Queen of Shadows
Page 118
“So that’s why the captain is trying to set up a meeting with guards at the palace?”
“How am I supposed to keep up with what he does? The boy used to serve the king.”
“Assassins, whores, traitors—what fine company you keep these days, Rowan.”
“Better than being a dog leashed by a psychotic master.”
“Is that what you thought of us? All those years that we worked together, killed men and bedded females together? I never heard you complain.”
“I didn’t realize there was anything to complain about. I was as blind as you.”
“And then a fiery princess flounced into your life, and you decided to change for her, right?” A cruel smile. “Did you tell her about Sollemere?”
“She knows everything.”
“Does she now. I suppose her own history makes her even more understanding of the horrors you committed on our queen’s behalf.”
“Your queen’s behalf. What is it, exactly, about Aelin that gets under your skin, Lorcan? Is it that she’s not afraid of you, or is it that I walked away from you for her?”
Lorcan snorted. “Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work. You’ll all die in the process.”
That was highly likely, but Rowan said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You owe me more than that horseshit.”
“Careful, Lorcan, or you’ll sound like you care about someone other than yourself.” As a discarded bastard child growing up on the back streets of Doranelle, Lorcan had lost that ability centuries before Rowan had even been born. He’d never pitied him for it, though. Not when Lorcan had been blessed in every other regard by Hellas himself.
Lorcan spat on the roof. “I was going to offer to bring your body back to your beloved mountain to be buried alongside Lyria once I finish with the keys. Now I’ll just let you rot here. Alongside your pretty little princess.”
He tried to ignore the blow, the thought of that grave atop his mountain. “Is that a threat?”
“Why would I bother? If you’re truly planning something, I won’t need to kill her—she can do that all on her own. Maybe the king will put her in one of those collars. Just like his son.”
A chord of horror struck so deep in Rowan that his stomach turned. “Mind what you say, Lorcan.”
“I bet Maeve would offer good coin for her. And if she gets her hands on that Wyrdkey … You can imagine just as well as I what sort of power Maeve would wield then.”
Worse—so much worse than he could imagine if Maeve wanted Aelin not dead but enslaved. A weapon without limit in one hand, and the heir of Mala Fire-Bringer in her other. There would be no stopping her.
Lorcan read the hesitation, the doubt. Gold gleamed in his hand. “You know me, Prince. You know I’m the only one qualified to hunt down and destroy those keys. Let your queen take on the army gathering in the south—leave this task to me.” The ring seemed to glow in the moonlight as Lorcan extended it. “Whatever she’s planning, she’ll need this. Or else you can say good-bye.” Lorcan’s eyes were chips of black ice. “We all know how well you handled saying it to Lyria.”
Rowan leashed his rage. “Swear it.”
Lorcan smiled, knowing he’d won.
“Swear that this ring grants immunity to the Valg, and I’ll give it to you,” Rowan said, and he pulled the Amulet of Orynth from his pocket.
Lorcan’s focus snapped to the amulet, to the otherworldly strangeness it radiated, and swore.
A blade flashed, and then the scent of Lorcan’s blood filled the air. He clenched his fist, lifting it. “I swear on my blood and honor that I have not deceived you in any of this. The ring’s power is genuine.”
Rowan watched the blood drip onto the roof. One drop; two; three.
Lorcan might have been a prick, but Rowan had never seen him break an oath before. His word was his bond; it had always been the one currency he valued.
They both moved at once, chucking the amulet and the ring into the space between them. Rowan caught the ring and swiftly pocketed it, but Lorcan just stared at the amulet in his hands, his eyes shadowed.
Rowan avoided the urge to hold his breath and stayed silent.
Lorcan slid the chain around his neck and tucked the amulet into his shirt. “You’re all going to die. Carrying out this plan, or in the war that follows.”
“You destroy those keys,” Rowan said, “and there might not be a war.” A fool’s hope.
“There will be a war. It’s too late to stop it now. Too bad that ring won’t keep any of you from being spiked on the castle walls.”
The image flashed through his head—made all the worse, perhaps, because of the times he’d seen it himself, done it himself. “What happened to you, Lorcan? What happened in your miserable existence to make you this way?” He’d never asked for the full story, had never cared to. It hadn’t bothered him until now. Before, he would have stood beside Lorcan and taunted the poor fool who dared defy their queen. “You’re a better male than this.”
“Am I? I still serve my queen, even if she cannot see it. Who was the one who abandoned her the first time a pretty human thing opened her legs—”
“That is enough.”
But Lorcan was gone.
Rowan waited a few minutes before going back downstairs, turning the ring over and over in his pocket.
Aelin was awake in the bed when he entered, the windows shut and curtained, the hearth dark. “Well?” she said, the word barely audible above the rustling of the blankets as he climbed in beside her.
His night-keen eyes allowed him to see the scarred palm she held out as he dropped the ring into it. She slid it onto her thumb, wriggled her fingers, and frowned when nothing particularly exciting happened. A laugh caught in his throat.
“How mad is Lorcan going to be,” Aelin murmured as they lay down face-to-face, “when he eventually opens up that amulet, finds the Valg commander’s ring inside, and realizes we gave him a fake?”
The demon ripped down the remaining barriers between their souls as though they were paper, until only one remained, a tiny shell of self.
He did not remember waking, or sleeping, or eating. Indeed, there were very few moments when he was even there, looking out through his eyes. Only when the demon prince fed on the prisoners in the dungeons—when he allowed him to feed, to drink alongside him—that was the only time he now surfaced.
Whatever control he’d had that day—
What day?
He could not remember a time when the demon had not been there inside of him.
And yet—
Manon.
A name.
Do not think of that one—do not think of her. The demon hated that name.
Manon.
Enough. We do not speak of them, the descendants of our kings.
Speak of whom?
Good.
“You’re ready for tomorrow?” Aelin said to Chaol as they stood on the roof of her apartment, gazing toward the glass castle. In the setting sun, it was awash in gold and orange and ruby—as if it were already aflame.
Chaol prayed it wouldn’t come to that, but … “As ready as I can be.”
“How am I supposed to keep up with what he does? The boy used to serve the king.”
“Assassins, whores, traitors—what fine company you keep these days, Rowan.”
“Better than being a dog leashed by a psychotic master.”
“Is that what you thought of us? All those years that we worked together, killed men and bedded females together? I never heard you complain.”
“I didn’t realize there was anything to complain about. I was as blind as you.”
“And then a fiery princess flounced into your life, and you decided to change for her, right?” A cruel smile. “Did you tell her about Sollemere?”
“She knows everything.”
“Does she now. I suppose her own history makes her even more understanding of the horrors you committed on our queen’s behalf.”
“Your queen’s behalf. What is it, exactly, about Aelin that gets under your skin, Lorcan? Is it that she’s not afraid of you, or is it that I walked away from you for her?”
Lorcan snorted. “Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work. You’ll all die in the process.”
That was highly likely, but Rowan said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You owe me more than that horseshit.”
“Careful, Lorcan, or you’ll sound like you care about someone other than yourself.” As a discarded bastard child growing up on the back streets of Doranelle, Lorcan had lost that ability centuries before Rowan had even been born. He’d never pitied him for it, though. Not when Lorcan had been blessed in every other regard by Hellas himself.
Lorcan spat on the roof. “I was going to offer to bring your body back to your beloved mountain to be buried alongside Lyria once I finish with the keys. Now I’ll just let you rot here. Alongside your pretty little princess.”
He tried to ignore the blow, the thought of that grave atop his mountain. “Is that a threat?”
“Why would I bother? If you’re truly planning something, I won’t need to kill her—she can do that all on her own. Maybe the king will put her in one of those collars. Just like his son.”
A chord of horror struck so deep in Rowan that his stomach turned. “Mind what you say, Lorcan.”
“I bet Maeve would offer good coin for her. And if she gets her hands on that Wyrdkey … You can imagine just as well as I what sort of power Maeve would wield then.”
Worse—so much worse than he could imagine if Maeve wanted Aelin not dead but enslaved. A weapon without limit in one hand, and the heir of Mala Fire-Bringer in her other. There would be no stopping her.
Lorcan read the hesitation, the doubt. Gold gleamed in his hand. “You know me, Prince. You know I’m the only one qualified to hunt down and destroy those keys. Let your queen take on the army gathering in the south—leave this task to me.” The ring seemed to glow in the moonlight as Lorcan extended it. “Whatever she’s planning, she’ll need this. Or else you can say good-bye.” Lorcan’s eyes were chips of black ice. “We all know how well you handled saying it to Lyria.”
Rowan leashed his rage. “Swear it.”
Lorcan smiled, knowing he’d won.
“Swear that this ring grants immunity to the Valg, and I’ll give it to you,” Rowan said, and he pulled the Amulet of Orynth from his pocket.
Lorcan’s focus snapped to the amulet, to the otherworldly strangeness it radiated, and swore.
A blade flashed, and then the scent of Lorcan’s blood filled the air. He clenched his fist, lifting it. “I swear on my blood and honor that I have not deceived you in any of this. The ring’s power is genuine.”
Rowan watched the blood drip onto the roof. One drop; two; three.
Lorcan might have been a prick, but Rowan had never seen him break an oath before. His word was his bond; it had always been the one currency he valued.
They both moved at once, chucking the amulet and the ring into the space between them. Rowan caught the ring and swiftly pocketed it, but Lorcan just stared at the amulet in his hands, his eyes shadowed.
Rowan avoided the urge to hold his breath and stayed silent.
Lorcan slid the chain around his neck and tucked the amulet into his shirt. “You’re all going to die. Carrying out this plan, or in the war that follows.”
“You destroy those keys,” Rowan said, “and there might not be a war.” A fool’s hope.
“There will be a war. It’s too late to stop it now. Too bad that ring won’t keep any of you from being spiked on the castle walls.”
The image flashed through his head—made all the worse, perhaps, because of the times he’d seen it himself, done it himself. “What happened to you, Lorcan? What happened in your miserable existence to make you this way?” He’d never asked for the full story, had never cared to. It hadn’t bothered him until now. Before, he would have stood beside Lorcan and taunted the poor fool who dared defy their queen. “You’re a better male than this.”
“Am I? I still serve my queen, even if she cannot see it. Who was the one who abandoned her the first time a pretty human thing opened her legs—”
“That is enough.”
But Lorcan was gone.
Rowan waited a few minutes before going back downstairs, turning the ring over and over in his pocket.
Aelin was awake in the bed when he entered, the windows shut and curtained, the hearth dark. “Well?” she said, the word barely audible above the rustling of the blankets as he climbed in beside her.
His night-keen eyes allowed him to see the scarred palm she held out as he dropped the ring into it. She slid it onto her thumb, wriggled her fingers, and frowned when nothing particularly exciting happened. A laugh caught in his throat.
“How mad is Lorcan going to be,” Aelin murmured as they lay down face-to-face, “when he eventually opens up that amulet, finds the Valg commander’s ring inside, and realizes we gave him a fake?”
The demon ripped down the remaining barriers between their souls as though they were paper, until only one remained, a tiny shell of self.
He did not remember waking, or sleeping, or eating. Indeed, there were very few moments when he was even there, looking out through his eyes. Only when the demon prince fed on the prisoners in the dungeons—when he allowed him to feed, to drink alongside him—that was the only time he now surfaced.
Whatever control he’d had that day—
What day?
He could not remember a time when the demon had not been there inside of him.
And yet—
Manon.
A name.
Do not think of that one—do not think of her. The demon hated that name.
Manon.
Enough. We do not speak of them, the descendants of our kings.
Speak of whom?
Good.
“You’re ready for tomorrow?” Aelin said to Chaol as they stood on the roof of her apartment, gazing toward the glass castle. In the setting sun, it was awash in gold and orange and ruby—as if it were already aflame.
Chaol prayed it wouldn’t come to that, but … “As ready as I can be.”
