1968'de Türk Hava Kuvvetleri ilk kez her türlü hava şartında radarla önleme yapabilecek kapasitede görev yapabilen Convair üretimi F-102A Delta Dagger al önleme uçaklarına sahip olmuştur...
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.
Reklam
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.
How is this rational?
Darrow ignored her and jerked his chin at Aedion. “You’re rather quiet
tonight.”
“I don’t think you particularly want to hear my thoughts right now,
Darrow,” Aedion replied.
“Your blood oath is stolen by a foreign prince, your queen is an assassin
who appoints common whores to serve her, and yet you have nothing to
say?”
Aedion’s chair groaned, and Aelin dared a look—to find him gripping
the sides of it so hard his knuckles were white.
Lysandra, though stiff-backed, did not give Darrow the pleasure of
blushing with shame.
And she was done. Sparks danced at her fingertips beneath the table.
But Darrow went on before Aelin could speak or incinerate the room.
“Perhaps, Aedion, if you hope to still gain an official position in Terrasen,
you could see if your kin in Wendlyn have reconsidered the betrothal
proposition of so many years ago. See if they’ll recognize you as family.
What a difference it might have made, if you and our beloved Princess
Aelin had been betrothed—if Wendlyn had not rejected the offer to formally
unite our kingdoms, likely at Maeve’s behest.” A smile in Rowan’s
direction.
Her world tilted a bit. Even Aedion had paled. No one had ever hinted
that there had been an official attempt at betrothing them. Or that the
Ashryvers had truly left Terrasen to war and ruin.
“Whatever will the adoring masses say of their savior princess,” Darrow
mused, putting his hands flat on the table, “when they hear of how she has
I love a Woman who can Fight
Rowan had taught her a few new tricks.
She was a whirling cloud of death, a queen of shadows, and these men
were already carrion.
Slashing and ducking and twirling, Aelin gave herself completely to
that killing calm, until the blood was a mist around her and the gravel
was slick with it. Four of Chaol’s men came racing up—then ran the
other way. Allies or just smart, she didn’t care.
And when the last of those black-uniformed guards had slumped to the
bloody ground, she surged for Aedion. He’d been gaping—but he let out
a low, dark laugh as he stumbled into a sprint beside her, into the hedges.
Archers—they had to clear the archers who were sure to begin firing
as soon as the smoke vanished.
They dashed around and between the hedges she’d traversed dozens of
times during her stay here, when she’d run every morning with Chaol.
“Faster, Aedion,” she breathed, but he was already lagging. She paused
and sliced into her blood-soaked wrist with a dagger before sketching the
unlocking Wyrdmarks on each of his manacles. Again, light flared and
burned. But then the cuffs sprang open silently.
“Nice trick,” he panted, and she yanked the chains off him. She was
about to chuck the metal aside when the gravel crunched behind them.
Not the guards, and not the king.
It was with no small amount of horror that she found Dorian strolling
toward them
Sword Buddies
“Nia.” Raphael takes a step closer, his sword drawn. He looks
confused, his dark eyebrows drawn together. A faint look of hurt
shines in his silver eyes.
I swallow. “Raphael.”
Talan unsheathes his own sword, the scrape of metal piercing the tense
silence.
I hold up my hand again. “Don’t, Talan.”
“It’s true,” Raphael says in a voice rough as broken glass. “You’re
working for this living nightmare.”
“Not working for me.” Talan’s smooth, silky voice echoes off the highvaulted ceiling. “I’m a terrible boss, ask anyone. She’s my wife. But I do
recognize you. The Pendragon agent who broke out of our dungeons. With
Nia’s help, of course. So lucky, having her watching over you.”
“This bejeweled psychopath is your rebound, Nia? Really?” Venom
drips from Raphael’s voice. “How unfortunate for you.”
“You told me about him, didn’t you, Nia?” Talan says quietly, his eyes
aglow with mockery. “The ex-lover who has a bad habit of running away
from things. The one who chose his work over you. I believe I said he
sounded fucking boring. And I must admit he has pretty eyes, but he is very
tightly wound. Must be exhausting.”
Raphael’s jaw tightens. “I’m not a Pendragon agent. I’m the boy your
army left for dead, the one whose mother your army killed in her kitchen
while she begged for our lives. That’s who I am.”
“I know.” My voice wavers. “But that wasn’t Talan’s order. He tried to
save the demi-Fey, you know that. Ask Ysolde about the Blue Dragon
Project later, if we make it out of here. We don’t have time for this
Reklam
Reklam