Queen of Shadows
Page 125
A tendril of night slammed into Dorian’s back and he arched, groaning.
“I think there is more that you know, Aelin Galathynius,” the king said, that too-familiar blackness growing. “Things that perhaps only the heir of Brannon Galathynius might have learned.”
The third Wyrdkey.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Aelin said. The prince’s neck was taut as he panted, as the darkness whipped him.
Once—twice. Lashings.
She knew that pain. “He’s your son—your heir.”
“You forget, Princess,” the king said, “that I have two sons.”
Dorian screamed as another whip of darkness slashed his back. Black lightning flitted across his exposed teeth.
She lunged—and was thrown back by the very wards she’d drawn on her body. An invisible wall of that black pain lay around Dorian now, and his screams became unending.
Like a beast snapped from its leash, Chaol flung himself against it, roaring Dorian’s name, the blood crumbling from the cuff of his jacket with each attempt.
Again. Again. Again.
Dorian was sobbing, darkness pouring out of his mouth, shackling his hands, branding his back, his neck—
Then it vanished.
The prince sagged to the floor, chest heaving. Chaol halted midstrike, his breathing ragged, face drawn.
“Rise,” the king said.
Dorian got to his feet, his black collar gleaming as his chest heaved. “Delicious,” the thing inside the prince said. Bile burned Aelin’s throat.
“Please,” Chaol said hoarsely to the king, and her heart cracked at the word, at the agony and desperation. “Free him. Name your price. I’ll give you anything.”
“Would you hand over your former lover, Captain? I see no use in losing a weapon if I don’t gain one in return.” The king waved a hand toward her. “You destroyed my general and three of my princes. I can think of a few other Valg who are aching to get their claws into you for that—who would very much enjoy the chance to slip into your body. It’s only fair.”
Aelin dared a glance toward the window. The sun climbed higher.
“You came into my family’s home and murdered them in their sleep,” Aelin said. The grandfather clock began chiming twelve. A heartbeat later, the miserable, off-kilter clanging of the clock tower sounded. “It’s only fair,” she said to the king as she backed a step toward the doors, “that I destroy you in return.”
She tugged the Eye of Elena from under her suit. The blue stone glowed like a small star.
Not just a ward against evil.
But a key in its own right, that could be used to unlock Erawan’s tomb.
The king’s eyes went wide and he rose from his throne. “You’ve just made the mistake of your life, girl.”
He might have a point.
The noontime bells were ringing.
Yet the clock tower still stood.
71
Rowan swung his sword and the Wyrdhound fell back, howling as his blade pierced through stone and into the tender flesh beneath. But not enough to keep it down, to kill it. Another Wyrdhound leaped. Where they lunged, Rowan struck.
Side by side, he and Aedion had been pushed against a wall, conceding foot after foot of the passage—driven farther and farther from the spool of fuse Aedion had been forced to drop.
A clanging, miserable noise rang out.
In the span between clangs, Rowan slashed for two different Wyrdhounds, blows that would have disemboweled most creatures.
The clock tower. Noon.
The Wyrdhounds were herding them back, dodging sure-kill blows, keeping out of their reach.
To keep them from getting to the fuse.
Rowan swore and launched into an assault that engaged three of them at once, Aedion flanking him. The Wyrdhounds held their line.
Noon, he had promised Aelin. As the sun began to reach its apex on the solstice, they’d bring the tower crashing down.
The final clang of the clock tower sounded.
Noon had come and gone.
And his Fireheart, his queen, was in that castle above them—left with only her mortal training and wits to keep her alive. Perhaps not for much longer.
The thought was so abhorrent, so outrageous, that Rowan roared his fury, louder than the shrieks of the beasts.
The bellow cost his brother. One creature shot past Rowan’s guard, leaping, and Aedion barked out a curse and staggered back. Rowan smelled Aedion’s blood before he saw it.
It must have been a dinner bell to the Wyrdhounds, that demi-Fae blood. Four of them leaped for the general as one, their maws revealing flesh-shredding stone teeth.
The three others whirled for Rowan, and there was nothing he could do to get to that fuse.
To save the queen who held his heart in her scarred hands.
A few steps ahead of him, Chaol watched Aelin back toward the glass doors, just as they’d planned after seeing his men dead.
The king’s attention was fixed on the Eye of Elena around her neck. She removed it, holding it in a steady hand. “Been looking for this, have you? Poor Erawan, locked in his little tomb for so long.”
It was an effort to hold his position as Aelin kept retreating.
“Where did you find that?” the king seethed.
Aelin reached Chaol, brushing against him, a comfort and a thank-you and a good-bye as she continued past. “Turns out your ancestor didn’t approve of your hobbies. We Galathynius women stick together, you know.”
For the first time in his life, Chaol saw the king’s face go slack. But then the man said, “And did that ancient fool tell you what will happen if you wield the other key you already possess?”
She was so close to the doors. “Let the prince go, or I’ll destroy this right here, and Erawan can stay locked up.” She slid the chain into her pocket.
“Very well,” the king said. He looked at Dorian, who showed no sign of even remembering his own name, despite what the witch had written on the walls of their city. “Go. Retrieve her.”
Darkness surged from Dorian, leaking like blood in water, and Chaol’s head gave a burst of pain as—
Aelin ran, exploding through the glass doors.
Faster than he should be, Dorian raced after her, ice coating the floor, the room. The cold of it knocked the breath from him. But Dorian didn’t glance once in his direction before he was gone.
The king took a step down the dais, his breath clouding in front of him.
Chaol lifted his sword, holding his position between the open doors and the conqueror of their continent.
The king took another step. “More heroic antics? Don’t you ever get bored of them, Captain?”
Chaol did not yield. “You murdered my men. And Sorscha.”
“And a good many more.”
Another step. The king stared over Chaol’s shoulder to the hallway where Aelin and Dorian had vanished.
“It ends now,” Chaol said.
The Valg princes had been lethal in Wendlyn. But when inhabiting Dorian’s body, with Dorian’s magic …
Aelin hurtled down the hallway, glass windows flanking her, marble beneath—nothing but open sky around her.
And behind, charging after her like a black storm, was Dorian.
Ice spread from him, hoarfrost splintering along the windows.
“I think there is more that you know, Aelin Galathynius,” the king said, that too-familiar blackness growing. “Things that perhaps only the heir of Brannon Galathynius might have learned.”
The third Wyrdkey.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Aelin said. The prince’s neck was taut as he panted, as the darkness whipped him.
Once—twice. Lashings.
She knew that pain. “He’s your son—your heir.”
“You forget, Princess,” the king said, “that I have two sons.”
Dorian screamed as another whip of darkness slashed his back. Black lightning flitted across his exposed teeth.
She lunged—and was thrown back by the very wards she’d drawn on her body. An invisible wall of that black pain lay around Dorian now, and his screams became unending.
Like a beast snapped from its leash, Chaol flung himself against it, roaring Dorian’s name, the blood crumbling from the cuff of his jacket with each attempt.
Again. Again. Again.
Dorian was sobbing, darkness pouring out of his mouth, shackling his hands, branding his back, his neck—
Then it vanished.
The prince sagged to the floor, chest heaving. Chaol halted midstrike, his breathing ragged, face drawn.
“Rise,” the king said.
Dorian got to his feet, his black collar gleaming as his chest heaved. “Delicious,” the thing inside the prince said. Bile burned Aelin’s throat.
“Please,” Chaol said hoarsely to the king, and her heart cracked at the word, at the agony and desperation. “Free him. Name your price. I’ll give you anything.”
“Would you hand over your former lover, Captain? I see no use in losing a weapon if I don’t gain one in return.” The king waved a hand toward her. “You destroyed my general and three of my princes. I can think of a few other Valg who are aching to get their claws into you for that—who would very much enjoy the chance to slip into your body. It’s only fair.”
Aelin dared a glance toward the window. The sun climbed higher.
“You came into my family’s home and murdered them in their sleep,” Aelin said. The grandfather clock began chiming twelve. A heartbeat later, the miserable, off-kilter clanging of the clock tower sounded. “It’s only fair,” she said to the king as she backed a step toward the doors, “that I destroy you in return.”
She tugged the Eye of Elena from under her suit. The blue stone glowed like a small star.
Not just a ward against evil.
But a key in its own right, that could be used to unlock Erawan’s tomb.
The king’s eyes went wide and he rose from his throne. “You’ve just made the mistake of your life, girl.”
He might have a point.
The noontime bells were ringing.
Yet the clock tower still stood.
71
Rowan swung his sword and the Wyrdhound fell back, howling as his blade pierced through stone and into the tender flesh beneath. But not enough to keep it down, to kill it. Another Wyrdhound leaped. Where they lunged, Rowan struck.
Side by side, he and Aedion had been pushed against a wall, conceding foot after foot of the passage—driven farther and farther from the spool of fuse Aedion had been forced to drop.
A clanging, miserable noise rang out.
In the span between clangs, Rowan slashed for two different Wyrdhounds, blows that would have disemboweled most creatures.
The clock tower. Noon.
The Wyrdhounds were herding them back, dodging sure-kill blows, keeping out of their reach.
To keep them from getting to the fuse.
Rowan swore and launched into an assault that engaged three of them at once, Aedion flanking him. The Wyrdhounds held their line.
Noon, he had promised Aelin. As the sun began to reach its apex on the solstice, they’d bring the tower crashing down.
The final clang of the clock tower sounded.
Noon had come and gone.
And his Fireheart, his queen, was in that castle above them—left with only her mortal training and wits to keep her alive. Perhaps not for much longer.
The thought was so abhorrent, so outrageous, that Rowan roared his fury, louder than the shrieks of the beasts.
The bellow cost his brother. One creature shot past Rowan’s guard, leaping, and Aedion barked out a curse and staggered back. Rowan smelled Aedion’s blood before he saw it.
It must have been a dinner bell to the Wyrdhounds, that demi-Fae blood. Four of them leaped for the general as one, their maws revealing flesh-shredding stone teeth.
The three others whirled for Rowan, and there was nothing he could do to get to that fuse.
To save the queen who held his heart in her scarred hands.
A few steps ahead of him, Chaol watched Aelin back toward the glass doors, just as they’d planned after seeing his men dead.
The king’s attention was fixed on the Eye of Elena around her neck. She removed it, holding it in a steady hand. “Been looking for this, have you? Poor Erawan, locked in his little tomb for so long.”
It was an effort to hold his position as Aelin kept retreating.
“Where did you find that?” the king seethed.
Aelin reached Chaol, brushing against him, a comfort and a thank-you and a good-bye as she continued past. “Turns out your ancestor didn’t approve of your hobbies. We Galathynius women stick together, you know.”
For the first time in his life, Chaol saw the king’s face go slack. But then the man said, “And did that ancient fool tell you what will happen if you wield the other key you already possess?”
She was so close to the doors. “Let the prince go, or I’ll destroy this right here, and Erawan can stay locked up.” She slid the chain into her pocket.
“Very well,” the king said. He looked at Dorian, who showed no sign of even remembering his own name, despite what the witch had written on the walls of their city. “Go. Retrieve her.”
Darkness surged from Dorian, leaking like blood in water, and Chaol’s head gave a burst of pain as—
Aelin ran, exploding through the glass doors.
Faster than he should be, Dorian raced after her, ice coating the floor, the room. The cold of it knocked the breath from him. But Dorian didn’t glance once in his direction before he was gone.
The king took a step down the dais, his breath clouding in front of him.
Chaol lifted his sword, holding his position between the open doors and the conqueror of their continent.
The king took another step. “More heroic antics? Don’t you ever get bored of them, Captain?”
Chaol did not yield. “You murdered my men. And Sorscha.”
“And a good many more.”
Another step. The king stared over Chaol’s shoulder to the hallway where Aelin and Dorian had vanished.
“It ends now,” Chaol said.
The Valg princes had been lethal in Wendlyn. But when inhabiting Dorian’s body, with Dorian’s magic …
Aelin hurtled down the hallway, glass windows flanking her, marble beneath—nothing but open sky around her.
And behind, charging after her like a black storm, was Dorian.
Ice spread from him, hoarfrost splintering along the windows.
