Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(111)

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.