Long Live the Queen
Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected
from the sad lot of candidates.
Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his
eyes glowed.
The trumpets rang out.
A four-note summons. Repeated three times.
Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.
Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small
group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand,
sprawling orchestra that might accompany an event of this magnitude,
but better than nothing.
It didn’t matter anyway.
Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her
braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because
she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this
walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.
Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown
back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the
dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.
For Aelin’s coronation.
Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in
green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but
what she was.
The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take
down Erawan.
Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and
Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.
Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming,
those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran.
Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for
The Crochans
Darrow hissed, “Then why has your master sent you to speak with
us?”
Asterin laughed again.
“We have no master,” Manon Blackbeak said, and it was indeed a
queen’s voice that she spoke with, her golden eyes bright. “We come to
honor a friend.”
There was no sign of Dorian amongst the Thirteen, but Aedion was
reeling enough that he didn’t have the words to ask.
“We came,” Manon said, loud enough that all on the city walls could
hear, “to honor a promise made to Aelin Galathynius. To fight for what
she promised us.”
Darrow said quietly, “And what was that?”
Manon smiled then. “A better world.”
Darrow took a step back. As if disbelieving what stood before him, in
defiance of the legion that swept toward their city.
Manon only looked to Aedion, that smile lingering. “Long ago, the
Crochans fought beside Terrasen, to honor the great debt we owed the
Fae King Brannon for granting us a homeland. For centuries, we were
your closest allies and friends.” That crown of stars blazed bright upon
her head. “We heard your call for aid.” Lysandra began weeping. “And
we have come to answer it.”
“How many,” Aedion breathed, scanning the skies, the mountains.
“How many?”
Pride and awe filled the Witch-Queen’s face, and even her golden
eyes were lined with silver as she pointed toward the Staghorns. “See for
yourself.”
And then, breaking from between the peaks, they appeared.
Red cloaks flowing on the wind, they filled the northern skies. So
many he could not count them, nor the swords and bows and weapons
they bore upon their backs, their brooms flying straight and unwavering.
Nox Owen Knows
“So, Erawan knows you’re not Aelin.”
She whipped her head to him. “What?” A quick, vague question to
buy herself time. Had Aedion risked telling him the truth?
Nox gave her a half smile. “I figured as much when I saw the surprise
on that demon’s face.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“Am I? Or do you not remember me at all?”
She did her best to look down her nose at him, even as the messengerthief towered over her. Aelin had never mentioned a Nox Owen. “Why
should I remember one of Darrow’s lackeys?”
“A decent attempt, but Celaena Sardothien looked a little more
amused when she cut men into ribbons.”
He knew—who Aelin was, what she’d been. Lysandra said nothing,
and kept walking toward her tent. If she told Aedion, how quickly could
Nox be buried under the frozen earth?
“Your secret is safe,” Nox murmured. “Celaena—Aelin was a friend.
Is still one, I’d hope.”
“How.” She’d admit no more than that regarding her role in this.
“We fought in the competition together at the glass castle.” He
snorted. “I had no idea until today. Gods, I was there for Minister Joval
as a spy for the rebels. It was my first time out of Perranth. My first time,
and I wound up unwittingly training alongside my queen.” He laughed,
low and amazed. “I’d been working with the rebels for years, even as a
thief. They wanted me to be their inside eyes on the castle, the king’s
plans. I reported the strange goings-on until it became too dangerous.
Until Cel—Aelin warned me to run. I listened, and came back here.
Joval is dead. Fell in a skirmish with a band of rebels by the border this
spring. Darrow plucked me up to be his own messenger and spy. So here
I am.” A sidelong glance at her, awe still on his face. “I am at your
disposal, even if you’re not … you.” He angled his head. “Who are
Lyssandra as Aelien
She’d camouflaged herself better than he had. But Lysandra had the
advantage of wearing a coat that had been bred for these mountains.
Not that he’d said that to her. Or so much as glanced at her when
they’d departed on this scouting mission.
Aelin, apparently, had secret business in Eldrys and had left a note
with Galan and her new allies to account for her disappearance. Which
allowed Lysandra to accompany them on this task.
No one had noticed, in the nearly two months they’d been
maintaining this ruse, that the Queen of Fire had not an ember to show
for it. Or that she and the shape-shifter never appeared in the same place.
And no one, not the Silent Assassins of the Red Desert, or Galan
Ashryver, or the troops that Ansel of Briarcliff had sent with the armada
ahead of the bulk of her army, had picked up the slight tells that did not
belong to Aelin at all. Nor had they noted the brand on the queen’s wrist
that no matter what skin she wore, Lysandra could not change.
She did a fine job of hiding the brand with gloves or long sleeves.
And if a glimmer of scarred skin ever showed, it could be excused as
part of the manacle markings that remained.
The fake scars she’d also added, right where Aelin had them. Along
with the laugh and wicked grin. The swagger and stillness.
Aedion could barely stand to look at her. Talk to her. He only did so
because he had to uphold this ruse, too. To pretend that he was her
faithful cousin, her fearless commander who would lead her and
Terrasen to victory, however unlikely.
So he played the part. One of many he’d donned in his life.
Yet the moment Lysandra changed her golden hair for dark tresses,
Ashryver eyes for emerald, he stopped acknowledging her existence.
Some days, the Terrasen knot tattooed on his chest, the names of his
queen
See you next book
Fight it, he willed her, sending the words down the bond—the mating
bond, which perhaps had settled into place that first moment they’d become
carranam, hidden beneath flame and ice and hope for a better future. Fight
her. I am coming for you. Even if it takes me a thousand years. I will find
you, I will find you, I will find you.
Only salt and wind and water answered him.
Rowan rose to his feet. And slowly turned to face them.
But their attention snagged on the ships now sailing out of the west—
from the battle site. His cousins’ ships, with what remained of the fleet
Ansel of Briarcliff had won for them, and Rolfe’s three ships.
But it was not those boats that made him pause.
It was the one that rounded the eastern tip of the land—a longboat. It
swept closer on a phantom wind, too fast to be natural.
Rowan braced himself. The boat’s shape didn’t belong to any of the
fleets assembled. But its style nagged at his memory.
From their own fleet, Ansel of Briarcliff and Enda were soaring over the
waves in a longboat, aiming for this beach.
But Rowan and the others watched in silence as the foreign boat crested
through the surf and slid onto the sand.
Watched the olive-skinned sailors haul it up the beach. A broadshouldered young man nimbly leaped out, his slightly curling dark hair
tossed in the sea breeze.
He did not emit a whiff of fear as he stalked for them—didn’t even go
for the comforting touch of the fine sword at his side.
“Where is Aelin Galathynius?” the stranger asked a bit breathlessly as
he scanned them.
And his accent …
“Who are you,” Rowan ground out.
But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the
color of his eyes. Turquoise—with a core of gold.
Aedion breathed as if in a trance, “Galan.”
Where is his wife?
“Where is Aelin.”
There was pure panic, too—pure panic as Whitethorn saw the blood, the
scattered blades, and the shirt.
“Where is Aelin.”
What had he done, what had he done—
Pain sliced Lorcan’s neck, warm blood dribbled down his throat, his
chest.
Rowan hissed, “Where is my wife?”
Lorcan swayed where he knelt.
Wife.
Wife.
“Oh, gods,” Elide sobbed as she overheard, the words carrying the
sound of Lorcan’s own fractured heart. “Oh, gods …”
And for the first time in centuries, Lorcan wept.
Rowan dug the dagger deeper into Lorcan’s neck, even as tears slid
down Lorcan’s face.
What that woman had done …
Aelin had known. That Lorcan had betrayed her and summoned Maeve
here. That she had been living on borrowed time.
And she had married Whitethorn … so Terrasen could have a king.
Perhaps had been spurred into action because she knew Lorcan had already
betrayed her, that Maeve was coming …
And Lorcan had not helped her.
Whitethorn’s wife.
His mate.
Aelin had let them whip and chain her, had gone willingly with Maeve,
so Elide didn’t enter Cairn’s clutches. And it had been just as much a
sacrifice for Elide as it had been a gift to him.
She had bowed to Maeve.
For Elide.