Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(44)

And waited.

The sliver of crescent moon was beginning to descend when a deep male voice said behind her, “You look younger than I thought.”

Aelin stared at the sea, even as her stomach tightened. “But just as good-looking, right?”

She did not hear any footsteps, but the voice was definitely closer as he said, “At least my daughter was right about your humility.”

“Funny, she never implied you had a sense of humor.”

A whisper of wind to her right, then long, muscled legs beneath ancient armor appeared beside hers, sandaled feet dangling into the surf. She finally dared to turn her head, finding that armor continued to a powerful male body and a broad-boned, handsome face. He might have fooled anyone into thinking he was flesh and blood—were it not for the pale glimmer of blue light along his edges.

Aelin bowed her head slightly to Brannon.

A half smile was his only acknowledgment, his red-gold hair shifting in the moonlight. “A brutal but efficient battle,” he said.

She shrugged. “I was told to come to this temple. I found it occupied. So I unoccupied it. You’re welcome.”

His lips twitched toward a smile. “I cannot stay long.”

“But you’re going to manage to cram in as many cryptic warnings as you can, right?”

Brannon’s brows rose, his brandy-colored eyes crinkling with amusement. “I had my friends send you a message to come for a reason, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it.” She wouldn’t have risked reclaiming the temple otherwise. “But first tell me about Maeve.” She’d had enough of waiting until they dumped their message into her lap. She had her own gods-damned questions.

Brannon’s mouth tightened. “Specify what you need to know.”

“Can she be killed?”

The king’s head whipped toward her. “She is old, Heir of Terrasen. She was old when I was a child. Her plans are far-reaching—”

“I know, I know. But will she die if I shove a blade into her heart? Cut off her head?”

A pause. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

Brannon shook his head. “I don’t know. All Fae may be killed, yet she has outlived even our extended life spans, and her power … no one really understands her power.”

“But you journeyed with her to get the keys back—”

“I do not know. But she long feared my flame. And yours.”

“She’s not Valg, is she?”

A low laugh. “No. As cold as one, but no.” Brannon’s edges began to blur a bit.

But he saw the question in her eyes and nodded for her to go on.

Aelin swallowed, her jaw clenching a bit as she forced out a breath. “Does the power ever get easier to handle?”

Brannon’s gaze softened a fraction. “Yes and no. How it impacts your relationships with those around you becomes harder than managing the power—yet is tied to it as well. Magic is no easy gift in any form, yet fire … We burn not just within our magic, but also in our very souls. For better or worse.” His attention flicked to Goldryn, peeking over her shoulder, and he laughed in quiet surprise. “Is the beast in the cave dead?”

“No, but he told me that he misses you and you should pay him a visit. He’s lonely out there.”

Brannon chuckled again. “We would have had fun together, you and I.”

“I’m starting to wish they’d sent you to deal with me instead of your daughter. The sense of humor must skip a generation.”

Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. For that sense of humor instantly faded from that beautiful tan face, those brandy eyes going cold and hard. Brannon gripped her hand, but his fingers went through hers—right down to the stone itself. “The Lock, Heir of Terrasen. I summoned you here for it. In the Stone Marshes, there lies a sunken city—the Lock is hidden there. It is needed to bind the keys back into the broken Wyrdgate. It is the only way to get them back into that gate and seal it permanently. My daughter begs you—”

“What Lock—”

“Find the Lock.”

“Where in the Stone Marshes? It’s not exactly a small—”

Brannon was gone.

Aelin scowled and shoved the Amulet of Orynth back into her shirt. “Of course there’s a gods-damned lock,” she muttered.

She groaned a bit as she eased to her feet, and frowned at the night-dark sea crashing mere yards away. At the ancient queen across it, readying her armada.

Aelin stuck out her tongue.

“Well, if Maeve wasn’t already poised to attack, that’ll certainly set her off,” Aedion drawled from the shadows of a nearby pillar.

Aelin stiffened, hissing.

Her cousin grinned at her, his teeth moon white. “You think I didn’t know you had something else up your sleeve for why we took back this temple? Or that this spring in Rifthold taught me nothing about your tendency to be planning a few things at once?”

She rolled her eyes, stepping off the sacred stone and stomping down the stairs. “I assume you heard everything.”

“Brannon even winked at me before he vanished.”

She clenched her jaw.

Aedion leaned his shoulder against the carved pillar. “A Lock, eh? And when, precisely, were you going to inform us about this new shift in direction?”