Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass #4)(85)

“It was successful; that’s all you need to know.”

“You’re to tell your guards immediately to grant me and mine permission to enter.” Indeed, dozens of guards had blocked her path—and short of killing her way through, Manon had no way in.

“You choose to ignore my orders. Why should I follow yours, Wing Leader?”

“You won’t have a gods-damned army to ride those wyverns if you lock them all up for your breeding experiments.”

They were warriors—they were Ironteeth witches. They weren’t chattel to be bred. They weren’t to be experimented upon. Her grandmother would slaughter him.

The duke merely shrugged. “I told you I wanted Blackbeaks. You refused to give them to me.”

“Is this punishment?” The words snapped out of her. The Yellowlegs were still Ironteeth, after all. Still under her command.

“Oh, no. Not at all. But if you disobey my orders again, the next time, it might be.” He cocked his head, and the light gilded his dark eyes. “There are princes, you know—among the Valg. Powerful, cunning princes, capable of splattering people on walls. They’ve been very keen to test themselves against your kind. Perhaps they’ll pay a visit to your barracks. See who survives the night. It’d be a good way to weed out the lesser witches. I have no use for weak soldiers in my armies, even if it decreases your numbers.”

For a moment, there was a roaring silence in her head. A threat.

A threat from this human, this man who had lived but a fraction of her existence, this mortal beast—

Careful, a voice said in her head. Proceed with cunning.

So Manon allowed herself to nod slightly in acquiescence, and asked, “And what of your other … activities? What goes on beneath the mountains circling this valley?”

The duke studied her, and she met his gaze, met every inch of blackness within it. And found something slithering inside that had no place in this world. At last he said, “You do not wish to learn what is being bred and forged under those mountains, Blackbeak. Don’t bother sending your scouts in. They won’t see daylight again. Consider yourself warned.”

The human worm clearly didn’t know precisely how skilled her Shadows were, but she wasn’t about to correct him, not when it could be used to her advantage one day. Yet whatever did go on inside those mountains wasn’t her concern—not with the Yellowlegs and the rest of the legion to deal with. Manon jerked her chin toward the dead soldier. “What do you plan to use this shadowfire for? Torture?”

A flash of ire at yet another question. The duke said tightly, “I have not yet decided. For now, she will experiment like this. Perhaps later, she will learn to incinerate the armies of our enemies.”

A flame that did not leave burns—loosed upon thousands. It would be glorious, even if it was grotesque. “And are there armies of enemies gathering? Will you use this shadowfire on them?”

The duke again cocked his head, the scars on his face thrown into stark contrast in the dim lantern light. “Your grandmother didn’t tell you, then.”

“About what?” she bit out.

The duke strode toward the curtained-off part of the room. “About the weapons she has been making for me—for you.”

“What weapons?” She didn’t bother wasting time with tactical silence.

The duke just grinned at her as he disappeared, the curtains swinging enough to reveal Kaltain lying on a low bed covered in furs, her thin, pale arms at her sides, her eyes open and unseeing. A shell. A weapon.

Two weapons—Kaltain, and whatever her grandmother was making.

That was why the Matron had stayed in the Fangs with the other High Witches.

If the three of them were combining their knowledge, wisdom, and cruelty to develop a weapon to use against the mortal armies …

A shiver skidded down Manon’s spine as she glanced once more at the broken human on the rug.

Whatever this new weapon was, whatever the three High Witches came up with …

The humans wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I want you all spreading the word to the other covens. I want sentinels on constant surveillance at the entrances to the barracks. Three-hour watch rotations, no longer—we don’t need anyone passing out and letting the enemy slip in. I’ve dispatched a letter to the Matron already.”

Elide awoke with a jolt inside the aerie, warm and rested and not daring to breathe. It was still dark, but the moonlight was gone, dawn far off. And in the blackness, she could faintly make out the gleam of snow-white hair and the flicker of a few sets of iron teeth and nails. Oh, gods.

She’d planned to sleep for only an hour. She must have slept for at least four. Abraxos didn’t move behind her, his wing still shielding her.

Since that encounter with Asterin and Manon, every hour, waking or sleeping, had been a nightmare for Elide, and even days afterward she caught herself holding her breath at odd moments, when the shadow of the fear gripped her by the throat. The witches hadn’t bothered with her, even though she’d claimed her blood ran blue. But neither had Vernon.

But tonight … she’d been limping back to her room, the stairwell dark and quiet—too quiet, even with the scraping of her chains on the floor. And by her door, a pocket of utter silence, as if even the dust mites had held their breath. Someone was inside her room. Waiting for her.