Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(136)

And pray Rolfe’s directions to the Lock weren’t wrong.





Aedion was sick of surprises.

Sick of feeling his heart stop dead in his chest.

As it had when Gavriel had leaped to save his ass with the ilken, the Lion tearing into them with a ferocity that had left Aedion standing there like a novice with his first practice sword.

The stupid bastard had injured himself in the process, earning a swipe down his arm and ribs that set the male roaring in pain. The venom coating those claws, mercifully, had been used up on other men.

But it was the tang of his father’s blood that launched Aedion into action—that coppery, mortal scent. Gavriel had only blinked at him as Aedion had ignored the throbbing pain in his leg, courtesy of a blow moments before right above his knee, and they’d fought back-to-back until those creatures were nothing but twitching heaps of bone and flesh.

He hadn’t said a word to the male before sheathing sword and shield across his back and stalking to find Aelin.

She still knelt over Fenrys, offering Rowan nothing more than a pat on his thigh as he stormed past to help with the other wounded. A pat on the thigh—for making a shot that Aedion was fairly certain most of his Bane would have judged to be impossible.

Aedion set down the pail of water she’d asked him to get for Fenrys, trying not to wince as she wiped away the green poison that oozed out. A few feet away, his father was tending to a blubbering pirate—who had barely more than a tear to the thigh.

Fenrys hissed, and Aelin let out a grunt of pain herself. Aedion pushed in. “What?”

Aelin shook her head once, a sharp dismissal. But he watched as she locked eyes with Fenrys—locked and held them in a way that told Aedion whatever she was about to do would hurt. He’d seen that same look pass between healer and soldier a hundred times on killing fields and in the healers’ tents afterward.

“Why,” Fenrys panted, “didn’t”—another pant—“you just melt them?”

“Because I wanted to get some information out of them before you charged in, you bossy Fae bastard.” She gritted her teeth again, and Aedion braced a hand on her back as the poison no doubt brushed against her magic. As she tried to wash it out. She leaned a bit into his touch.

“Can heal on my own,” Fenrys rasped, noting the strain. “Get to the others.”

“Oh, please,” she snapped. “You’re all insufferable. That thing had poison on its claws—”

“The others—”

“Tell me how your magic works—how you can leap between places like that.” A clever, easy way to keep him focused elsewhere.

Aedion scanned the deck, making sure he wasn’t needed, and then carefully sopped up the blood and poison leaking from Fenrys’s chest. It had to hurt like hell. The insistent throbbing in his leg was likely nothing by comparison.

“No one knows where it comes from—what it is,” Fenrys said between shallow breaths, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. “But it lets me slip between folds in the world. Only short distances, and only a few times before I’m drained, but … it’s useful on a killing field.” He panted through his clenched teeth as the outer edges of his gash began to reach for each other. “Aside from that, I’ve got nothing special. Speed, strength, swift healing … more than the average Fae, but the same stock of gifts. I can shield myself and others, but can’t summon an element.”

Aelin’s hand wavered slightly over his wound. “What’s your shield made of, then?”

Fenrys tried and failed to shrug. But Gavriel muttered from where he worked on the still-whimpering pirate, “Arrogance.”

Aelin snorted, but didn’t dare take her eyes off Fenrys’s injury as she said, “So you do have a sense of humor, Gavriel.”

The Lion of Doranelle gave a wary smile over his shoulder. The rare-sighted, restrained twin to Aedion’s own flashing grins. Aelin had called him Uncle Kitty-Cat all of one time before Aedion had snarled viciously enough to make her think carefully before using the term again. Gavriel, to his credit, had merely given Aelin a long-suffering sigh that seemed to be used only when she or Fenrys were around.

“That sense of humor only appears about once every century,” Fenrys rasped, “so you’d better hope you Settle, or else that’s the last time you’ll see it.” Aelin chuckled, though it faded quickly. Something cold and oily slid into Aedion’s gut. “Sorry,” Fenrys added, wincing either at the words or the pain.

Aelin asked before Aedion let his words sink in, “Where did you come from? Lorcan, I know, was a bastard in the slums.”

“Lorcan was a bastard in Maeve’s palace, don’t worry,” Fenrys smirked, his bronze face wan. Aelin’s lips twitched toward a smile. “Connall and I were the sons of nobles who dwell in the southeastern part of Maeve’s lands …” He hissed.

“Your parents?” Aedion pressed when Aelin herself seemed to be straining for words. He’d seen her heal little cuts, and slowly repair Manon’s wound over days, but …

“Our mother was a warrior,” Fenrys said, each word labored. “She trained us as such. Our father was, too, but was often away at war. She was tasked with defending our home, our lands. And reporting to Maeve.” Rasping, laboring breaths from both of them. Aedion shifted so that Aelin could lean wholly against him, biting down on the weight it put on his already-swollen knee. “When Con and I were thirty, we were straining at the leash to go to Doranelle with her—to see the city, meet the queen, and do … what young males like to do with money in their pockets and youth on their sides. Only Maeve took one look at us and …” He needed longer to catch his breath this time. “It didn’t go well from there.”