Текст книги "Queen of Shadows"
Автор книги: Sarah J. Maas
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 38 страниц)
“And what of your future? For all your talk of hope, you seem resigned to fleeing. Why not return to your kingdom—to fight?”
Perhaps the horror she’d witnessed today gave her the courage to say, “Ten years ago, my parents were murdered. My father was executed on a butchering block in front of thousands. But my mother … My mother died defending Aelin Galathynius, the heir to the throne of Terrasen. She bought Aelin time to run. They followed Aelin’s tracks to the frozen river, where they said she must have fallen in and drowned.
“But you see, Aelin had fire magic. She could have survived the cold. And Aelin … Aelin never really liked me or played with me because I was so shy, but … I never believed them when they said she was dead. Every day since then, I’ve told myself that she got away, and that she’s still out there, biding her time. Growing up, growing strong, so that she might one day come to save Terrasen. And you are my enemy—because if she returns, she will fight you.
“But for ten years, until I came here, I endured Vernon because of her. Because of the hope that she got away, and my mother’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain. I thought that one day, Aelin would come to save me—would remember I existed and rescue me from that tower.” There it was, her great secret, which she had never dared tell anyone, even her nursemaid. “Even though … even though she never came, even though I’m here now, I can’t let go of that. And I think that is why you obey. Because you have been hoping every day of your miserable, hideous life that you’ll get to go home.”
Elide finished wrapping the bandage and stepped back. Manon was staring at her now.
“If this Aelin Galathynius were indeed alive, would you try to run to her? Fight with her?”
“I would fight with tooth and claw to get to her. But there are lines I would not cross. Because I don’t think I could face her if … if I couldn’t face myself for what I’d done.”
Manon said nothing. Elide stepped away, heading to the bathing room to wash her hands.
The Wing Leader said from behind her, “Do you believe monsters are born, or made?”
From what she’d seen today, she would say some creatures were very much born evil. But what Manon was asking … “I’m not the one who needs to answer that question,” Elide said.
41 
The oil was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, gleaming like amber in the afternoon light.
Naked, Aelin stood before it, unable to reach for the bottle.
It was what Arobynn wanted—for her to think of him as she rubbed the oil into every inch of her skin. For her breasts, her thighs, her neck to smell like almond—his chosen scent.
His scent, because he knew that a Fae male had come to stay with her, and all signs pointed to their being close enough for scent to matter to Rowan.
She closed her eyes, steeling herself.
“Aelin,” Rowan said through the door.
“I’m fine,” she said. Only a few more hours. And then everything would change.
She opened her eyes and reached for the oil.
It took Rowan a jerk of his chin to get Aedion to follow him to the roof. Aelin was still in her room dressing, but Rowan wasn’t going far. He would hear any enemies on the street long before they had a chance to get into the apartment.
Despite the Valg prowling the city, Rifthold was one of the milder capitals he’d encountered—its people mostly prone to avoiding trouble. Perhaps from fear of being noticed by the monster who dwelled in that godawful glass castle. But Rowan would keep his guard up all the same—here, in Terrasen, or wherever else their paths might lead.
Aedion was now lounging in a small chair one of them had dragged up here at some point. Gavriel’s son—a surprise and a shock every time he saw that face or caught a whiff of his scent. Rowan couldn’t help but wonder if Aelin had sent the Wyrdhounds hunting after Lorcan not just to keep him from tracking her and to pave the way for her to free magic but also to keep him from getting close enough to Aedion to detect his lineage.
Aedion crossed his legs with a lazy grace that probably served to hide his speed and strength from opponents. “She’s going to kill him tonight, isn’t she?”
“After the dinner and whatever Arobynn plans to do with the Valg commander. She’s going to circle back and put him down.”
Only a fool would think Aedion’s grin sprang from amusement. “That’s my girl.”
“And if she decides to spare him?”
“It’s her decision to make.”
Smart answer. “What if she were to say we could take care of it?”
“Then I’d hope you’d join me for a hunt, Prince.”
Another smart answer, and what he’d been waiting to hear. Rowan said, “And when the time comes?”
“You took the blood oath,” Aedion said, and there wasn’t any hint of a challenge in his eyes—only the truth, spoken warrior to warrior. “I get Arobynn’s killing blow.”
“Fair enough.”
Primal wrath flickered in Aedion’s face. “It’s not going to be quick, and it’s not going to be clean. That man has many, many debts to pay before he meets his end.”
By the time Aelin emerged, the males were talking in the kitchen, already dressed. On the street outside the apartment, the Valg commander was bound, blindfolded, and locked in the trunk of the carriage Nesryn had acquired.
Aelin squared her shoulders, shaking loose the breath that had become a tight knot in her chest, and crossed the room, each step bringing her too quickly toward their inevitable departure.
Aedion, facing her in a fine tunic of deep green, was the first to notice. He let out a low whistle. “Well, if you didn’t already scare the living shit out of me, you’ve certainly done it now.”
Rowan turned to her.
He went completely and utterly still as he took in the dress.
The black velvet hugged every curve and hollow before pooling at her feet, revealing each too-shallow breath as Rowan’s eyes grazed over her body. Down, then up—to the hair she’d swept back with golden bat-wing-shaped combs that rose above either side of her head like a primal headdress; to the face she’d kept mostly clean, save for a sweep of kohl along her upper eyelid and the deep red lips she’d painstakingly colored.
With the burning weight of Rowan’s attention upon her, she turned to show them the back—the roaring golden dragon clawing up her body. She looked over her shoulder in time to see Rowan’s eyes again slide south, and linger.
Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. And she could have sworn that hunger—ravenous hunger—flickered there.
“Demons and dining,” Aedion said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder. “We should go.”
Her cousin passed her by with a wink. When she turned back to Rowan, still breathless, only cool observation remained on his face.
“You said you wanted to see me in this dress,” she said a bit hoarsely.
“I hadn’t realized the effect would be so …” He shook his head. He took in her face, her hair, the combs. “You look like—”
“A queen?”
“The fire-breathing bitch-queen those bastards claim you are.”
She chuckled, waving a hand toward him: the formfitting black jacket that showed off those powerful shoulders, the silver accents that matched his hair, the beauty and elegance of the clothes that made an enthralling contrast with the tattoo down the side of his face and neck. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Prince.”
An understatement. He looked … she couldn’t stop staring, that’s how he looked.
“Apparently,” he said, walking toward her and offering an arm, “we both clean up well.”
She gave him a sly grin as she took his elbow, the scent of almonds wrapping around her again. “Don’t forget your cloak. You’d feel rather guilty when all those poor mortal women combust at the sight of you.”
“I’d say likewise, but I think you’d enjoy seeing men bursting into flames as you strutted by.”
She winked at him, and his chuckle echoed through her bones and blood.
42
The front gates of the Assassins’ Keep were open, the gravel drive and manicured lawn lit with shimmering glass lamps. The pale stone estate itself was bright, beautiful, and inviting.
Aelin had told them what to expect on the carriage ride over, but even as they came to a stop at the foot of the steps, she looked at the two males crammed in with her and said, “Be on your guard, and keep your fat mouths shut. Especially with the Valg commander. No matter what you hear or see, just keep your fat mouths shut. No psychotic territorial bullshit.”
Aedion chuckled. “Remind me to tell you tomorrow how charming you are.”
But she wasn’t in the mood to laugh.
Nesryn jumped down from the driver’s seat and opened the carriage door. Aelin stepped out, leaving her cloak behind, and didn’t dare look to the house across the street—to the roof where Chaol and a few rebels were providing backup in case things went very, very wrong.
She was halfway up the marble steps when the carved oak doors swung open, flooding the threshold with golden light. It wasn’t the butler standing there, smiling at her with too-white teeth.
“Welcome home,” Arobynn purred.
He beckoned them into the cavernous entry hall. “And welcome to your friends.” Aedion and Nesryn moved around the carriage to the trunk in the back. Her cousin’s nondescript sword was drawn as they opened the compartment and yanked out the chained, hooded figure.
“Your favor,” Aelin said as they hauled him to his feet. The Valg commander thrashed and stumbled in their grip as they led him toward the house, the hood over his head swaying this way and that. A low, vicious hissing noise crept out from under the coarse-knit fibers.
“I would have preferred the servants’ door for our guest,” Arobynn said tightly. He was in green—green for Terrasen, though most would assume it was to offset his auburn hair. A way to confuse their assumptions about his intentions, his allegiance. He wore no weapons she could see, and there was nothing but warmth in those silver eyes as he held out his hands to her, as if Aedion wasn’t now tugging a demon up the front steps. Behind them, Nesryn steered the carriage away.
She could feel Rowan bristling, sense Aedion’s disgust, but she blocked them out.
She took Arobynn’s hands—dry, warm, callused. He squeezed her fingers gently, peering into her face. “You look ravishing, but I’d expect nothing less. Not even a bruise after trapping our guest. Impressive.” He leaned closer, sniffing. “And you smell divine, too. I’m glad my gift was put to good use.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Rowan straighten, and she knew he’d slid into the killing calm. Neither Rowan nor Aedion wore visible weapons save for the single blade her cousin now had out—but she knew they were both armed beneath their clothes, and knew Rowan would snap Arobynn’s neck if he so much as blinked wrong at her.
It was that thought alone that made her smile at Arobynn. “You look well,” she said. “I suppose you already know my companions.”
He faced Aedion, who was busy digging his sword into the commander’s side as a gentle reminder to keep moving. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your cousin.”
She knew Arobynn took in every detail as Aedion came closer, pushing his charge before him; trying to find any weakness, anything to use to his advantage. Aedion just continued into the house, the Valg commander stumbling across the threshold. “You’ve recovered well, General,” Arobynn said. “Or should I call you ‘Your Highness,’ in honor of your Ashryver lineage? Whichever you prefer, of course.”
She knew then that Arobynn had no plans to let the demon—and Stevan—leave this house alive.
Aedion gave Arobynn a lazy grin over his shoulder. “I don’t give a shit what you call me.” He shoved the Valg commander farther inside. “Just take this rutting thing off my hands.”
Arobynn smiled blandly, unfazed—he’d calculated Aedion’s hatred. With deliberate slowness, he turned to Rowan.
“You, I don’t know,” Arobynn mused, having to lift his head to see Rowan’s face. He made a show of looking Rowan over. “It’s been an age since I saw one of the Fae. I don’t remember them being quite so large.”
Rowan moved deeper into the entry hall, every step laced with power and death, coming to a stop at her side. “You can call me Rowan. That’s all you need to know.” He cocked his head to the side, a predator assessing prey. “Thank you for the oil,” he added. “My skin was a little dry.”
Arobynn blinked—as much surprise as he’d show.
It took her a moment to process what Rowan had said, and to realize that the almond smell hadn’t just been coming from her. He’d worn it, too.
Arobynn flicked his attention to Aedion and the Valg commander. “Third door on the left—take him downstairs. Use the fourth cell.”
Aelin didn’t dare look at her cousin as he dragged Stevan along. There was no sign of the other assassins—not even a servant. Whatever Arobynn had planned … he didn’t want any witnesses.
Arobynn trailed after Aedion, his hands in his pockets.
But Aelin remained in the hall for a moment, looking at Rowan.
His brows were high as she read the words in his eyes, his posture. He never specified that only you had to wear it.
Her throat tightened and she shook her head.
What? he seemed to ask.
You just … She shook her head again. Surprise me sometimes.
Good. I’d hate for you to get bored.
Despite herself, despite what was to come, a smile tugged on her lips as Rowan took her hand and gripped it tightly.
When she turned to head into the dungeons, her smile faded as she found Arobynn watching.
Rowan was about a hair’s breadth from ripping out the King of the Assassins’ throat as he led them down, down, down into the dungeons.
Rowan kept a step behind Aelin while they descended the long, curving stone staircase, the reek of mildew and blood and rust growing stronger with each step. He’d been tortured enough, and done enough torturing himself, to know what this place was.
To know what sort of training Aelin had received down here.
A girl—she’d been a girl when the red-haired bastard a few steps ahead had brought her here and taught her how to cut up men, how to keep them alive while she did it, how to make them scream and plead. How to end them.
There was no part of her that disgusted him, no part of her that scared him, but the thought of her in this place, with these smells, in this darkness …
With every step down the stairs, Aelin’s shoulders seemed to droop, her hair seeming to grow duller, her skin paler.
This was where she’d last seen Sam, he realized. And her master knew it.
“We use this for most of our meetings—harder to eavesdrop or be caught unawares,” Arobynn said to no one in particular. “Though it also has other uses, as you’ll soon see.” He opened door after door, and it seemed to Rowan that Aelin was counting them, waiting, until—
“Shall we?” Arobynn said, gesturing toward the cell door.
Rowan touched her elbow. Gods, his self-control had to be in shreds tonight; he couldn’t stop making excuses to touch her. But this touch was essential. Her eyes met his, dim and cold. You give the word—just one damn word and he’s dead, and then we can search this house from top to bottom for that amulet.
She shook her head as she entered the cell, and he understood it well enough. Not yet. Not yet.
She’d almost balked on the stairs to the dungeons, and it was only the thought of the amulet, only the warmth of the Fae warrior at her back that made her put one foot in front of the other and descend into the dark stone interior.
She would never forget this room.
It still haunted her dreams.
The table was empty, but she could see him there, broken and almost unrecognizable, the scent of gloriella clinging to his body. Sam had been tortured in ways she hadn’t even known until she read Wesley’s letter. The worst of it had been requested by Arobynn. Requested, as punishment for Sam’s loving her—punishment for tampering with Arobynn’s belongings.
Arobynn sauntered into the room, hands in his pockets. Rowan’s sharp sniff told her enough about what this place smelled like.
Such a dark, cold room where they’d put Sam’s body. Such a dark, cold room where she’d vomited and then lain beside him on that table for hours and hours, unwilling to leave him.
Where Aedion now chained Stevan to the wall.
“Get out,” Arobynn said simply to Rowan and Aedion, who stiffened. “The two of you can wait upstairs. We don’t need unnecessary distractions. And neither does our guest.”
“Over my rotting corpse,” Aedion snapped. Aelin shot him a sharp look.
“Lysandra is waiting for you in the drawing room,” Arobynn said with expert politeness, his eyes now fixed on the hooded Valg chained to the wall. Stevan’s gloved hands tugged at the chains, his incessant hissing rising with impressive violence. “She’ll entertain you. We’ll be up for dinner shortly.”
Rowan was watching Aelin very, very carefully. She gave him a slight nod.
Rowan met Aedion’s gaze—the general stared right back.
Honestly, had she been anywhere else, she might have pulled up a chair to watch this latest little dominance battle. Thankfully, Aedion just turned toward the stairs. A moment later, they were gone.
Arobynn stalked to the demon and snatched the hood from his head.
Black, rage-filled eyes glared at them and blinked, scanning the room.
“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” Arobynn drawled.
Stevan just smiled.
Aelin listened to Arobynn interrogate the demon, demanding to know what it was, where it had come from, what the king wanted. After thirty minutes and minimal slicing, the demon was talking about anything and everything.
“How does the king control you?” Arobynn pushed.
The demon laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Arobynn half turned to her, holding up his dagger, a trickle of dark blood sliding down the blade. “Would you like to do the honors? This is for your benefit, after all.”
She frowned at her dress. “I don’t want to get blood on it.”
Arobynn smirked and slashed his dagger down the man’s pectoral. The demon screeched, drowning out the pitter-patter of blood on the stones. “The ring,” it panted after a moment. “We’ve all got them.” Arobynn paused, and Aelin cocked her head. “Left—left hand,” it said.
Arobynn yanked off the man’s glove, revealing the black ring.
“How?”
“He has a ring, too—uses it to control us all. Ring goes on, and it doesn’t come off. We do what he says, whatever he says.”
“Where did he get the rings from?”
“Made ’em, I don’t know.” The dagger came closer. “I swear! We wear the rings, and he makes a cut on our arms—licks our blood so it’s in him, and then he can control us however he wants. It’s the blood that links us.”
“And what does he plan to do with you all, now that you’re invading my city?”
“We’re searching for the general. I won’t—won’t tell anyone he’s here … Or that she’s here, I swear. The rest—the rest I don’t know.” His eyes met hers—dark, pleading.
“Kill him,” she said to Arobynn. “He’s a liability.”
“Please,” Stevan said, his eyes still holding hers. She looked away.
“He does seem to have run out of things to tell me,” Arobynn mused.
Swift as an adder, Arobynn lunged for him, and Stevan screamed so loudly it hurt her ears as Arobynn sliced off his finger—and the ring that held it—in one brutal movement. “Thank you,” Arobynn said above Stevan’s screaming, and then slashed his knife across the man’s throat.
Aelin stepped clear of the spray of blood, holding Stevan’s stare as the light faded from his gaze. When the spray had slowed, she frowned at Arobynn. “You could have killed him and then cut off the ring.”
“Where would the fun be in that?” Arobynn held up the bloody finger and pried off the ring. “Lost your bloodlust?”
“I’d dump that ring in the Avery if I were you.”
“The king is enslaving people to his will with these things. I plan to study this one as best I can.” Of course he did. He pocketed the ring and inclined his head toward the door. “Now that we’re even, darling … shall we eat?”
It was an effort to nod with Stevan’s still-bleeding body sagging from the wall.
Aelin was seated to Arobynn’s right, as she’d always been. She’d expected Lysandra to be across from her, but instead the courtesan was beside her. No doubt meant to reduce her options to two: deal with her longtime rival, or talk to Arobynn. Or something like that.
She had bid hello to Lysandra, who’d been keeping Aedion and Rowan company in the drawing room, keenly aware of Arobynn on her heels as she shook Lysandra’s hand, subtly passing over the note she’d kept hidden in her dress all night.
The note was gone by the time Aelin leaned in to kiss the courtesan’s cheek, the peck of someone not entirely thrilled to be doing so.
Arobynn had seated Rowan to his left, with Aedion beside the warrior. The two members of her court were separated by the table to keep them from reaching her, and to leave her unprotected from Arobynn. Neither had asked what happened in the dungeon.
“I have to say,” Arobynn mused as their first course—tomato and basil soup, courtesy of vegetables grown in the hothouse in the back—was cleared away by silent servants who had been summoned now that Stevan had been dealt with. Aelin recognized some, though they didn’t look at her. They had never looked at her, even when she was living here. She knew they wouldn’t dare whisper a word about who dined at this table tonight. Not with Arobynn as their master. “You’re a rather quiet group. Or has my protégée scared you into silence?”
Aedion, who had watched every bite she took of that soup, lifted an eyebrow. “You want us to make small talk after you just interrogated and butchered a demon?”
Arobynn waved a hand. “I’d like to hear more about you all.”
“Careful,” she said too quietly to Arobynn.
The King of the Assassins straightened the silverware flanking his plate. “Shouldn’t I be concerned about who my protégée is living with?”
“You weren’t concerned about who I was living with when you had me shipped off to Endovier.”
A slow blink. “Is that what you think I did?”
Lysandra stiffened beside her. Arobynn noted the movement—as he noted every movement—and said, “Lysandra can tell you the truth: I fought tooth and nail to free you from that prison. I lost half my men to the effort, all of them tortured and killed by the king. I’m surprised your friend the captain didn’t tell you. Such a pity he’s on rooftop watch tonight.”
He missed nothing, it seemed.
Arobynn looked to Lysandra—waiting. She swallowed and murmured, “He did try, you know. For months and months.”
It was so convincing that Aelin might have believed it. Through some miracle, Arobynn had no idea that the woman had been meeting with them in secret. Some miracle—or Lysandra’s own wits.
Aelin drawled to Arobynn, “Do you plan on telling me why you insisted we stay for dinner?”
“How else would I get to see you? You would have just dumped that thing on my doorstep and left. And we learned so much—so much that we could use, together.” The chill down her spine wasn’t faked. “Though I have to say, this new you is much more … subdued. I suppose for Lysandra that’s a good thing. She always looks at the hole you left in the entry wall when you threw that dagger at her head. I kept it there as a little reminder of how much we all missed you.”
Rowan was watching her, an asp ready to strike. But his brows bunched slightly, as if to say, You really threw a dagger at her head?
Arobynn began talking about a time Aelin had brawled with Lysandra and they’d rolled down the stairs, scratching and yowling like cats, so Aelin looked at Rowan a moment longer. I was a tad hotheaded.
I’m beginning to admire Lysandra more and more. Seventeen-year-old Aelin must have been a delight to deal with.
She fought the twitching in her lips. I would pay good money to see seventeen-year-old Aelin meet seventeen-year-old Rowan.
His green eyes glittered. Arobynn was still talking. Seventeen-year-old Rowan wouldn’t have known what to do with you. He could barely speak to females outside his family.
Liar—I don’t believe that for a second.
It’s true. You would have scandalized him with your nightclothes—even with that dress you have on.
She sucked on her teeth. He would probably have been even more scandalized to learn I’m not wearing any undergarments beneath this dress.
The table rattled as Rowan’s knee banged into it.
Arobynn paused, but continued when Aedion asked about what the demon had told him.
You can’t be serious, Rowan seemed to say.
Did you see any place where this dress might hide them? Every line and wrinkle would show.
Rowan shook his head subtly, his eyes dancing with a light that she’d only recently come to glimpse—and cherish. Do you delight in shocking me?
She couldn’t stop her smile. How else am I supposed to keep a cranky immortal entertained?
His grin was distracting enough that it took her a moment to notice the silence, and that everyone was staring at them—waiting.
She glanced at Arobynn, whose face was a mask of stone. “Did you ask me something?”
There was only calculating ire in his silver eyes—which might have once made her start begging for mercy. “I asked,” Arobynn said, “if you’ve had fun these past few weeks, wrecking my investment properties and ensuring that all my clients won’t touch me.”
