Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(78)

“Did you also get the sense that it could persuade him to help us? Knowing me?”

“I don’t think Aelin would ever ask that of you,” Lysandra said, laying a hand on the arm still braced beside her head.

“What do I even say to him?” Aedion murmured. “I’ve heard so many stories about him—the Lion of Doranelle. He’s a gods-damned white knight. I don’t think he’ll approve of a son most people call Adarlan’s Whore.” She clicked her tongue, but Aedion pinned her with a look. “What would you do?”

“I can’t answer that question. My own father…” She shook her head. He knew about that—the shifter-father who had either abandoned her mother or not even known she was pregnant. And then the mother who had thrown Lysandra into the street when she discovered her heritage. “Aedion, what do you want to do? Not for us, not for Terrasen, but for you.”

He bowed his head a bit, glancing sidelong at the quiet street again. “My whole life has been … not about what I want. I don’t know how to choose those things.”

No, from the moment he’d arrived in Terrasen at age five, he’d been trained—his path chosen. And when Terrasen had burned beneath Adarlan’s torches, another hand had gripped the leash of his fate. Even now, with war upon them … Had he truly never wanted something for himself? All he’d wanted had been the blood oath. And Aelin had given that away to Rowan. He didn’t resent her for it, not anymore, but … He had not realized he had asked for so little.

Lysandra said quietly, “I know. I know what that feels like.”

He lifted his head, finding her green eyes again in the darkness. He sometimes wished Arobynn Hamel were still alive—just so he could kill the assassin-king himself.

“Tomorrow morning,” he murmured. “Will you come with me? To see him.”

She was quiet for a moment before she said, “You really want me to go with you?”

He did. He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted her there. She got under his skin so damn easily, but … Lysandra steadied him. Perhaps because she was something new. Something he had not encountered, had not filled with hope and pain and wishes. Not too many of them, at least.

“If you wouldn’t mind … yes. I want you there.”

She didn’t respond. He opened his mouth, but steps sounded.

Light. Too casual.

They ducked deeper into the shadows of the alley, its dead-end wall looming behind them. If this went poorly…

If it went poorly, he had a shape-shifter capable of shredding apart droves of men at his side. Aedion flashed Lysandra a grin as he leaned over her once more, his nose within grazing distance of her neck.

Those steps neared, and Lysandra loosed a breath, her body going pliant.

From the shadows of his hood, he monitored the alley ahead, the shadows and shafts of moonlight, bracing himself. They’d picked the dead-end alley for a reason.

The girl realized her mistake a step too late. “Oh.”

Aedion looked up, his own features hidden within his hood, as Lysandra purred to the young woman who perfectly matched Rowan’s description of Rolfe’s barmaid, “I’ll be done in two minutes, if you want to wait your turn.”

Color stained the girl’s cheeks, but she gave them a flinty look, scanning them from head to toe. “Wrong turn,” she said.

“You sure?” Lysandra crooned. “A bit late in the evening for a stroll.”

Rolfe’s barmaid fixed them with that sharp stare and sauntered back down the street.

They waited. A minute. Five. Ten. No others came.

Aedion at last pulled away, Lysandra now watching the alley entrance. The shifter wound an auburn curl around her finger. “She seems an unlikely thief.”

“Some would say similar things about you and Aelin.” Lysandra hummed in agreement. Aedion mused, “Perhaps she was just a scout—Rolfe’s eyes.”

“Why bother? Why not just come take the thing?”

Aedion glanced again at the amulet that disappeared beneath Lysandra’s bodice. “Maybe she thought she was looking for something else.”

Lysandra, wisely, didn’t fish the Amulet of Orynth out from her dress. But his words hung between them as they carefully picked their way back to the Ocean Rose.





30


After two weeks of inching across the muddy open plains, Elide was tired of using her mother’s name.

Tired of constantly being on alert to hear it barked by Molly to clean up after every meal (a mistake, no doubt, to have ever told the woman she had some experience washing dishes in busy kitchens), tired of hearing Ombriel—the dark-haired beauty not a carnival act at all but Molly’s niece and their money-keeper—use it when questioning about how she’d hurt her leg, where her family came from, and how she’d learned to observe others so keenly that she could turn a coin as an oracle.

At least Lorcan barely used it, as they’d hardly spoken while the caravan trudged through the mud-laden fields. The ground was so saturated with the daily afternoon summer rain that the wagons often became stuck. They’d barely covered any distance at all, and when Ombriel would catch Elide gazing northward, she’d ask—yet another recurring question—what lay in the North to draw her attention so frequently. Elide always lied, always evaded. The sleeping situation between Elide and her husband, fortunately, was more easily avoided.