Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

The true might of Aelin Fire-Bringer. Not an ember less.

The Queen of Flame and Shadow, the Heir of Fire, Aelin of the Wildfire, Fireheart …

Whitethorn knew—even at Mistward—that the queen hadn’t yet stepped into her birthright. Knew that this sort of power came around once in an eon, and to serve it, to serve her … A court that wouldn’t just change the world. It would start the world over. A court that could conquer this world—and any other it wished.

Aelin was no savior to rally behind, but a cataclysm to be weathered.

Only a male who’d lost his damn mind would wander into that storm.

Not as Aelin turned toward Rowan, and the only flame that remained was a crown of fire atop her head.

Perhaps Aelin Galathynius was unlucky the cadre had been drawn to Maeve’s power long before she was born, had chained themselves to her instead. Perhaps they were the unlucky ones, for not holding out for something better.

Lorcan’s onyx eyes were unreadable as he scanned her face. And then he said quietly, “I wanted to go to Perranth with you.” Lorcan dropped the shield.

Aedion’s turquoise eyes softened. “It survived. We survived.” The three of them, the remnants of their court, their families.

Lorcan—Lorcan, blessed by Hellas himself, Rowan had told him on that skiff ride into the Dead Islands. Hellas, god of death. Who had traveled here with Anneith, his consort.

“Manon Blackbeak, Heir to the Blackbeak Witch-Clan and now the last Crochan Queen … meet Ansel of Briarcliff, assassin and Queen of the Western Wastes.”

“Why did you forgive Ansel? After what she did to you and the others in the desert?” Aelin crouched again. “Because she made a bad choice, trying to heal a wound she couldn’t ever mend. Trying to avenge the people she loved.”

She took his hand, gripping it hard. “Rowan.” The spark died from his eyes. She squeezed his fingers. “Rowan, I need you to do something for me.”

“I can think of better uses for my hands—invisible and flesh.” An invitation and a question. She held his gaze. “Then finish what you started,” Manon breathed.

“You once asked me where I stand on the line between killing to protect and killing for pleasure.” His fingers grazed the seam of the scar across her abdomen. “I’ll stand on the other side of the line when I find your grandmother.”

“I wanted you from the first moment I saw you in Oakwald,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“This was supposed to take the edge off.” She kept her words low as his clothes slid over, hauled by phantom hands. “And did it?” He traced her lower lip with his thumb and shuddered as she sucked it into her mouth, flicked it with her tongue. “No. Not even close.”

If someone had told him that the drunken, brawling, bitter woman would become the one thing he could not live without … Rowan shut the door.

“When it comes to the right person, Prince, waiting a hundred years is worth it.”

“Did you know,” Rowan said hoarsely to Lorcan, “that she’d punish you before you came to Mistward?” Lorcan held the prince’s stare. “We all knew what the cost would be.”

“Then let him awaken,” Elena begged, her voice breaking. “Let someone else inherit this war—someone better prepared.”

“Mala’s bloodline shall bleed again to forge the Lock anew. And you will lead them, a lamb to slaughter, to pay the price of this choice you made to waste its power here, for this petty battle. You will show this future scion how to forge a new Lock with Mala’s gifts, how to then use it to wield the keys and send us home. Our original bargain still holds: we will take the Dark King with us. Tear him apart in our own world, where he will be but dust and memory. When we are gone—you will show this scion how to seal the gate behind us, the Lock holding it intact eternally. By yielding every last drop of their life force. As your father was prepared to do when the time was right.”

When. Not if. But when Aelin found their bodies, or whatever was left of them if the sea didn’t claim them … she might very well end the world for rage. Maybe she should. Maybe this world deserved it. Maybe Manon Blackbeak would help her do it. Maybe they’d rule over the ruins together.

Now the dark queen’s flag vanished entirely, as Fae ships bearing the silver banner of the House of Whitethorn opened fire upon their own armada.

Rowan had not possessed an army of his own to give to Aelin. To give to Terrasen. So he had won an army for her. Through the only things Aelin had claimed were all she wanted from him. His heart. His loyalty. His friendship. And Rowan wished his Fireheart were there to see it as the House of Whitethorn slammed into Maeve’s fleet, and ice and wind exploded across the waves.

Nameless is my price. Using her power, drained to the last drop, her life to forge that new Lock. To wield the power of the keys only once—just once, to banish them all, and then seal the gate forever.

Nameless is my price. Written right there—in Wyrdmarks. The one who bore Brannon’s mark, the mark of the bastard-born nameless … She would be the cost to end this.

Aedion knew you were the Queen Who Was Promised without knowing what it meant, without knowing anything about you, or me, or what I did to spare my own people.” The words hit her like stones. “The Queen Who Was Promised,” Aelin said. “But not to the world. To the gods—to the keys.” To pay the price. To be their sacrifice in order to seal the keys in the gate at last.

A mark glowed on Aelin’s brow, heating her skin. The bastard mark of Brannon. The mark of the nameless. “Mala’s blood must be spent—your power must be spent. Every drop, of magic, of blood. You are the cost—to make a new Lock, and seal the keys into the gate. To make the Wyrdgate whole.”

But I sent you to Wendlyn for the healing. And so you would … find him. The one who had been waiting so long for you.” Aelin’s heart cracked. “Rowan.” Elena nodded. “He was a voice in the void, a secret, silent dreamer. And so were his companions. But the Fae Prince, he was …” Aelin reined in her sob. “I know. I’ve known for a long time.” “I wanted you to know that joy, too,” Elena whispered. “However briefly.” “I did,” Aelin managed to say. “Thank you.”

A wyvern. A wyvern with shimmering wings. And behind it, descending upon the Fae fleet with wicked delight, flew twelve others.

“How could they not, when so many of your pretty males are in my company?”

“The girl who Lorcan Salvaterre summoned me to save.” That ripple of Lorcan’s power the day Ansel’s fleet had closed in … She’d known it was a summoning. The same way she’d summoned the Valg to Skull’s Bay. She’d refused to immediately explain Ansel’s presence, wanting to enjoy the surprise of it, and he had summoned Maeve’s armada to take on what he’d believed to be an enemy fleet. To save Elide.

This was the queen to whom he’d given his heart? This cold creature who looked at the world with mirthless eyes? Who had killed those soldiers without a blink of hesitation? The queen whom Lorcan had summoned for her. He’d brought Maeve to save her— Elide’s breath turned sharp in her throat. He’d betrayed them. Betrayed Aelin for her—

“Oh, I have no interest in killing you,” Maeve purred.

But Maeve said, “I sever the blood oath with you, Gavriel. Without honor, without good faith. You are dismissed from my service and stripped of your title.”

“It was so easy to tug on the right psychic thread that day Rowan saw Lyria at the market. To shove him down that other path, to trick those instincts. A slight altering of fate.” “Oh, gods,” Fenrys breathed. Maeve said, “So your mate was given to another. And I let him fall in love, let him get her with child. And then I broke him. No one ever asked how those enemy forces came to pass by his mountain home.”

“If it’s any consolation, Aelin, you would have had a thousand years with Prince Rowan. Longer.”

“I will bear the keys in one hand, and Aelin Fire-Bringer in the other.”

“Tell the others,” Aelin breathed, trying to find the right words. “Tell the others that I am sorry. Tell Lysandra to remember her promise, and that I will never stop being grateful. Tell Aedion … Tell him it is not his fault, and that …” Her voice cracked. “I wish he’d been able to take the oath, but Terrasen will look to him now, and the lines must not break.”

“And tell Rowan,” Aelin said, fighting her own sob, “that I’m sorry I lied. But tell him it was all borrowed time anyway. Even before today, I knew it was all just borrowed time, but I still wish we’d had more of it.” She fought past her trembling mouth. “Tell him he has to fight. He must save Terrasen, and remember the vows he made to me. And tell him … tell him thank you—for walking that dark path with me back to the light.”

Maeve lowered the mask and drawled to Aelin, “Rumor claims you will bow to no one, Heir of Fire.” That serpentine smile. “Well, now you will bow to me.”

“Ten lashes, Cairn. Let Her Majesty have a taste of what to expect when we reach our destination, if she does not cooperate.”

“Why don’t you count for us, Aelin?” Aelin kept her mouth shut. “Count, or we’ll begin again with each stroke you miss. You decide how long this goes on for. Unless you’d rather Elide Lochan receive these strokes.”

Time—she was grateful Elena had given her that stolen time. Grateful she had met them all, that she had seen some small part of the world, had heard such lovely music, had danced and laughed and known true friendship. Grateful that she had found Rowan. She was grateful. So Aelin Galathynius dried her tears. And did not fight when Maeve strapped that beautiful iron mask over her face.

For her sanity, Manon prayed that Aelin wouldn’t be awake the entire time she was inside. And for the sake of their world, Manon prayed the Queen of Terrasen could survive it. If only so Aelin could then die for them all.

“Where is Aelin.” There was pure panic, too—pure panic as Whitethorn saw the blood, the scattered blades, and the shirt. “Where is Aelin.” What had he done, what had he done— Pain sliced Lorcan’s neck, warm blood dribbled down his throat, his chest. Rowan hissed, “Where is my wife?” Lorcan swayed where he knelt. Wife. Wife. “Oh, gods,” Elide sobbed as she overheard, the words carrying the sound of Lorcan’s own fractured heart. “Oh, gods …” And for the first time in centuries, Lorcan wept.

Rowan breathed, “Aelin would die to forge the new Lock to seal the keys into the gate—to banish Erawan. But no one would know. No one but us. Not while you wore her skin for the rest of your life.”

“I hope you spend the rest of your miserable, immortal life suffering. I hope you spend it alone. I hope you live with regret and guilt in your heart and never find a way to endure it.”

“Five centuries of pure-blooded Ironteeth couldn’t bring us home. Maybe you can.” A child not of war … but of peace. “And will you follow me?” Manon asked them quietly. “To do what needs to be done before we can return to the Wastes?”