Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(170)

Aedion listened to every word, assessed every shaking breath. And he said plainly, “You have no choice but to learn to face it.” He wished she didn’t need to think of such things, have such weight on her. “The fear of loss … it can destroy you as much as the loss itself.”

Lysandra at last met his gaze. Those green eyes—the sadness in them hit him like a blow to the gut. It was an effort not to reach for her. But she said, “I think we will both need to remind ourselves of that in the times ahead.”

He nodded, sighing through his nose. “And remember to enjoy what time we do have.” She’d likely learned that as many times as he had.

Her slender, lovely throat bobbed, and she glanced sidelong at him beneath lowered lashes. “I do enjoy it, you know. This—whatever this is.”

His heart ratcheted to a thunderous beat. Aedion debated whether or not to go for subtlety and gave himself the span of three breaths to decide. In the end, he went for his usual method, which had served him well both on and off battlefields: a precise sort of blunt attack, edged with enough outright arrogance to throw his opponents off their guard. “Whatever this is,” he said with a half smile, “between us?”

Lysandra indeed went on the defensive and showed her hand. “I know my history is … unappealing.”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Aedion said, daring a step closer. “And I’m going to tell you that there is nothing unappealing about you. Nothing. I’ve been with just as many people. Women, men … I’ve seen and tried it all.”

Her brows had risen. Aedion shrugged. “I find pleasure in both, depending on my mood and the person.” One of his former lovers still remained one of his closest friends—and most skilled commanders in his Bane. “Attraction is attraction.” He steeled his nerve. “And I know enough about it to understand what you and I …” Something shuttered in her eyes, and the words slipped from him. Too soon. Too soon for this sort of talk. “We can figure it out. Make no demands of each other beyond honesty.” That was really the only thing he cared to request. It was nothing more than he’d ask of a friend.

A small smile played about her lips. “Yes,” she breathed. “Let’s start there.”

He dared another step closer, not caring who watched on the deck or in the rigging or in the armada around them. Color bloomed high on those beautiful cheekbones, and it was an effort not to stroke a finger across them, then his mouth. To taste her skin.

But he’d take his time. Enjoy every moment, as he had told her to do.

Because this would be his last hunt. He had no intention of wasting each glorious moment in one go. Of wasting any of the moments that fate had granted him, and all he wanted to show her.

Every stream and forest and sea in Terrasen. To see Lysandra laugh her way through the autumnal circle dances; to weave ribbons around the maypoles in the spring; and listen, wide-eyed, to ancient tales of war and ghosts before the roaring winter fires in the mountain halls. All of it. He’d show her all of it. And walk onto those battlefields again and again to ensure he could.

So Aedion smiled at Lysandra and brushed her hand with his own. “I’m glad we’re in agreement, for once.”





60


Aelin and Ansel clinked bottles of wine over the long, scarred table in the galley and drank deeply.

They were to sail at first light tomorrow. North—back north. To Terrasen.

Aelin braced her forearms on the slick table. “Here’s to dramatic entrances.”

Lysandra, curled on the bench in ghost leopard form with her head on Aelin’s lap, let out a little feline laugh. Ansel blinked in wonder. “So what now?”

“It’d be nice,” Aedion grumbled from down the table, where he and Rowan glared at them, “to be included in just one of these schemes, Aelin.”

“But your faces are so wonderful when I get to reveal them,” Aelin crooned.

He and Rowan growled. Oh, she knew they were pissed. So pissed that she hadn’t told them about Ansel. But the thought of disappointing them, of failing … She’d wanted to do this on her own.

Rowan, apparently, mastered his annoyance enough to ask Ansel, “Were the ilken or Valg not in Melisande?”

“Are you implying my forces weren’t good enough to take the city if they had been?” Ansel swigged from her wine, laughter dancing in her eyes. Dorian sat at the table between Fenrys and Gavriel, the three of them wisely keeping quiet. Lorcan and Elide were on the deck—somewhere. “No, Prince,” Ansel went on. “I asked the Queen of Melisande about the lack of Morath-bred horrors, and, after some coaxing, she informed me that through whatever wiles and scheming, she managed to keep Erawan’s claws from her. And her soldiers.”

Aelin straightened a bit, wishing she’d had more wine than the third of a bottle she’d already consumed as Ansel added, “When this war is over, Melisande will not have the excuse of being in thrall to Erawan or the Valg. Everything she and her armies have done, their choice in allying with him, was a human choice.” A pointed glance to the darkest part of the galley, where Manon Blackbeak sat alone. “At least Melisande will have the Ironteeth to commiserate with.”

Manon’s iron teeth flashed in the dim light. Her wyvern hadn’t been spotted or heard from since he’d left, apparently. And she and Elide had talked for over an hour on the deck this afternoon.