Queen of Shadows
Page 51
But if she couldn’t put the princeling down, he’d do it. He wouldn’t enjoy it, and the captain might very well kill him in return, but to keep Terrasen safe, he’d cut off Dorian’s head.
Aelin nodded. “Yes, we’ll go, but—you have only one legion.”
“There are men who would fight, and other territories that might come if you call.”
“We can discuss this later.”
He leashed his temper. “We need to be in Terrasen before the summer is out—before the snow starts falling in autumn, or else we wait until spring.” She nodded distantly. Yesterday afternoon, she’d dispatched the letters Aedion had asked her to write to Ren, the Bane, and the remaining loyal lords of Terrasen, letting them know they’d been reunited, and that anyone with magic in their veins was to lie low. He knew the remaining lords—the old, cunning bastards—wouldn’t appreciate orders like that, even from their queen. But he had to try.
“And,” he added, because she really was going to shut him down about this, “we’ll need money for that army.”
She said quietly, “I know.”
Not an answer. Aedion tried again. “Even if men agree to fight on their honor alone, we stand a better chance of having greater numbers if we can pay them. Not to mention feeding our forces, and arming and supplying them.” For years now, he and the Bane had traversed from tavern to tavern, quietly raising funds for their own efforts. It still killed him to see the poorest of his people plunk hard-earned coins into the pans they’d passed around, to see the hope in their gaunt, scarred faces. “The King of Adarlan emptied our royal coffers; it was one of the first things he did. The only money we have comes from whatever our people can donate—which isn’t much—or whatever is granted by Adarlan.”
“Another way of keeping control all these years,” she murmured.
“Our people are beggared. They don’t have two coppers to rub together these days, let alone to pay taxes.”
“I wouldn’t raise taxes to pay for a war,” she said sharply. “And I’d rather not whore ourselves to foreign nations for loans, either. Not yet, anyway.” Aedion’s throat tightened at the bitterness coating her tone as they both considered the other way money and men could be obtained. But he couldn’t bring himself to mention selling her hand in marriage to a wealthy foreign kingdom—not yet.
So he just said, “It’s something to start contemplating. If magic is indeed freed, we could recruit the wielders to our side—offer them training, money, shelter. Imagine a soldier who can kill with blade and magic. It could turn the tide of a battle.”
Shadows flickered in her eyes. “Indeed.”
He weighed her posture, the clarity of her gaze, her tired face. Too much—she’d already faced and survived too much.
He’d seen the scars—the tattoos that covered them—peeking over the collar of her shirt every now and then. He hadn’t yet dared to ask to see them. The bandaged bite on her arm was nothing compared to that pain, and the many others she hadn’t mentioned, the scars all over her. The scars all over both of them.
“And then,” he said, clearing his throat, “there’s the blood oath.” He’d had endless hours in bed to compile this list. She stiffened enough that Aedion quickly added, “You don’t have to—not yet. But when you’re ready, I’m ready.”
“You still want to swear it to me?” Her voice was flat.
“Of course I do.” He damned caution to hell and said, “It was my right then—and now. It can wait until we get to Terrasen, but it’s going to be me who takes it. No one else.”
Her throat bobbed. “Right.” A breathless answer that he couldn’t read.
She let go of him and stalked toward one of the little training areas to test out her injured arm. Or maybe she wanted to get away from him—maybe he’d broached the topic the wrong way.
He might have hobbled off the roof had the door not opened and the captain appeared.
Aelin was already striding toward Chaol with predatory focus. He’d hate to be on the receiving end of that gait. “What is it?” she said.
He’d hate to be on the receiving end of that greeting, too.
Aedion limped for them as Chaol kicked the door shut behind him. “The Shadow Market is gone.”
Aelin drew up short. “What do you mean?”
The captain’s face was tight and pale. “The Valg soldiers. They went to the market tonight and sealed the exits with everyone inside. Then they burnt it. The people who tried to escape through the sewers found garrisons of soldiers waiting there, swords ready.”
That explained the smoke in the air, the plume on the horizon. Holy gods. The king had to have lost his mind entirely—had to have stopped caring what the general public thought.
Aelin’s arms slackened at her sides. “Why?” The slight tremor in her voice had Aedion’s hackles rising, those Fae instincts roaring to shut the captain up, to rip out his throat, to end the cause of her pain and fear—
“Because it got out that the rebels who freed him”—Chaol sent a cutting glance in Aedion’s direction—“were meeting in the Shadow Market to buy supplies.”
Aedion reached her side, close enough now to see the tightness of the captain’s face, the gauntness that hadn’t been there weeks ago. The last time they’d spoken.
“And I suppose you blame me?” Aelin said with midnight softness.
A muscle flickered on the captain’s jaw. He didn’t even nod a greeting to Aedion, or acknowledge the months they’d spent working together, what had happened in that tower room—
“The king could have ordered their slaughter by any means,” Chaol said, the slender scar on his face stark in the moonlight. “But he chose fire.”
Aelin went impossibly still.
Aedion snarled. “You’re a prick for suggesting the attack was a message for her.”
Chaol at last turned his attention toward him. “You think it’s not true?”
Aelin cocked her head. “You came all this way to fling accusations in my face?”
“You told me to stop by tonight,” Chaol retorted, and Aedion was half tempted to punch his teeth down his throat for the tone he used. “But I came to ask why you haven’t moved on the clock tower. How many more innocent people are going to be caught in the crossfire of this?”
It was an effort to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t need to speak for Aelin, who said with flawless venom, “Are you suggesting that I don’t care?”
“You risked everything—multiple lives—to get out one man. I think you find this city and its citizens to be expendable.”
Aelin hissed, “Need I remind you, Captain, that you went to Endovier and did not blink at the slaves, at the mass graves? Need I remind you that I was starved and chained, and you let Duke Perrington force me to the ground at Dorian’s feet while you did nothing? And now you have the nerve to accuse me of not caring, when many of the people in this city have profited off the blood and misery of the very people you ignored?”
Aedion stifled the snarl working its way up his throat. The captain had never said that about the initial meeting with his queen. Never said he hadn’t stepped in while she was manhandled, humiliated. Had the captain even flinched at the scars on her back, or merely examined them as though she were some prize animal?
Aelin nodded. “Yes, we’ll go, but—you have only one legion.”
“There are men who would fight, and other territories that might come if you call.”
“We can discuss this later.”
He leashed his temper. “We need to be in Terrasen before the summer is out—before the snow starts falling in autumn, or else we wait until spring.” She nodded distantly. Yesterday afternoon, she’d dispatched the letters Aedion had asked her to write to Ren, the Bane, and the remaining loyal lords of Terrasen, letting them know they’d been reunited, and that anyone with magic in their veins was to lie low. He knew the remaining lords—the old, cunning bastards—wouldn’t appreciate orders like that, even from their queen. But he had to try.
“And,” he added, because she really was going to shut him down about this, “we’ll need money for that army.”
She said quietly, “I know.”
Not an answer. Aedion tried again. “Even if men agree to fight on their honor alone, we stand a better chance of having greater numbers if we can pay them. Not to mention feeding our forces, and arming and supplying them.” For years now, he and the Bane had traversed from tavern to tavern, quietly raising funds for their own efforts. It still killed him to see the poorest of his people plunk hard-earned coins into the pans they’d passed around, to see the hope in their gaunt, scarred faces. “The King of Adarlan emptied our royal coffers; it was one of the first things he did. The only money we have comes from whatever our people can donate—which isn’t much—or whatever is granted by Adarlan.”
“Another way of keeping control all these years,” she murmured.
“Our people are beggared. They don’t have two coppers to rub together these days, let alone to pay taxes.”
“I wouldn’t raise taxes to pay for a war,” she said sharply. “And I’d rather not whore ourselves to foreign nations for loans, either. Not yet, anyway.” Aedion’s throat tightened at the bitterness coating her tone as they both considered the other way money and men could be obtained. But he couldn’t bring himself to mention selling her hand in marriage to a wealthy foreign kingdom—not yet.
So he just said, “It’s something to start contemplating. If magic is indeed freed, we could recruit the wielders to our side—offer them training, money, shelter. Imagine a soldier who can kill with blade and magic. It could turn the tide of a battle.”
Shadows flickered in her eyes. “Indeed.”
He weighed her posture, the clarity of her gaze, her tired face. Too much—she’d already faced and survived too much.
He’d seen the scars—the tattoos that covered them—peeking over the collar of her shirt every now and then. He hadn’t yet dared to ask to see them. The bandaged bite on her arm was nothing compared to that pain, and the many others she hadn’t mentioned, the scars all over her. The scars all over both of them.
“And then,” he said, clearing his throat, “there’s the blood oath.” He’d had endless hours in bed to compile this list. She stiffened enough that Aedion quickly added, “You don’t have to—not yet. But when you’re ready, I’m ready.”
“You still want to swear it to me?” Her voice was flat.
“Of course I do.” He damned caution to hell and said, “It was my right then—and now. It can wait until we get to Terrasen, but it’s going to be me who takes it. No one else.”
Her throat bobbed. “Right.” A breathless answer that he couldn’t read.
She let go of him and stalked toward one of the little training areas to test out her injured arm. Or maybe she wanted to get away from him—maybe he’d broached the topic the wrong way.
He might have hobbled off the roof had the door not opened and the captain appeared.
Aelin was already striding toward Chaol with predatory focus. He’d hate to be on the receiving end of that gait. “What is it?” she said.
He’d hate to be on the receiving end of that greeting, too.
Aedion limped for them as Chaol kicked the door shut behind him. “The Shadow Market is gone.”
Aelin drew up short. “What do you mean?”
The captain’s face was tight and pale. “The Valg soldiers. They went to the market tonight and sealed the exits with everyone inside. Then they burnt it. The people who tried to escape through the sewers found garrisons of soldiers waiting there, swords ready.”
That explained the smoke in the air, the plume on the horizon. Holy gods. The king had to have lost his mind entirely—had to have stopped caring what the general public thought.
Aelin’s arms slackened at her sides. “Why?” The slight tremor in her voice had Aedion’s hackles rising, those Fae instincts roaring to shut the captain up, to rip out his throat, to end the cause of her pain and fear—
“Because it got out that the rebels who freed him”—Chaol sent a cutting glance in Aedion’s direction—“were meeting in the Shadow Market to buy supplies.”
Aedion reached her side, close enough now to see the tightness of the captain’s face, the gauntness that hadn’t been there weeks ago. The last time they’d spoken.
“And I suppose you blame me?” Aelin said with midnight softness.
A muscle flickered on the captain’s jaw. He didn’t even nod a greeting to Aedion, or acknowledge the months they’d spent working together, what had happened in that tower room—
“The king could have ordered their slaughter by any means,” Chaol said, the slender scar on his face stark in the moonlight. “But he chose fire.”
Aelin went impossibly still.
Aedion snarled. “You’re a prick for suggesting the attack was a message for her.”
Chaol at last turned his attention toward him. “You think it’s not true?”
Aelin cocked her head. “You came all this way to fling accusations in my face?”
“You told me to stop by tonight,” Chaol retorted, and Aedion was half tempted to punch his teeth down his throat for the tone he used. “But I came to ask why you haven’t moved on the clock tower. How many more innocent people are going to be caught in the crossfire of this?”
It was an effort to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t need to speak for Aelin, who said with flawless venom, “Are you suggesting that I don’t care?”
“You risked everything—multiple lives—to get out one man. I think you find this city and its citizens to be expendable.”
Aelin hissed, “Need I remind you, Captain, that you went to Endovier and did not blink at the slaves, at the mass graves? Need I remind you that I was starved and chained, and you let Duke Perrington force me to the ground at Dorian’s feet while you did nothing? And now you have the nerve to accuse me of not caring, when many of the people in this city have profited off the blood and misery of the very people you ignored?”
Aedion stifled the snarl working its way up his throat. The captain had never said that about the initial meeting with his queen. Never said he hadn’t stepped in while she was manhandled, humiliated. Had the captain even flinched at the scars on her back, or merely examined them as though she were some prize animal?
