Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass #4)(70)

He followed her down into the dungeons, where candles lit a path toward the room where her master’s body was being kept. She was still swaggering, hands in her pockets, not caring that Rowan lived or breathed or even existed. Not real, he told himself. An act.
But she’d avoided him since last night, and today she had actually stepped away from his touch when he’d dared to reach for her. That had been real.
She strode through the open door into the same room where Sam had lain. Red hair spilled out from underneath the white silk sheet covering the naked body on the table, and she paused before it. Then she turned to Rowan and Aedion.
She stared at them, waiting. Waiting for them to—
Aedion swore. “You switched the will, didn’t you?”
She gave a small, cold smile, her eyes shadowed. “You said you needed money for an army, Aedion. So here’s your money—all of it, and every coin for Terrasen. It was the least Arobynn owed us. That night I fought at the Pits, we were only there because I’d contacted the owners days before and told them to send out subtle feelers to Arobynn about investing. He took the bait—didn’t even question the timing of it. But I wanted to make sure he quickly earned back all the money he lost when I trashed the Vaults. So we wouldn’t be denied one coin owed to us.”
Holy burning hell.
Aedion shook his head. “How—how the hell did you even do it?”
She opened her mouth, but Rowan said quietly, “She snuck into the bank—all those times that she slipped out in the middle of the night. And used all those daytime meetings with the Master of the Bank to get a better sense of the layout, where things were kept.” This woman, this queen of his … A familiar thrill raced through his blood. “You burned the originals?”
She didn’t even look at him. “Clarisse would have been a very rich woman, and Tern would have become King of the Assassins. And you know what I would have received? The Amulet of Orynth. That was all he left me.”
“That was how you knew he truly had it—and where he kept it,” Rowan said. “From reading the will.”
She shrugged again, dismissing the shock and admiration he couldn’t keep from his face. Dismissing him.
Aedion scrubbed at his face. “I don’t even know what to say. You should have told me so I didn’t act like a gawking fool up there.”
“Your surprise needed to be genuine; even Lysandra didn’t know about the will.” Such a distant answer—closed and heavy. Rowan wanted to shake her, demand she talk to him, look at him. But he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if she wouldn’t let him near, if she pulled away again while Aedion was watching.Aelin turned back to Arobynn’s body and flipped the sheet away from his face, revealing a jagged wound that sliced across his pale neck.
Lysandra had mangled him.
Arobynn’s face had been arranged in an expression of calm, but from the blood Rowan had seen in the bedroom, the man had been very much awake while he choked on his own blood.
Aelin peered down at her former master, her face blank save for a slight tightening around her mouth. “I hope the dark god finds a special place for you in his realm,” she said, and a shiver went down Rowan’s spine at the midnight caress in her tone.
She extended a hand behind her to Aedion. “Give me your sword.”
Aedion drew the Sword of Orynth and handed it to her. Aelin gazed down at the blade of her ancestors as she weighed it in her hands.
When she raised her head, there was only icy determination in those remarkable eyes. A queen exacting justice.
Then she lifted her father’s sword and severed Arobynn’s head from his body.
It rolled to the side with a vulgar thud, and she smiled grimly at the corpse.
“Just to be sure,” was all she said.
PART TWO
QUEEN OF LIGHT
48
Manon beat Asterin in the breakfast hall the morning after her outburst regarding the Yellowlegs coven. No one asked why; no one dared.
Three unblocked blows.
Asterin didn’t so much as flinch.
When Manon was finished, the witch just stared her down, blue blood gushing from her broken nose. No smile. No wild grin.
Then Asterin walked away.
The rest of the Thirteen monitored them warily. Vesta, now Manon’s Third, looked half inclined to sprint after Asterin, but a shake of Sorrel’s head kept the red-haired witch still.
Manon was off-kilter all day afterward.
She’d told Sorrel to stay quiet about the Yellowlegs, but wondered if she should tell Asterin to do the same.
She hesitated, thinking about it.
You let them do this.
The words danced around and around in Manon’s head, along with that preachy little speech Elide had made the night before. Hope. What drivel.
The words were still dancing when Manon stalked into the duke’s council chamber twenty minutes later than his summons demanded.
“Do you delight in offending me with your tardiness, or are you incapable of telling time?” the duke said from his seat. Vernon and Kaltain were at the table, the former smirking, the latter staring blankly ahead. No sign of shadowfire.
“I’m an immortal,” Manon said, taking a seat across from them as Sorrel stood guard by the doors, Vesta in the hall outside. “Time means nothing to me.” 
“A little sass from you today,” Vernon said. “I like it.”
Manon leveled a cold look at him. “I missed breakfast this morning, human. I’d be careful if I were you.”
The lord only smiled.
She leaned back in her chair. “Why did you summon me this time?”
“I need another coven.”
Manon kept her face blank. “What of the Yellowlegs you already have?”
“They are recovering well and will be ready for visitors soon.”
Liar.
“A Blackbeak coven this time,” the duke pressed.
“Why?”
“Because I want one, and you’ll provide one, and that’s all you need to know.”
You let them do this.
She could feel Sorrel’s gaze on the back of her head.
“We’re not whores for your men to use.”
“You are sacred vessels,” the duke said. “It is an honor to be chosen.”
“I find that a very male thing to assume.”
A flash of yellowing teeth. “Pick your strongest coven, and send them downstairs.”
“That will require some consideration.”
“Do it fast, or I will pick myself.”
You let them do this.
“And in the meantime,” the duke said as he rose from his seat in a swift, powerful movement, “prepare your Thirteen. I have a mission for you.”
Manon sailed on a hard, fast wind, pushing Abraxos even as clouds gathered, even as a storm broke around the Thirteen. Out. She had to get out, had to remember the bite of the wind on her face, what unchecked speed and unlimited strength were like.
Even if the rush of it was somewhat diminished by the rider she held in front of her, her frail body bundled up against the elements.
Lightning cleaved the air so close by that Manon could taste the tang of the ether, and Abraxos veered, plunging into rain and cloud and wind. Kaltain didn’t so much as flinch. Shouts burst from the men riding with the rest of the Thirteen.
Thunder cracked, and the world went numb with the sound. Even Abraxos’s roar was muted in her dulled ears. The perfect cover for their ambush.
You let them do this.
The rain soaking through her gloves turned to warm, sticky blood.
Abraxos caught an updraft and ascended so fast that Manon’s stomach dropped. She held Kaltain tightly, even though the woman was harnessed in. Not one reaction from her.
Duke Perrington, riding with Sorrel, was a cloud of darkness in Manon’s peripheral vision as they soared through the canyons of the White Fangs, which they had so carefully mapped all these weeks.
The wild tribes would have no idea what was upon them until it was too late.
She knew there was no way to outrun this—no way to avoid it.
Manon kept flying through the heart of the storm.
When they reached the village, blended into the snow and rock, Sorrel swooped in close enough for Kaltain to hear Perrington. “The houses. Burn them all.”
Manon glanced at the duke, then at her charge. “Should we land—”
“From here,” the duke ordered, and his face became grotesquely soft as he spoke to Kaltain. “Do it now, pet.”
Below, a small female figure slipped out of one of the heavy tents. She looked up, shouting.
Dark flames—shadowfire—engulfed her from head to toe. Her scream was carried to Manon on the wind.
Then there were others, pouring out as the unholy fire leaped upon their houses, their horses.
“All of them, Kaltain,” the duke said over the wind. “Keep circling, Wing Leader.”
Sorrel met Manon’s stare. Manon quickly looked away and reeled Abraxos back around the pass where the tribe had been camped. There were rebels among them; Manon knew because she’d tracked them herself.Shadowfire ripped through the camp. People dropped to the ground, shrieking, pleading in tongues Manon didn’t understand. Some fainted from the pain; some died from it. The horses were bucking and screaming—such wretched sounds that even Manon’s spine stiffened.
Then it vanished.
Kaltain sagged in Manon’s arms, panting, gasping down raspy breaths.
“She’s done,” Manon said to the duke.
Irritation flickered on his granite-hewn face. He observed the people running about, trying to help those who were weeping or unconscious—or dead. Horses fled in every direction.