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 Keys
She heard the warning just as a dark shape shot past, so large it
blotted out the sun above the forest canopy.
Wyvern.
Bows groaned, and the ruks were racing by, chasing after that wyvern.
If an Ironteeth scout spotted them—
Aelin readied her magic. The wyvern banked toward them, barely
visible through the latticework of branches.
But light flared then. Blasted back the rukhin—harmlessly.
Not light. But ice, flickering and flashing before it turned to flame.
Rowan recognized it, too. Roared the order to hold their fire.
It was not Abraxos who landed at the crossroads. And there was no
sign of Manon Blackbeak.
Light flashed again. And then Dorian Havilliard stood there, his
jacket and cape stained and worn.
Aelin galloped down the road toward him, Rowan and Elide beside
her, the others at their backs.
Dorian lifted a hand, his face grave as death, even as his eyes widened
at the sight of her.
But Aelin sensed it then.
What Dorian carried.
The Wyrdkeys.
All three of them.
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😱 Gerilim
He has a hold of Her
Aelin ripped at the immovable mask, either unaware or uncaring of
the prince before her. Her consort, husband, and mate.
“Aelin.”
Take it off, take it off, take it off.
Her screams were unbearable. Worse than those that day on the beach
in Eyllwe.
Gavriel came to stand beside Elide, his golden skin pale as he took in
the frantic queen.
Slowly, Rowan knelt before her. “Aelin.”
She only tipped her head up to the forest canopy and sobbed.
Blood ran down her neck from the scratches she’d dug into her skin,
mingling with what already coated her.
Rowan reached out a trembling hand, the only sign of the agony Elide
had little doubt was coursing through him. Gently, he laid his hands on
her wrists; gently, he closed his fingers around them. Halting the brutal
clawing and digging.
Aelin sobbed, her body shuddering with the force of it. “Take it off. ”
Rowan’s eyes flickered, panic and heartbreak and longing shining
there. “I will. But you have to be still, Fireheart. Just for a few
moments.”
“Take it off. ” The sobs ebbed, tricking into something broken and
raw. Rowan ran his thumbs over her wrists, over those iron shackles. As
if it were nothing but her skin. Slowly, her shaking eased.
No, not eased, Elide realized as Rowan rose to his feet and stalked
behind the queen. But contained, turned inward. Tremors rippled through
Aelin’s tense body, but she kept still as Rowan examined the lock.
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.
Don't
Elide faced Maeve, who did not deign to glance her way. “Please, please
—”
Aelin simply nodded at the Fae Queen. Her acceptance and surrender.
Maeve bowed her head, triumph dancing on her red lips. “Lorcan,
release her.”
The warrior’s hands slackened at his sides.
And because she had won, Maeve even loosened her power’s grip on
Aelin’s bones. Allowed Aelin to turn to Elide and say, “Go with Manon.
She will take care of you.”
Elide began crying, shoving away from Lorcan. “I’ll go with you, I’ll
come with you—”
The girl would. The girl would face Cairn, and Maeve … But Terrasen
would need that sort of courage. If it was to survive, if it was to heal,
Terrasen would need Elide Lochan.
“Tell the others,” Aelin breathed, trying to find the right words. “Tell the
others that I am sorry. Tell Lysandra to remember her promise, and that I
will never stop being grateful. Tell Aedion … Tell him it is not his fault, and
that …” Her voice cracked. “I wish he’d been able to take the oath, but
Terrasen will look to him now, and the lines must not break.”
Elide nodded, tears sliding down her blood-splattered face.
“And tell Rowan …”
Aelin’s soul splintered as she saw the iron box the escorts now carried
between them. An ancient, iron coffin. Big enough for one person. Crafted
for her.
“And tell Rowan,” Aelin said, fighting her own sob, “that I’m sorry I
lied. But tell him it was all borrowed time anyway. Even before today, I
knew it was all just borrowed time, but I still wish we’d had more of it.”
She fought past her trembling mouth. “Tell him he has to fight. He must
save Terrasen, and remember the vows he made to me. And tell him … tell
him thank you—for walking that dark path with me back to the light.”