sand off the knees of her suit.
She gazed up at the pit-lord. “Call it.”
The man blanched. “Victory is yours.”
She didn’t bother looking up again as she knocked her boot against the stone wall, freeing a thin, horrible blade.
Chaol was grateful for the screams of the crowd as she stomped it down through the neck of the commander. Again. Again.
In the dim lighting, no one else could tell the stain in the sand wasn’t the right color.
No one but the stone-faced demons gathered around them, marking Aelin, watching each movement of her leg as she severed the commander’s head from his body and then left it in the sand.
Aelin’s arms were trembling as she took Arobynn’s hand and was hauled out of the pit.
Her master crushed her fingers in a lethal grip, pulling her close in what anyone else would have thought was an embrace. “That’s twice now, darling, you haven’t delivered. I said unconscious.”
“Bloodlust got the better of me, it seems.” She eased back, her left arm aching from the vicious bite the thing had given her. Bastard. She could almost feel its blood seeping through the thick leather of her boot, feel the weight of the gore clinging onto the toe.
“I expect results, Ansel—and soon.”
“Don’t worry, Master.” Chaol was making his way toward a darkened corner, Nesryn a shadow behind him, no doubt readying to track the Valg once they left. “You’ll get what’s owed to you.” Aelin looked toward Lysandra, whose attention wasn’t on the corpse being hauled out of the pit by the grunts, but fixed—with predatory focus—on the other Valg guards sneaking out.
Aelin cleared her throat, and Lysandra blinked, her expression smoothing into unease and repulsion.
Aelin made to slip out, but Arobynn said, “Aren’t you the least bit curious where we buried Sam?”
He’d known his words would register like a blow. He’d had the upper hand, the sure-kill shot, the entire time. Even Lysandra recoiled a bit.
Aelin slowly turned. “Is there a price for learning that information?”
A flick of his attention to the pit. “You just paid it.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you to give me a fake location and have me bring stones to the wrong grave.”
Not flowers—never flowers in Terrasen. Instead, they carried small stones to graves to mark their visits, to tell the dead that they still remembered.
Stones were eternal—flowers were not.
“You wound me with such accusations.” Arobynn’s elegant face told another story. He closed the distance between them, and said so quietly that Lysandra couldn’t hear, “Do you think you will not have to pay up at some point?”
She bared her teeth. “Is that a threat?”
“It is a suggestion,” he said smoothly, “that you remember what my considerable influences are, and what I might have to offer you and yours during a time when you are desperate for so many things: money, fighters …” A glance at the vanishing captain and Nesryn. “Things your friends need, too.”
For a price—always for a price. “Just tell me where you buried Sam and let me leave. I need to clean my shoes.”
He smiled, satisfied that he’d won and she’d accepted his little offering—no doubt soon to make another bargain, and then another, for whatever she needed from him. He named the location, a small graveyard by the river’s edge. Not in the crypts of the Assassins’ Keep, where most of them were entombed. Likely meant as an insult to Sam—not realizing Sam wouldn’t have wanted to be buried in the Keep anyway.
Still, she choked out, “Thank you.” And then she made herself look at Lysandra and drawl, “I hope he’s paying you enough.”
Lysandra’s attention, however, was on the long scar marring Arobynn’s neck—the scar Wesley had left. But Arobynn was too busy smiling at Aelin to notice. “We’ll be seeing each other again soon,” he said. Another threat. “Hopefully when you’ve upheld your end of the bargain.”
The hard-faced men who had been at Arobynn’s side during the fight still lingered several feet away. The owners of the Pits. They gave her a slight nod that she didn’t return. “Tell your new partners I’m officially retired,” she said by way of farewell.
It was an effort of will to leave Lysandra with him in that hellhole.
She could feel the Valg sentries monitoring her, feel their indecision and malice, and hoped that Chaol and Nesryn didn’t run into trouble as she vanished into the open, cool night air.
She hadn’t asked them to come just to watch her back, but to make them realize precisely how stupid they’d been