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.
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.
Pendragons
“And I’m Tarquin,” the guy to my right interjects. He has a long, bony
nose and nostrils that seem to stay flared. “Tarquin Pendragon?”
He looks at me expectantly. He has smooth auburn hair, combed neatly
sideways, and thin lips pressed into a tight smile.
“Very nice to meet you,” I offer.
He clears his throat. “You know of Arthur Pendragon, I presume. King
Arthur of the Round Table?” He points at the towering portraits. “That’s
him and Queen Guinevere. I’m the spit of him, they say. The absolute spit
of him.”
He looks nothing like the chisel-jawed, tan man in the portrait.
Tarquin’s skin is the color of milk. “Quite.”
He grins uncertainly. “Yes. Arthur founded this place and built most of
Camelot. His blood runs in my veins.”
“I see. You’re a descendant of Arthur?” I can see he wants recognition
for this. “Very impressive.”
His grin fades. “Yes. Well, I’m descended from his sister, Morgause.”
His expression brightens. “But some say the Pendragons in those days had
incestuous relationships, so really I could be…” He clears his throat.
“Anyway, since you’re new here, I can show you around. As a Pendragon, I
feel it’s my duty to look after lost young women who are new to our
academy. Of course, I can show you around the rest of Camelot, too.
Outside the Tower. I’ve lived in the city my whole life.”
There’s something false about his smile that sets my teeth on edge, but I
murmur, “Thank you.”
So he’s one of those Pendragons that Viviane referenced, someone who
might cut me down just weeks into training.
But he doesn’t seem to hate me so far.
My stomach rumbles, and I turn to a platter of food. It looks like
something from a fairytale—fresh bread pudding, jams, fruit, cakes
decorated with dandelions, entire baked salmon and potatoes, all resting on
a bed of wildflowers.
A Magnetron
The smallest girl I’ve ever seen rises out of darkness.
Cheers rise as a house in brown silk and red gemstones applauds their daughter.
“Rohr, of House Rhambos,” the family shouts, announcing her to the world.
The girl, no more than fourteen, smiles up at her family. She’s tiny in comparison to the statues, but her hands are strangely large. The rest of her looks liable to blow away in a strong breeze. She takes a turn about the ring of statues, always smiling upward. Her gaze lands on Cal—I mean the prince—trying to entice him with her doe eyes or the occasional flip of honey-blond hair. In short, she looks foolish. Until she approaches a solid stone statue and sloughs its head off with a single, simple slap.
House Rhambos speaks again. “Strongarm.”
Below us, little Rohr destroys the floor in a whirlwind, turning statues into pulverized piles of dust while she cracks the ground beneath her feet. She’s like an earthquake in tiny human form, breaking apart anything and everything in her way.
So this is a pageant.
A violent one, meant to showcase a girl’s beauty, splendor—and strength. The most talented daughter. This is a display of power, to pair the prince with the most powerful girl, so that their children might be the strongest of all. And this has been going on for hundreds of years.
I shudder to think of the strength in Cal’s pinkie finger.
He claps politely as the Rhambos girl finishes her display of organized destruction and steps back onto the descending platform. House Rhambos cheers for her as she disappears.
Next comes Heron of House Welle, the daughter of my own governor. She’s tall, with a face like her bird namesake. The destroyed earth shifts around her as she puts the floor back together. “Greenwarden,” her family chants. A greeny. At her command, trees
Sayfa 70
