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

“I’m sorry,” Aelin said. “For the years I spent being a monster toward you, for whatever part I played in your suffering. I wish I’d been able to see myself better. I wish I’d seen everything better. I’m sorry.”

Lysandra blinked. “We were both young and stupid, and should have seen each other as allies. But there’s nothing to prevent us from seeing each other that way now.” Lysandra gave her a grin that was more wolfish than refined. “If you’re in, I’m in.”

That fast—that easily—the offer of friendship was tossed her way. Rowan might have been her dearest friend, her carranam, but … she missed female companionship. Deeply. Though an old panic rose up at the thought of Nehemia not being there anymore to provide it— and part of her wanted to throw the offer back in Lysandra’s face just because she wasn’t Nehemia—she forced herself to stare down that fear.

Aelin said hoarsely, “I’m in.”

Lysandra heaved a sigh. “Oh, thank the gods. Now I can talk to someone about clothes without being asked how so-and-so would approve of it, or gobble down a box of chocolates without someone telling me I’d better watch my figure—tell me you like chocolates. You do, right? I remember stealing a box from your room once when you were out killing someone. They were delicious.”

Aelin waved a hand toward the boxes of goodies on the table. “You brought chocolate—as far as I’m concerned, you’re my new favorite person.”

Lysandra chuckled, a surprisingly deep, wicked sound—probably a laugh she never let Arobynn or her clients hear. “Some night soon, I’ll sneak back in here and we can eat chocolates until we vomit.”

“We’re such refined, genteel ladies.”

“Please,” Lysandra said, waving a manicured hand, “you and I are nothing but wild beasts wearing human skins. Don’t even try to deny it.”

The courtesan had no idea how close she was to the truth. Aelin wondered how the woman would react to her other form—to the elongated canines. Somehow, she doubted Lysandra would call her a monster for it—or for the flames at her command.

Lysandra’s smile flickered. “Everything’s set for tomorrow?”

“Is that worry I detect?”

“You’re just going to waltz into the palace and think a different hair color will keep you from being noticed? You trust Arobynn that much?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Lysandra’s shrug was the definition of nonchalance. “I happen to know a thing or two about playing different roles. How to turn eyes away when you don’t want to be seen.”

“I do know how to be stealthy, Lysandra. The plan is sound. Even if it was Arobynn’s idea.”

“What if we killed two birds with one stone?”

She might have dismissed it, might have shut her down, but there was such a wicked, feral gleam in the courtesan’s eyes.

So Aelin rested her forearms on the table. “I’m listening.”





14



For every person Chaol and the rebels saved, it seemed there were always several more who made it to the butchering block.

The sun was setting as he and Nesryn crouched on a rooftop flanking the small square. The only people who’d bothered to watch were the typical lowlifes, content to breathe in the misery of others. That didn’t bother him half as much as the decorations that had been put up in honor of Dorian’s birthday tomorrow: red and gold streamers and ribbons hung across the square like a net, while baskets of blue and white flowers bordered its outer edges. A charnel house bedecked in late-spring cheer.

Nesryn’s bowstring groaned as she pulled it back farther.

“Steady,” he warned her.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Aelin muttered from a few feet away.

Chaol cut her a glance. “Remind me why you’re here?”

“I wanted to help—or is this an Adarlanians-only rebellion?”

Chaol stifled his retort and turned his glare onto the square below.

Tomorrow, everything he cared about depended on her. Antagonizing her wouldn’t be smart, even if it killed him to leave Dorian in her hands. But—

“About tomorrow,” he said tightly, not taking his attention off the execution about to unfold. “You don’t touch Dorian.”

“Me? Never,” Aelin purred.

“It’s not a joke. You. Don’t. Hurt. Him.”

Nesryn ignored them and angled her bow to the left. “I can’t get a clear shot at any of them.”

Three men now stood before the block, a dozen guards around them. The boards of the wooden platform were already deeply stained with red from weeks of use. Gatherers monitored the massive clock above the execution platform, waiting for the iron hand to hit the six o’clock evening marker. They’d even tied gold and crimson ribbons to the clock’s lower rim. Seven minutes now.

Chaol made himself look at Aelin. “Do you think you’ll be able to save him?”

“Maybe. I’ll try.” No reaction in her eyes, in her posture.

Maybe. Maybe. He said, “Does Dorian actually matter, or is he a pawn for Terrasen?”

“Don’t even start with that.” For a moment he thought she was done, but then she spat, “Killing him, Chaol, would be a mercy. Killing him would be a gift.”