"Yarayla alay eder yaralanmamış olan."
//
"He jests at scars that never felt a wound."
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
Reklam
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
It is sobering to realize that many of the personality traits we have come to believe are us, and perhaps even take pride in, actually bear the scars of where we lost connection to ourselves, way back when. The sources of these scars are most often evident in their shape, so to speak: in many cases, specific traits can be traced to particular kinds of wounding. For example, if we don't receive the agenda-free, unconditional attention we all require, one way to guard against that deprivation is to become concerned with physical attractiveness or other attention-getting attributes or accomplishments. A child who does not experience himself as consistently and unconditionally lovable may well grow to be preternaturally likable or charming, as with many a politician or media personality. Someone who is not valued or recognized for who she is early in life may develop an outsize appetite for status or wealth. If we are not made to feel important for just who we are, we may seek significance by becoming compulsive helpers -a syndrome I know intimately.
To Celena
Young, and yet her face … It was an ancient face, wary and cunning and
limned with power. Beautiful, with the sun-kissed skin, the vibrant
turquoise eyes. Turquoise eyes, with a core of gold around the pupil.
Ashryver eyes.
The same as the golden-haired, handsome man who came up beside her,
muscled body tense as he assessed whether he’d need to spill blood, a bow
dangling from his hand.
Two sides of the same golden coin.
Aelin. Aedion.
They were both staring at her with those Ashryver eyes.
Aelin blinked. And her golden face crumpled as she said, “Are you
Elide?”
It was all Elide could do to nod. Lorcan was taut as a bowstring, his
body still half angled over her.
Aelin strode closer, eyes never leaving Elide’s face. Young—she felt so
young compared to the woman who approached. There were scars all over
Aelin’s hands, along her neck, around her wrists … where shackles had
been.
Aelin slid to her knees not a foot away, and it occurred to Elide that she
should be bowing, head to the dirt—
“You look … so much like your mother,” Aelin said, her voice cracking.
Aedion silently knelt, putting a broad hand on Aelin’s shoulder.
Her mother, who had gone down swinging, who had died fighting so
this woman could live—
“I’m sorry,” Aelin said, shoulders curving inward, head dropping low as
tears slid down her flushed cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” How many years had
those words been locked up?
Elide’s arm ached, but it didn’t stop her from touching Aelin’s hand,
clenched in her lap.
Touching that tanned, scarred hand. Warm, sticky skin met her
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
Reklam