Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

But they’d left small gifts just outside the border of Rowan’s nightly shields, somehow deposited without alerting whichever of them was on watch.

One morning, it had been a crown of forest violets. Aelin had given it to Evangeline, who had worn the crown on her red-gold head until it fell apart.

The next morning, two crowns waited: one for Aelin, and a smaller one...

Another day, the Little Folk left a replica of Rowan’s hawk form, crafted from gathered sparrow feathers, acorns, and beetle husks. Her Fae Prince had smiled a bit when he’d...

Aelin splayed her fingers over the stream, letting her heart become as still as a sun-warmed forest pool, letting her mind shake free of its normal boundaries. A ribbon of water fluttered up from the stream, gray and clear, and she wended it through her spread fingers as if she were threading a loom.

“Better to go into the city with established allies than to enter not knowing what you might find,” Rowan said at last. He gave her a wry smile and aimed a pointed look at Goldryn, sheathed across her back, and the various knives strapped to her. “And besides: I thought ‘cloak-and-dagger’ was your middle name.”

She offered him a vulgar gesture in return.

No matter that Aelin was the bearer of a weapon capable of wiping out this entire valley, along with the gray Staghorn Mountains watching over it. And that was just her magic.

“What is he waiting for? Are we fools for expecting an invitation to march on him? Or is he letting us gather our strength, letting me return with Aedion to get the Bane and raise a larger army around it, only so he can savor our utter despair when we fail?”

“You trust nothing.” She met his eyes. “I trust you.”

So new—this thing between them was still so new, so … raw. Utterly consuming. The desire was only the start of it.

Rowan made her magic sing. And maybe that was the carranam bond between them, but … her magic wanted to dance with his. And from the frost sparkling in his eyes, she knew his own demanded the same.

Because her safety always would come first. For him, keeping her protected, keeping her alive, would always come first. He’d learned it the hard way.

She’d been in love with him for a while now. Longer than she wanted to admit.

“Fireheart,” he said onto her mouth. “Buzzard,” she murmured onto his.

Rowan laughed again—and Aelin thought she might never get sick of it, that laugh. That smile.

Her family—and her kingdom. Two dreams long believed lost, she realized as the northern wind ruffled her hair. That she would do anything—ruin herself, sell herself—to protect.

She cleared the stream in one bound and carefully studied what the faerie had left. Fashioned with twigs, cobwebs, and fish scales, the tiny wyvern was unnervingly accurate, its wings spread wide and thorn-fanged mouth roaring.

And Aelin Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen, knew the time would soon come to prove just how much she’d bleed for Erilea.

Aedion’s messengers had already confirmed that most people now knew the King of Adarlan had wielded his dark powers to repress magic these last ten years. But even so, he doubted those who had suffered its loss, then the extermination of their kind, would comfortably reveal their powers anytime soon.

Even before magic had vanished, there had been one kind feared above all others, its bearers pariahs at best, dead at worst. Courts in every land had sought them as spies and assassins for centuries. But his court— A delighted, throaty purr rumbled through their little camp, and Aedion shifted his stare to the subject of his thoughts.

It had taken him days to get used to the ghost leopard form. Years in the Staghorns had drilled the gut-level terror into him. But there was Lysandra, claws retracted, sprawled on her belly as her ward groomed her. Spy and assassin indeed.

A smile tugged on his lips at the pale green eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. That’d be a fine sight for the lords to see when they arrived.

The shape-shifter had used these weeks of travel to try out new forms: birds, beasts, insects that had a tendency to buzz in his ear or bite him. Rarely—so rarely—had Lysandra taken the human form he’d met her in. Given all that had been done to her and all...

More than that, he often wondered what it felt like to be able to change bone and skin and color—though he hadn’t asked. Mostly because Lysandra hadn’t been in human form long enough to do so.

“You could use a haircut,” she said. Indeed, his hair had grown longer than he usually kept it. “It’s almost the same length as mine.” She frowned. “It makes us look like we coordinated it.”

“Murtaugh was a farmer’s son, but married Ren’s grandmother. Though he wasn’t born into the Allsbrook line, he still commands the seat, despite his insistence that Ren take up the title.”

“Darrow is the wealthiest landowner after yours truly, and more than that, he holds sway over the few surviving lords, mostly through his years of carefully handling Adarlan during the occupation.”

“Darrow was your uncle’s lover,” he added, stretching his legs out before him. “For decades. He’s never spoken once to me about your uncle, but … they were very close, Aelin. Darrow didn’t publicly mourn Orlon beyond what was required after the passing of a king, but he became a different man afterward. He’s a hard bastard now, but still a fair one. Much of what he’s done has been out of his unfading love for Orlon—and for Terrasen. His own maneuvering kept us from becoming completely starved and destitute. Remember that.” Indeed, Darrow had long straddled a line between serving the King of Adarlan and undermining him.

Manon’s senses honed to a killing calm the moment she laid eyes on the ebony glass table and who stood at it. Vernon: tall, lanky, ever-smirking, clad in Terrasen green. And a golden-haired man, his skin pale as ivory. No sign of the duke.

Not at the man’s beauty, not at the strength in his sculpted body or the fine black clothes he wore. But at those gold eyes. Twin to Manon’s. The eyes of the Valg kings.

The voice was carnal and lovely and cruel. But the tone, the demand in it … Something in Vernon’s smirk now seemed too strained, his tan skin too pale.

“I grew tired of wearing that sagging meat,” he said, sliding with feline grace into the chair beside Vernon. A wave of long, powerful fingers. “My enemies know who I am. My allies might as well, too.”

“My Lord Erawan, if it would please you, allow me to fetch the Matron refreshments. Her journey has been long.” Manon assessed the tall, reedy man. Two gifts he had offered them: respect to her grandmother, and the knowledge of the duke’s true name. Erawan.

Respect—something Vernon had not once offered without a mocking grin. But now … Perhaps now that the Lord of Perranth realized what manner of monster held his leash, he was desperate for allies. Knew, perhaps, that Manon … that Manon might have indeed been part of that explosion.

“What of the prince?” King. King Dorian. Her grandmother shot her a look, but the demon said, “I want you to personally bring him to me. If he survives the attack.” And with the fiery queen now gone, Dorian Havilliard and his city were defenseless. It mattered little to her. It was war.

… open battle. She could already hear its wild song in her blood.

“Once the capital is secured, I want those boats on the Avery.” “The men of the Silver Lake have agreed?”

Manon followed the Matron’s stare to the Silver Lake, at the other end of the Avery, and to its city, nestled against the White Fangs: Anielle.

“Their Keep along the Western Falls of the lake still bears scars from the last time my armies marched. I have seen the countless monuments in Anielle to that war—its lord will know how easily I can again turn his city into a charnel house.”

“Bellhaven remains under my control—its lords and merchants love their gold too much. Melisande …”

“Eyllwe lies shattered beneath her, Fenharrow in barren shambles to the east. It remains in Melisande’s best interest to continue allying her forces with my own, especially when Terrasen hasn’t a copper to its name.”

“Aelin Galathynius will have reached her seat by now. And when Rifthold is gone, she will also find how very alone she is in the North. Brannon’s heir has no allies on this continent. Not anymore.” But Manon noted the way...

“Last I looked, Manon Blackbeak, it was my legion.”

“Turn Rifthold into a complete ruin,” she said flatly, “and rulers like the Lord of Anielle or the Queen of Melisande or the Lords of Fenharrow might very well find it worth the risk to rally against you. If you wreck your own capital, why should they believe your claims of alliance? Send a decree ahead of us that the king, the queen are enemies to the continent. Establish us as liberators of Rifthold, not conquerors, and you will have the other rulers thinking twice before allying with Terrasen. I will sack the city for you enough to display our might—but keep the Ironteeth host from leaving it in rubble.”

She didn’t care about the city, its people. But this war could indeed turn against them if the annihilation of Rifthold united their scattered enemies. And delay the Blackbeaks that much more from returning to the Wastes.

“The Wing Leader has a point, milord.” What did Vernon know that she didn’t?

“That is why you are my Wing Leader, Manon Blackbeak, and why Iskra Yellowlegs did not win the position.”

“There is a glass wall in Rifthold. Impossible to miss.” She knew it—had perched atop it. “Damage the city enough to instill fear, show our power. But that wall … Bring it down.” She only said, “Why?”

“Because destroying a symbol can break the spirits of men as much as bloodshed.”