank—all those times that she slipped out in the middle of the night. And used all those daytime meetings with the Master of the Bank to get a better sense of the layout, where things were kept.” This woman, this queen of his … A familiar thrill raced through his blood. “You burned the originals?”

She didn’t even look at him. “Clarisse would have been a very rich woman, and Tern would have become King of the Assassins. And you know what I would have received? The Amulet of Orynth. That was all he left me.”

“That was how you knew he truly had it—and where he kept it,” Rowan said. “From reading the will.”

She shrugged again, dismissing the shock and admiration he couldn’t keep from his face. Dismissing him.

Aedion scrubbed at his face. “I don’t even know what to say. You should have told me so I didn’t act like a gawking fool up there.”

“Your surprise needed to be genuine; even Lysandra didn’t know about the will.” Such a distant answer—closed and heavy. Rowan wanted to shake her, demand she talk to him, look at him. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if she wouldn’t let him near, if she pulled away again while Aedion was watching.

Aelin turned back to Arobynn’s body and flipped the sheet away from his face, revealing a jagged wound that sliced across his pale neck.

Lysandra had mangled him.

Arobynn’s face had been arranged in an expression of calm, but from the blood Rowan had seen in the bedroom, the man had been very much awake while he choked on his own blood.

Aelin peered down at her former master, her face blank save for a slight tightening around her mouth. “I hope the dark god finds a special place for you in his realm,” she said, and a shiver went down Rowan’s spine at the midnight caress in her tone.

She extended a hand behind her to Aedion. “Give me your sword.”

Aedion drew the Sword of Orynth and handed it to her. Aelin gazed down at the blade of her ancestors as she weighed it in her hands.

When she raised her head, there was only icy determination in those remarkable eyes. A queen exacting justice.

Then she lifted her father’s sword and severed Arobynn’s head from his body.

It rolled to the side with a vulgar thud, and she smiled grimly at the corpse.

“Just to be sure,” was all she said.





PART TWO



QUEEN OF LIGHT





48



Manon beat Asterin in the breakfast hall the morning after her outburst regarding the Yellowlegs coven. No one asked why; no one dared.

Three unblocked blows.

Asterin didn’t so much as flinch.

When Manon was finished, the witch just stared her down, blue blood gushing from her broken nose. No smile. No wild grin.

Then Asterin walked away.

The rest of the Thirteen monitored them warily. Vesta, now Manon’s Third, looked half inclined to sprint after Asterin, but a shake of Sorrel’s head kept the red-haired witch still.

Manon was off-kilter all day afterward.

She’d told Sorrel to stay quiet about the Yellowlegs, but wondered if she should tell Asterin to do the same.

She hesitated, thinking about it.

You let them do this.

The words danced around and around in Manon’s head, along with that preachy little speech Elide had made the night before. Hope. What drivel.

The words were still dancing when Manon stalked into the duke’s council chamber twenty minutes later than his summons demanded.

“Do you delight in offending me with your tardiness, or are you incapable of telling time?” the duke said from his seat. Vernon and Kaltain were at the table, the former smirking, the latter staring blankly ahead. No sign of shadowfire.

“I’m an immortal,” Manon said, taking a seat across from them as Sorrel stood guard by the doors, Vesta in the hall outside. “Time means nothing to me.”

“A little sass from you today,” Vernon said. “I like it.”

Manon leveled a cold look at him. “I missed breakfast this morning, human. I’d be careful if I were you.”

The lord only smiled.

She leaned back in her chair. “Why did you summon me this time?”

“I need another coven.”

Manon kept her face blank. “What of the Yellowlegs you already have?”

“They are recovering well and will be ready for visitors soon.”

Liar.

“A Blackbeak coven this time,” the duke pressed.

“Why?”

“Because I want one, and you’ll provide one, and that’s all you need to know.”

You let them do this.

She could feel Sorrel’s gaze on the back of her head.

“We’re not whores for your men to use.”

“You are sacred vessels,” the duke said. “It is an honor to be chosen.”

“I find that a very male thing to assume.”

A flash of yellowing teeth. “Pick your strongest coven, and send them downstairs.”

“That will require some consideration.”

“Do it fast, or I will pick myself.”

You let them do this.

“And in the meantime,” the duke said as he rose from his seat in a swift, powerful movement, “prepare your Thirteen. I have a mission for you.”