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

Night would have been better for sneaking across the city. Another test—to see if she could make it here in daylight without attracting too much attention. Thankfully, most of the city was preoccupied with preparations for the prince’s birthday celebrations the next day: vendors were already out, selling everything from little cakes to flags bearing the Adarlanian wyvern to blue ribbons (to match the prince’s eyes, of course). It made her stomach turn.

Getting here undetected had been a minor test, though, compared to the one looming before her. And the one waiting tomorrow.

Aedion—every breath she took seemed to echo his name. Aedion, Aedion, Aedion.

But she shoved away the thought of him—of what might have already been done to him in those dungeons—as she strode up the expansive front steps of the Keep.

She hadn’t been in this house since the night everything had gone to hell.

There, to her right, were the stables where she’d knocked Wesley unconscious as he tried to warn her about the trap that had been laid for her. And there, a level up, looking out over the front garden, were the three windows of her old bedroom. They were open, the heavy velvet curtains blowing in the cool spring breeze, as if the room were being aired out for her. Unless Arobynn had given her quarters to someone else.

The carved oak doors swung open as she hit the top step, revealing a butler she’d never seen before, who bowed nonetheless and gestured behind him. Just past the grand marble foyer, the double doors of Arobynn’s study were open wide.

She didn’t glance at the threshold as she passed over it, sweeping into the house that had been a haven and a prison and a hellhole.

Gods, this house. Beneath the vaulted ceilings and glass chandeliers of the entry hall, the marble floors were polished so brightly that she could see her own dark reflection as she walked.

Not a soul in sight, not even wretched Tern. They were either out or under orders to stay away until this meeting was done—as though Arobynn didn’t want to be overheard.

The smell of the Keep wrapped around her, tugging at her memory. Fresh-cut flowers and baking bread barely masked the tang of metal, or the lightning-crisp feeling of violence throughout.

Every step toward that ornate study had her bracing herself.

There he was, seated at the massive desk, his auburn hair like molten steel in the sunlight pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows flanking one side of the wood-paneled room. She shut out the information she’d learned in Wesley’s letter and kept her posture loose, casual.

But she couldn’t help glancing at the rug before the desk—a movement Arobynn either noted or expected. “A new rug,” he said, looking up from the papers before him. “The bloodstains on the other one never really came out.”

“Pity,” she said, slumping into one of the chairs before his desk, trying not to look at the chair beside hers, where Sam had usually sat. “The other rug was prettier.”

Until her blood had soaked it when Arobynn had beaten her for ruining his slave trade agreement, making Sam watch the entire time. And when she was unconscious, he’d beaten Sam into oblivion, too.

She wondered which of the scars on Arobynn’s knuckles were from those beatings.

She heard the butler approach, but didn’t deign to look at him as Arobynn said, “We’re not to be disturbed.” The butler murmured his understanding, and the study doors clicked shut.

Aelin slung a leg over the arm of her chair. “To what do I owe this summoning?”

Arobynn rose, a fluid movement limned with restrained power, and came around the desk to lean against its edge. “I merely wanted to see how you were doing the day before your grand event.” His silver eyes flickered. “I wanted to wish you luck.”

“And to see if I was going to betray you?”

“Why would I ever think that?”

“I don’t think you want to get into a conversation about trust right now.”

“Certainly not. Not when you need all your focus for tomorrow. So many little things that could go wrong. Especially if you’re caught.”

She felt the dagger of the implied threat slide between her ribs. “You know I don’t break easily under torture.”

Arobynn crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Of course not. I expect nothing less from my protégée than to shield me if the king catches you.”

So that explained the summons.

“I never asked,” Arobynn went on. “Will you be doing this as Celaena?”

As good a time as any to cast a bored glance around the study, ever the irreverent protégée. Nothing on the desk, nothing on the shelves, not even a box that might contain the Amulet of Orynth. She allowed herself one sweep before turning indolent eyes on him. “I hadn’t planned on leaving a calling card.”

“And what explanation will you give your cousin when you are reunited? The same you gave the noble captain?” She didn’t want to know how he was aware of that disaster. She hadn’t told Lysandra—since Lysandra still had no idea who she was. She’d think about it later.

“I’ll tell Aedion the truth.”

“Well, let’s hope that’s excuse enough for him.”

It was a physical effort to clamp down on her retort. “I’m tired and don’t feel like having a verbal sparring match today. Just tell me what you want so I can go soak in my tub.” Not a lie. Her muscles ached from tracking Valg foot soldiers across Rifthold the night before.