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.”
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
spent her time while they suffered?” A slap in the face, one after another.
“But,” Darrow added, “you’ve always been good at whoring yourself out,
Aedion. Though I wonder if Princess Aelin knows what—”
Aelin lunged.
Not with flame, but steel.
Reklam
Dreams
“And what if we end up separated?”
“I will find you, little wife, wherever you go. But when we reach
Kahedin, I need you to enter his mind and force him to agree to the letter I
sent him. Can you do that?”
“I can do that in the dream,” I say, “but I can’t be sure he’ll follow
through in real life when he wakes up. My power usually works only so
long as I maintain connection.”
“It should work,” Talan says. “Dreams are powerful. As long as you
really imprint the notion in his mind that he must do it, he’ll do it when he
wakes up. Trust me.”
I nod. “Okay. I can do that.”
“Good. Take my hand.”
I take his hand in mine, my heart quickening.
“Watch the flames.” Talan’s voice is low and hypnotic. “Imagine your
body becoming lighter. You are drifting into mist, floating along with the
clouds above Lake Avalon.”
I stare at the fire, an ember floating up. I follow it with my eyes, and the
world grows dimmer as Talan’s magic whispers around me, kissing my
skin. Even now, I intuitively try to maintain the veil in my mind, but he
doesn’t try to intrude. Instead, he gently leads me away from my body and
into the dream world.
The world around me swims into focus. I’m in a garden, and warm sun
spreads over my skin. It’s clearly summer here, and enormous roses are in
full bloom around me. Rue and marigolds blossom, and hawthorns and
mulberry trees line the path leading up to a white palace. Fish swim in a
little pond, and the water glitters under the summer sky. Bees hum in the air,
and blackbirds warble in the boughs. A warm breeze whispers over my bare
thighs.
Talan stands next to me, taking in the scene. “I didn’t imagine Kahedin
would dream of beauty like this. He always seems like such a soulless
Craig Shelton :Alıntı
"l tell my cooks that it is their own responsibility to educate themselves. When you go to college, the professor does not sit next to you and read you the book."
Sayfa 140 - "Aşçılarıma kendilerini eğitmenin kendi sorumlulukları olduğunu söylüyorum. Üniversiteye gittiğinizde, profesör yanınıza oturup size kitap okumaz."·Kitabı okudu
She did it
Raphael was wrong. Although the dream is in our minds, we have no
control over it. Our fantasy of escape is just that—a fantasy. The Dream
Stalker let us think we were escaping, like a cat toying with a mouse, but
we’re still there. Our bodies are still in the Château des Rêves, enfolded in a
terrible nightmare. Sooner or later, the dark prince and his guards will find
us. Fear crackles through my nerves.
If I know I’m dreaming, can I force myself to wake? I pinch myself, but
that doesn’t help. Pain is real in this nightmare, and it’s not a way out. If we
drown here, I feel disturbingly certain that would mean the end for us.
What does the Dream Stalker want? I’ve heard his thoughts for years.
He craves pleasure and beauty, but he always feels alone. If I’m in the
château right now, as I suspect, could I slip into his mind as I accidentally
did before? Maybe—only then—we can find a way out of this nightmare.
The thought of going anywhere near him, much less his thoughts, scares
the shit out of me. I’ve already come close to losing my sanity by invading
too many people’s thoughts. It would be dumb to risk drowning in a sea of
consciousness again, but do I have a choice? Not if I wish to escape this
nightmare.
Gripping the slippery wooden edge of the boat, I close my eyes and
focus on the magic inside me, the frenetic, high-pitched, violet magic that
allows me to hear another person’s thoughts.
As I summon it, I recall the way the prince’s mind felt as it touched
mine. Dark, brooding. Obsessed with sex.
I channel my telepathic powers at that mind and feel something brush
my thoughts, a shadow of another entity. Dark. Alluring. Seductive. But
right now—above all—furious.
But it’s hard to concentrate with the boat heaving up and down,
threatening to spit me into the void.
The Prophecy
Raphael pulls a torch off one of the stone walls and leads me to a
large painting. I frown at the image—another one of Mordred
Kingslayer, wearing his spiked crown over dark curls and a long
black cape. In this image, he’s beheading a blonde woman who kneels at his
feet. It’s about ten feet tall and gilt framed.
“Is it true that he had diametric magic, and that’s why he murdered
everyone?” I ask.
He sighs. “Maybe, but I don’t think that’s why the massacre happened.
It’s the prophecy. The one about the House of Morgan.”
A chill skitters up my spine. “Auberon is descended from Queen
Morgan. And the Dream Stalker, too.”
“And that’s why they need to die. They were born with the same
violence running through their veins. The moment they get the chance,
they’ll break in here and slaughter everyone.”
He reaches for a book on the shelf to the left of the portrait. As he pulls
it out, the portrait pops open like a door, creaking. He turns back to me with
an arched eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell your friends about this
passageway, are you?”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
Holding the torch, he leads me into a dark corridor. Light and shadow
dance over the stone walls, and the narrow hall stretches on.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“To the Tower of Nimuë.”
I breathe in sharply. Tana had mentioned her name. The Lady of the
Lake, like me, apparently. Tana had seen me in her tower. “Where is it?”
“It stands in the lake, with a bridge leading out to it. Nimuë was a
powerful water Fey, back in the days of primal magic. As Lady of the Lake,
she was an envoy between the Fey and humans. From her tower, Nimuë
gave Arthur his sword, forged from Avalon Steel. And she gave Merlin and
Arthur their torcs, too, from the same sacred metal.”
“So, her tower was a meeting point at one time?”
Reklam
Reklam