Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

It was Ombriel, a long-sword out—and gripped in a way that told him she knew how to wield it.

Lorcan lashed out with his power and could have sworn the young man had gratitude in his eyes as death kissed him in greeting.

“Her name is Elide Lochan. Her uncle is Lord of Perranth. He will reward you handsomely to turn her over.”

The words hit Lorcan like stones. Marion—Elide had … lied. Had managed to keep him from even sniffing the lie on her, had used enough truths and her own general fear to keep the scent of it hidden—

She listened again, praying to Anneith to turn the ilken’s attention elsewhere.

“But you didn’t tell me the truth, did you, Elide?”

Liar. Cunning little liar. Elide Lochan, rightful Lady of Perranth, crawled out, slamming the trapdoor shut and glaring at him from where she knelt on the floor.

Elide Lochan wasn’t some mere human trying to return to her homeland and serve her queen. She was a royal-blooded lady who wanted to get back to that fire-breathing bitch in the North to offer whatever aid she could. She and Aelin would be well suited for each other, he decided. The sweet-faced liar and the insufferable, haughty princess.

“It does make a difference who you are. With your queen on the move, your uncle knows she’d pay a steep price to get you back. You are not a mere breeding asset—you are a negotiation tool. You might very well be what brings that bitch to her knees.”

“You keep plenty of secrets, too, Lorcan.”

“And I still haven’t been able to decide if I find it insulting or amusing that you think I’m too stupid to notice. That you thought I was some fear-addled girl, too grateful for the presence of such a strong, brooding warrior to even question why y...

I gave you exactly what you wanted to see: a lost young woman in need of help, perhaps a bit skilled at lying and deceit, but ultimately not worth more than a few seconds’ consideration. And you, in all your immortal arrogance, didn’t think twice. Why should you, when humans are so useless? Why should you...

“If you try to bring me to Morath, I will end my own life before you can carry me over the Keep’s bridge.”

It was the threat, the promise, that checked his anger, his utter rage that … that she had indeed played into his expectations of her, his arrogance and prejudices.

“It’s a gift—for Celaena Sardothien. From a woman kept imprisoned in Morath, who had waited a long time to repay her for a past kindness. More than that, I don’t know.” A gift for an assassin—not the queen. Perhaps nothing of note, but—

But he knew … some small, stupid part of him knew that if he took from this woman who had already had too much stolen from her … He didn’t know if there was any coming back from that.

He’d done such despicable, vicious things over the centuries and hadn’t thought twice. He’d reveled in them, relished them, the cruelty. But this … there was a line. Somehow … somehow there was a gods-damned line here.

“Marion was my mother’s name. She died defending Aelin Galathynius from her assassin. My mother bought Aelin time to run—to get away so she could one day return to save us all. My uncle, Vernon, watched and smiled as my father, the Lord of Perranth, was executed outside our castle. Then he took my father’s title and lands and home. And for the next ten years, my uncle locked me in the highest tower of Perranth Castle, with only my nursemaid for company.

When I broke my foot and ankle, he did not trust healers enough to let them treat it. He kept bars on the tower windows to keep me from killing myself, and shackled my ankles to keep me from running. I left for the first time in a decade when he shoved me into a prison wagon and dragged me down to Morath. There, he made me work as a servant—for the humiliation and terror he delights in. I planned and dreamed of escaping every day. And when the time came … I took my chance.

I have no lands, no money, no army to offer Aelin Galathynius. But I will find her—and help her in whatever way I can. If only to keep just one girl, just one, from ever enduring what I did.”

Lorcan said roughly, “I am over five hundred years old. I am blood-sworn to Queen Maeve of the Fae, and I am her second-in-command. I have done great and terrible things in her name, and I will do more before death comes to claim me.

I was born a bastard on the streets of Doranelle, ran wild with the other discarded children until I realized my talents were different. Maeve noticed, too. I can kill faster—I can sense when death is near. I think my magic is death, given to me by Hellas himself.

Vaughan was barely around;

Elide angled her head, her hair sliding across her face. He almost lifted a hand to brush it back and read her dark eyes. But his hands were covered in that filthy blood. And he had the feeling Elide Lochan did not wish to be touched unless she asked to be.

No family, no friends. It hadn’t seemed quite so pathetic until she said it, until he suddenly saw himself through her eyes.

“Your fussy nursemaid of a wyvern is fine, by the way. I don’t know how you wound up with a sweet thing like that for a mount, but he’s content to sprawl in the sun on the foredeck.

Find somewhere safe, she’d told Abraxos. Had he somehow found the queen? Somehow known this was the only place she might stand a chance of surviving?

Right—because the other parts … Fae, Valg … It was Valg blood that had shaped the witches.

It’d be a shame to lose the most beautiful woman in the world so soon into her immortal, wicked life.” “I am not a woman,” was all she said. But hot temper laced those molten gold eyes.

“Believe it or not, this ship has an unnatural number of attractive men and women on board. You’ll fit right in. And fit in with the cranky immortals, I suppose.”

“And the Queen of Terrasen is your friend?” “There is no one else I’d want guarding my back.” Other than Chaol, but … it was no use even thinking about him, missing him.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, “if the cost of saving me that day in Rifthold was … was this.”

“Find out if my Thirteen are alive, princeling. Do that, and I am yours to command.”

“The cost of Rifthold was the life of my Second. I refused to pay it. So I bought my Thirteen time to run. The moment I swung my sword at my grandmother, my title, my legion, was forfeit. I lost the Thirteen while I fled.

“Find them for me. Learn if they live or if they have returned to the Darkness.”

“Then I suppose you and I are both heirs without crowns.”

“Just tell Aelin Galathynius that Elide Lochan is alive—and looking for her.”

And her parents … murdered by her grandmother. They had promised the world a child of peace. And she had let her grandmother hone her into a child of war.

Often, the dream was that a great cat, pale and speckled like old snow on granite, sat in the cabin with her, its long tail slashing back and forth when it noticed her glazed attention. Sometimes, it was a grinning white wolf. Or a calm-eyed golden mountain lion.

Long-legged river birds hauled themselves into flight.

“Celaena Sardothien is a nineteen-year-old assassin—who calls herself the best in the world.” A snort. “She killed and reveled and shopped her way through life and never once apologized for it. She gloried in it. And then this spring, one of my sentinels, Prince Rowan Whitethorn, was tasked to deal with her when she washed up on Wendlyn’s shores. Turns out, he fell in love with her instead, and she with him. Turns out, whatever they were doing up in the Cambrian Mountains got her to stop calling herself Celaena and start going by her true name again.” A brutal smile. “Aelin Galathynius.”

“Your fire-breathing queen? She’s a gods-damned assassin. Trained to be a killer from the moment your mother died defending her. Trained to be no better than the man who butchered your mother and your royal family.”

“Your little queen,” Lorcan sneered, “is a murderer, and a thief, and a liar. So if you’re going to call me such things, then be prepared to fling them at her, too.”

“I was wrong. I said you and I were the same—that we had no family, no friends. But I have none because land and circumstance separate me from them. You have none because no one can stomach being around you.”

“And you know what is the biggest lie you tell everyone, Lorcan? It’s that you prefer it that way. But what I hear, when you rant about my bitch-queen? All I hear are the words of someone who is deeply, deeply jealous, and lonely, and pathetic. All I hear are the words of someone who saw Aelin and Prince Rowan fall in love and resented them for their happiness—because you are so unhappy.”

“So call Aelin a murderer and a thief and a liar. Call her a bitch-queen and a fire-breather. But forgive me if I take it upon myself to be the judge of those things when I meet her. Which I will do.”

“Turns out, I now have business with Aelin Galathynius, too. Congratulations, Lady. You just got yourself a guide to Eyllwe.”

Lorcan’s eyes at last found her own, and his voice was a midnight growl as he said, “As far as anyone’s concerned, you’re still my wife.”

There’d been nothing inside the amulet but one of those rings—an utterly useless Wyrdstone ring, wrapped in a bit of parchment. And on it was written in a feminine scrawl: Here’s hoping you discover more creative terms than “bitch” to call me when you find this. With all my love, A.A.G.

And Elide—what Elide carried, what had made him realize it … He’d think about that later. Contemplate what to do with the Lady of Perranth later.