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

Though he supposed that Aelin was a queen. She did not falter. She did not do anything but plow ahead, burning bright.

Even if it meant killing Dorian.

They hadn’t spoken of it since the day of Aedion’s rescue. But it still hung between them. And when she went to free magic … Chaol would again have the proper precautions in place.

Because he did not think she would put her sword down the next time.





34



Aelin knew she had things to do—vital things, terrible things—but she could sacrifice one day.

Keeping to the shadows whenever possible, she spent the afternoon showing Rowan the city, from the elegant residential districts to the markets crammed with vendors selling goods for the summer solstice in two weeks.

There was no sign or scent of Lorcan, thank the gods. But the king’s men were posted at a few busy intersections, giving Aelin an opportunity to point them out to Rowan. He studied them with trained efficiency, his keen sense of smell enabling him to pick out which ones were still human and which were inhabited by lesser Valg demons. From the look on his face, she honestly felt a little bad for any guard that came across him, demon or human. A little, but not much. Especially given that their presence alone somewhat ruined her plans for a peaceful, quiet day.

She wanted to show Rowan the good parts of the city before dragging him into its underbelly.

So she took him to one of Nesryn’s family’s bakeries, where she went so far as to buy a few of those pear tarts. At the docks, Rowan even convinced her to try some pan-fried trout. She’d once sworn never to eat fish, and had cringed as the fork had neared her mouth, but—the damned thing was delicious. She ate her entire fish, then snuck bites of Rowan’s, to his snarling dismay.

Here—Rowan was here with her, in Rifthold. And there was so much more she wanted him to see, to learn about what her life had been like. She’d never wanted to share any of it before.

Even when she’d heard the crack of a whip after lunch as they cooled themselves by the water, she’d wanted him with her to witness it. He’d silently stood with a hand on her shoulder as they watched the cluster of chained slaves hauling cargo onto one of the ships. Watched—and could do nothing.

Soon, she promised herself. Putting an end to that was a high priority.

They meandered back through the market stalls, one after another, until the smell of roses and lilies wafted by, the river breeze sweeping petals of every shape and color past their feet as the flower girls shouted about their wares.

She turned to him. “If you were a gentleman, you’d buy me—”

Rowan’s face had gone blank, his eyes hollow as he stared at one of the flower girls in the center of the square, a basket of hothouse peonies on her thin arm. Young, pretty, dark-haired, and— Oh, gods.

She shouldn’t have brought him here. Lyria had sold flowers in the market; she’d been a poor flower girl before Prince Rowan had spotted her and instantly known she was his mate. A faerie tale—until she’d been slaughtered by enemy forces. Pregnant with Rowan’s child.

Aelin clenched and unclenched her fingers, any words lodged in her throat. Rowan was still staring at the girl, who smiled at a passing woman, aglow with some inner light.

“I didn’t deserve her,” Rowan said quietly.

Aelin swallowed hard. There were wounds in both of them that had yet to heal, but this one … Truth. As always, she could offer him one truth in exchange for another. “I didn’t deserve Sam.”

He looked at her at last.

She’d do anything to get rid of the agony in his eyes. Anything.

His gloved fingers brushed her own, then dropped back to his side.

She clenched her hand into a fist again. “Come. I want to show you something.”





Aelin scrounged up some dessert from the street vendors while Rowan waited in a shadowed alley. Now, sitting on one of the wooden rafters in the gilded dome of the darkened Royal Theater, Aelin munched on a lemon cookie and swung her legs in the open air below. The space was the same as she remembered it, but the silence, the darkness …

“This used to be my favorite place in the entire world,” she said, her words too loud in the emptiness. Sunlight poured in from the roof door they’d broken into, illuminating the rafters and the golden dome, gleaming faintly off the polished brass banisters and the bloodred curtains of the stage below. “Arobynn owns a private box, so I went any chance I could. The nights I didn’t feel like dressing up or being seen, or maybe the nights I had a job and only an hour free, I’d creep in here through that door and listen.”

Rowan finished his cookie and gazed at the dark space below. He’d been so quiet for the past thirty minutes—as if he’d pulled back into a place where she couldn’t reach him.

She nearly sighed with relief as he said, “I’ve never seen an orchestra—or a theater like this, crafted around sound and luxury. Even in Doranelle, the theaters and amphitheaters are ancient, with benches or just steps.”

“There’s no place like this anywhere, perhaps. Even in Terrasen.”

“Then you’ll have to build one.”

“With what money? You think people are going to be happy to starve while I build a theater for my own pleasure?”

“Perhaps not right away, but if you believe one would benefit the city, the country, then do it. Artists are essential.”