Empire of Storms

  Dorian risked a glance at Aedion, but his face was hard, calculating, ever the general—fixed on the dead queen now standing in this room with them. Lysandra—Lysandra was gone.

  No, in ghost leopard form, slinking through the shadows. Rowan’s hand was resting casually on his sword, though Dorian’s own magic swept the room and realized the weapon was to be the physical distraction from the magical blow he’d deal Elena if she so much as looked funny at Aelin. Indeed, a hard shield of air now lay between the two queens—and sealed this room, too.

  Elena shook her head, her silver hair flowing. “You were meant to retrieve the Wyrdkeys before Erawan could get this far.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Aelin snapped. “Forgive me if you weren’t entirely clear on your directions.”

  Elena said, “I do not have time to explain, but know it was the only choice. To save us, to save Erilea, it was the only choice I could make.” And for all their snapping at each other, the queen exposed her palms to Aelin. “Deanna and my father spoke true. I’d thought … I’d thought it was broken, but if they told you to find the Lock … ” She bit her lip.

  Aelin said, “Brannon said to go to the Stone Marshes of Eyllwe to find the Lock. Where, precisely, in the marshes?”

  “There was once a great city in the heart of the marshes,” Elena breathed. “It is now half drowned on the plain. In a temple at its center, we laid the remnants of the Lock. I didn’t … My father attained the Lock at terrible cost. The cost … of my mother’s body, her mortal life. A Lock for the Wyrdkeys—to seal shut the gate, and bind the keys inside them forever. I did not understand what it had been intended for; my father never told me about any of it until it was too late. All I knew was that the Lock was only able to be used once—its power capable of sealing anything we wished. So I stole it. I used it for myself, for my people. I have been paying for that crime since.”

  “You used it to seal Erawan in his tomb,” Aelin said quietly.

  The pleading faded from Elena’s face. “My friends died in the valley of the Black Mountains that day so I might have the chance to stop him. I heard their screaming, even in the heart of Erawan’s camp. I will not apologize for trying to end the slaughter so that the survivors could have a future. So you could have a future.”

  “So you used the Lock, then chucked it into a ruin?”

  “We placed it inside the holy city on the plain—to be a commemoration of the lives lost. But a great cataclysm rocked the land decades later … and the city sank, the marsh water flowed in, and the Lock was forgotten. No one ever retrieved it. Its power had already been used. It was just a bit of metal and glass.”

  “And now it’s not?”

  “If both my father and Deanna mentioned it, it must be vital in stopping Erawan.”

  “Forgive me if I do not trust the word of a goddess who tried to use me like a puppet to blow this town into smithereens.”

  “Her methods are roundabout, but she likely meant you no harm—”

  “Bullshit.”

  Elena flickered again. “Get to the Stone Marshes. Find the Lock.”

  “I told Brannon, and I’ll tell you: we have more pressing matters at hand—”

  “My mother died to forge that Lock,” Elena snapped, eyes blazing bright. “She let go of her mortal body so that she could forge the Lock for my father. I was the one who broke the promise for how it was to be used.”

  Aelin blinked, and Dorian wondered if he should indeed be worried when even she was speechless. But Aelin only whispered, “Who was your mother?”

  Dorian ransacked his memory, all his history lessons on his royal house, but couldn’t recall.

  Elena made a sound that might have been a sob, her image fading into cobwebs and moonlight. “She who loved my father best. She who blessed him with such mighty gifts, and then bound herself in a mortal body and offered him the gift of her heart.”

  Aelin’s arms slackened at her sides.

  Aedion blurted, “Shit.”

  Elena laughed humorlessly as she said to Aelin, “Why do you think you burn so brightly? It is not just Brannon’s blood that is in your veins. But Mala’s.”

  Aelin breathed, “Mala Fire-Bringer was your mother.”

  Elena was already gone.

  Aedion said, “Honestly, it’s a miracle you two didn’t kill each other.”

  Dorian didn’t bother to correct him that it was technically impossible, given that one of them was already dead. Rather, he weighed all that the queen had said and demanded. Rowan, remaining silent, seemed to be doing the same. Lysandra sniffed around the blood-marks, as if testing for whatever remnants of the ancient queen might be around.

  Aelin stared out the open balcony doors, eyes hooded and mouth a tight line. She unfurled her fist and examined the Eye of Elena, still held in her palm.

  The clock struck one in the morning. Slowly, Aelin turned to them. To him.

  “Mala’s blood flows in our veins,” she said hoarsely, fingers closing around the Eye before she slipped it into the shirt’s pocket.

  He blinked, realizing that it indeed did. That perhaps both of them had been so considerably gifted because of it. Dorian said to Rowan, if only because he might have heard or witnessed something in all his travels, “Is it truly possible—for a god to become mortal like that?”

  Rowan, who had been watching Aelin a bit warily, twisted to him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. But … Fae have given up their immortality to bind their lives to that of their mortal mates.” Dorian had the distinct feeling Aelin was deliberately examining a spot on her shirt. “It’s certainly possible Mala found a way to do it.”

  “It’s not just possible,” Aelin murmured. “She did it. That … pit of power I uncovered today … That was from Mala herself. Elena might be many things, but she wasn’t lying about that.”

  Lysandra shifted back into her human form, swaying enough that she set herself down on the bed before Aedion could move to steady her. “So what do we do now?” she asked, her voice gravelly. “Erawan’s fleet squats in the Gulf of Oro; Maeve sails for Eyllwe. But neither knows that we possess this Wyrdkey—or that this Lock exists … and lies directly between their forces.”

  For a heartbeat, Dorian felt like a useless fool as they all, including him, looked to Aelin. He was King of Adarlan, he reminded himself. Equal to her. Even if his lands and people had been stolen, his capital captured.

  But Aelin rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, loosing a long breath. “I really, really hate that old windbag.” She lifted her head, surveying them all, and said simply, “We sail for the Stone Marshes in the morning to hunt down that Lock.”

  “Rolfe and the Mycenians?” Aedion asked.

  “He takes half his fleet to find the rest of the Mycenians, wherever they’re hiding. Then they all sail north to Terrasen.”

  “Rifthold lies between here and there, with wyverns patrolling it,” Aedion countered. “And this plan depends on if we can trust Rolfe to actually follow through on his promise.”

  “Rolfe knows how to stay out of range,” Rowan said. “We have little choice but to trust him. And he honored the promise he made to Aelin regarding the slaves two and a half years ago.” No doubt why Aelin had made him confirm it so thoroughly.

  “And the other half of Rolfe’s fleet?” Aedion pushed.

  “Some remain to hold the archipelago,” Aelin said. “And some come with us to Eyllwe.”

  “You can’t fight Maeve’s armada with a fraction of Rolfe’s fleet,” Aedion said, crossing his arms. Dorian bit back his own agreement, leaving the general to it. “Let alone Morath’s forces.”

  “I’m not going there to pick a fight,” was all Aelin said. And that was that.

  They dispersed then, Aelin and Rowan slipping off to their own room.

  Dorian lay awake, even when his companions’ breathing became deep and slow. He mulled over each word Elena had uttered, mulled over that long-ago appearance of Gavin, who had awoken him to
stop Aelin from opening that portal. Perhaps Gavin had done it not to spare Aelin from damnation, but to keep those waiting, cold-eyed gods from seizing her as Deanna had today.

  He tucked the speculation away to consider when he was less prone to leaping to conclusions. But the threads lay in a lattice across his mind, in hues of red and green and gold and blue, glimmering and thrumming, whispering their secrets in languages not spoken in this world.

  An hour past dawn, they departed Skull’s Bay on the swiftest ship Rolfe could spare. Rolfe didn’t bother to say good-bye, already preoccupied with readying his fleet, before they sailed out of the sparkling harbor and into the lush archipelago beyond. He did grant Aelin one parting gift: vague coordinates for the Lock. His map had found it—or rather, the general location. Some sort of wards must be placed around it, the captain warned them, if his tattoo could not pinpoint its resting place. But it was better than nothing, Dorian supposed. Aelin had grumbled as much.

  Rowan circled high above in hawk form, scouting behind and ahead. Fenrys and Gavriel were at the oars, helping row them out of the harbor—Aedion doing so as well, at a comfortable distance from his father.Dorian himself stood at the wheel beside the surly, short captain—an older woman who had no interest in speaking to him, king or not. Lysandra swam in the surf below in some form or another, guarding them from any threats beneath the surface.

  But Aelin stood alone on the prow, her golden hair unbound and flowing behind her, so still that she might have been the twin to the figurehead mere feet beneath. The rising sun cast her in shimmering gold, no hint of the moonfire that had threatened to destroy them all.

  But even as the queen stood undimming before the shadows of the world … a lick of cold traced the contours of Dorian’s heart.

  And he wondered if Aelin was somehow watching the archipelago, and the seas, and the skies, as if she might never see them again.

  Three days later, they were nearly out of the archipelago’s strangling grasp. Dorian was again at the helm, Aelin at the prow, the others scattered on various rounds of scouting and resting.

  His magic felt it before he did. A sense of awareness, of warning and awakening.

  He scanned the horizon. The Fae warriors fell silent before the others.

  It looked like a cloud at first—a wind-tossed little cloud on the horizon. Then a large bird.

  When the sailors began rushing for their weapons, Dorian’s mind at last spat out a name for the beast that swept toward them on shimmering, wide wings. Wyvern.

  There was only one. And only one rider atop it. A rider who did not move, whose white hair was unbound—listing toward the side. As the rider now was.

  The wyvern dropped lower, skimming over the water. Lysandra was instantly ready, waiting for the queen’s order to shift into whatever form would fight it—

  “No.” The word ripped from Dorian’s lips before he could think. But then it came out, over and over, as the wyvern and rider sailed closer to the ship.

  The witch was unconscious, her body leaning to the side because she was not awake, because that was blue blood all over her. Don’t shoot; don’t shoot—

  Dorian was roaring the order as he hurtled for where Fenrys had drawn his longbow, a black-tipped arrow aimed at the witch’s exposed neck. His words were swallowed by the shouting of the sailors and their captain. Dorian’s magic swelled as he unsheathed Damaris—

  But then Aelin’s voice cut over the fray—Hold your fire!

  All of them halted. The wyvern sailed close, then banked, circling the boat.

  Blue blood crusted the beast’s scarred sides. So much blood. The witch was barely in the saddle. Her tan face was leeched of color, her lips paler than whale bone.

  The wyvern completed its circle, sweeping lower this time, readying to land as near the boat as possible. Not to attack … but for help.

  One moment, the wyvern was soaring smoothly over the cobalt waves. Then the witch listed so far that her body seemed to go boneless. As if in that heartbeat, when help was mere feet away, whatever luck had kept her astride at last abandoned her.

  Silence fell on the ship as Manon Blackbeak tumbled from her saddle, falling through wind and spindrift, and hit the water.

  PART TWO

  FIREHEART

  40

  The smoke had been stinging Elide’s eyes for the better part of the gray muggy morning.

  Just farmers burning fields left to fallow, Molly had claimed, so the ashes might fertilize the earth for next year’s harvest. They had to be miles away, but the smoke and ash would travel far on the brisk northward wind. The wind that led home to Terrasen.

  But they weren’t headed to Terrasen. They were headed due east, straight toward the coast.

  Soon she’d have to cut northward. They had passed through one town—only one, and its denizens had already been fatigued of roving carnivals and performers. Even with the night barely under way, Elide already knew they would likely only make enough money to cover their expenses for staying.

  She had attracted a grand total of four customers to her little tent so far, mostly young men looking to know which of the village girls fancied them, barely noticing that Elide—beneath the makeup pasted thick as cream on her face—was no older than they were. They’d scampered off when their friends had rushed by, whispering through the star-painted flaps that a swordsman was putting on the show of a lifetime, and his arms were nearly the size of tree trunks.

  Elide had glowered, both at the feckless young men who vanished—one without paying—and at Lorcan, for stealing the show.

  She waited all of two minutes before shoving out of the tent, the enormous, ridiculous headdress Molly had plunked on her hair snagging on the flaps. Bits of dangling beads and charms hung from the arching crest, and Elide batted them out of her eyes, nearly tripping over her matching bloodred robes as she went to see what all the fuss was about.

  If the young men of the town had been impressed by Lorcan’s muscles, it was nothing on what those muscles were doing to the young women.

  And older women, Elide realized, not bothering to squeeze through the tightly packed crowd before the makeshift stage on which Lorcan stood, juggling and throwing swords and knives.

  Lorcan was not a natural performer. No, he had the gall to actually look bored up there, bordering on outright sullen.

  But what he lacked in charm he made up for with his shirtless, oiled body. And holy gods…

  Lorcan made the young men who had visited her tent look like … children.

  He balanced and hurled his weapons as if they were nothing, and she had the feeling the warrior was merely going through one of his daily exercise routines. But the crowd still oohed and aahed at every twist and toss and catch, and coins still trickled into the pan at the edge of the stage.

  With the torches around him, Lorcan’s dark hair seemed to swallow the light, his onyx eyes flat and dull. Elide wondered if he was contemplating the murder of everyone drooling over him like dogs around a bone. She couldn’t blame him.

  A trickle of sweat slid through the crisp spattering of dark hair on his sculpted chest. Elide watched, a bit transfixed, as that bead of sweat wended down the muscled grooves of his stomach. Lower.

  No better than those ogling women, she said to herself, about to head back into her tent when Molly observed from beside her, “Your husband could just be sitting up there, fixing your stockings, and women would empty their pockets for the chance to stare at him.”

  “He had that effect wherever we went with our former carnival,” Elide lied.

  Molly clicked her tongue. “You’re lucky,” she murmured as Lorcan hurled his sword high in the air and people gasped, “that he still looks at you the way he does.”

  Elide wondered if Lorcan would look at her at all if she told him what her name was, who she was, what she carried. He’d slept on the floor of the tent each night—not that she’d ever once bothered to offer him the roll. He usually came in after she’d fallen asleep
, and left before she awoke. To do what, she had no idea—perhaps exercise, since his body was … like that.

  Lorcan chucked three knives in the air, bowing without one bit of humility or amusement to the crowd. They gasped again as the blades aimed for his exposed spine.

  But in an easy, beautiful maneuver, Lorcan rolled, catching each blade, one after another.

  The crowd cheered, and Lorcan coolly looked at his pan of coins.

  More copper—and some silver—flowed, like the patter of rain.

  Molly let out a low laugh. “Desire and fear can loosen any purse strings.” A sharp glance. “Shouldn’t you be in your tent?”

  Elide didn’t bother responding as she left, and could have sworn she felt Lorcan’s gaze narrow on her, on the headdress and swaying beads, on the long, voluminous robes. She kept going, and endured a few more young men—and some young women—asking about their love lives before she found herself again alone in that silly tent, the dark only illuminated by dangling crystal orbs with tiny candles inside.

  She was waiting for Molly to finally shout the carnival was over when Lorcan shouldered through the flaps, wiping his face with a scrap of fabric that was most definitely not his shirt.

  Elide said, “Molly will be begging you to stay, you realize.”

  He slid into the folding chair before her round table. “Is that your professional prediction?”

  She swatted at a strand of beads that swayed into her eyes. “Did you sell your shirt, too?”

  Lorcan gave a feral grin. “Got ten coppers from a farmer’s wife for it.”

  Elide scowled. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Money is money. I suppose you don’t need to worry about it, with all the gold you’ve got stashed.”

  Elide held his stare, not bothering to look pleasant. “You’re in a rare good mood.”

  “Having two women and one man offer a spot in their beds tonight will do that to a person.”

  “Then why are you here?” It came out sharper than she intended.