Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass, #5)

by Sarah J. Maas

Hand trembling, Asterin pressed her fingers to her brow and extended them. “Bring our people ...

Manon met Sorrel’s eyes, then Asterin’s. And Manon gave the Thirteen her final order. “Run.” Then Manon Blackbeak whirled and brought Wind-Cleaver down upon her grandmother.

But Asterin was roaring; roaring and shouting to stop. The cries grew more distant, then echoed, as if she were now inside the hall, being dragged away.

“We do this the ancient way.” Manon’s stomach roiled, but she sheathed her sword.

Manon had never seen her grandmother fight, never trained with her. And some small part of Manon wondered if it was because her grandmother did not want others to know how skilled she was.

“So much easier with a blade, the weapon of those cowardly humans,” her grandmother seethed. “With the teeth, the nails … You have to mean it.”

“As pathetic as your mother,” her grandmother spat. “Perhaps you’ll die like her, too—with my teeth at your throat.”

“For years, I tried to train her weakness out of you.” Her grandmother spat blue blood onto the stones. “For the good of the Ironteeth, I made you into a force of nature, a warrior equal to none. And this is how you repay me—”

High above, a wyvern roared. Abraxos.

“You are stripped of your title as Wing Leader. You are stripped of your title as heir.” Step after step, closer and closer, an adder looping around its prey. “From this day, you are Manon Witch Killer, Manon Kin Slayer.”

The kick to Manon’s stomach set her screaming, a roar again answered by Abraxos, locked high above. Soon to die, as she would. She prayed the Thirteen would spare him, let him join them wherever they would flee.

“As your mother labored to push you out, she confessed who your father was. She said you … you would be the one who broke the curse, who saved us. She said your father was a rare-born Crochan Prince. And she said that your mixed blood would be the key.”

“So you have been a Kin Slayer your whole life,” her grandmother purred. “Hunting down those Crochans—your relatives. When you were a witchling, your father searched the lands for you. He never stopped loving your mother. Loving her,” she spat. “And loving you. So I killed him.”

“His despair was delicious when I told him what I’d done to her. What I would make you into. Not a child of peace—but war.” Made. Made. Made.

“Do you know why that Crochan was spying in the Ferian Gap this spring? She had been sent to find you. After a hundred and sixteen years of searching, they had finally learned the identity of their dead prince’s lost child.”

“Her name was Rhiannon, after the last Crochan Queen. And she was your half sister. She confessed it to me upon our tables. She thought it’d save her life. And when she saw what you had become, she chose to let the knowledge die with her.”

“You are a Crochan. The last of their royal bloodline with the death of your sister at your own hand. You are a Crochan Queen.”

Edda and Briar, her Shadows, were now flanking her. She knew they’d been there, waiting in the shadows with their wyverns, had heard every one of those damning last words.

She breathed to Abraxos, “Let’s make it a final stand worthy of song.” He bellowed in answer.

Manon panted through her bloody teeth, “Fly, Abraxos.” And her gentle, warrior-hearted mount flew.

“To the very end, Abraxos,” she said. His roar was his only confirmation.

She had not asked him the questions that seemed to matter the most, letting him think her a foolish girl, blinded by gratitude that he had saved her.

He’d quickly forgotten that though he’d carried her out, she’d saved herself. And he’d accepted her name—her mother’s name—without question. If Vernon was on her trail … It had been a fool’s mistake, but there was no undoing it, not without raising Lorcan’s suspicions.

Like why he’d been hunting her. Or who his mistress was to command such a powerful warrior—why he wanted to get into Morath, why he kept touching some object beneath his dark jacket. And why he had looked so surprised—though he’d tried to hide ...

“I can’t remember,” she murmured, the words barely audible over the roaring song of the river, “the last time I saw …” In Perranth, locked in that tower, she’d only had a view of the city, perhaps the lake if the day was clear enough. Then she’d been in that prison wagon, then in Morath, where it was only mountains and ash and armies. And during the flight with Manon and Abraxos, she had been too lost in terror and grief to notice anything at all. But now … She could not remember the last time she’d seen sunlight dancing on a meadow, or little brown birds bobbing and swooping on the warm breeze over it.

“Tie back your hair. You’ll look less …” She trailed off at the faint amusement tinged with warning in his eyes. “Savage,” she made herself say, dangling the leather strap between them.

Men would see what they wanted to: a pretty young woman who did not bristle at their attention, who spoke kindly and warmly. Someone trustworthy, someone sweet yet unremarkable.

“I don’t know what magic you possess, but if you can make my limp less noticeable—” Before she could finish, a force like a cool night wind pushed against her ankle and calf, then wrapped around it in a solid grip. A brace. Her steps evened out, and she had to bite back her urge to gawk at the feeling of walking straight and sure. She didn’t allow herself to enjoy it, savor it, not when it would likely only last until they cleared the bridge.

“I don’t have any money,” she murmured as they approached the pale wooden door. Lie. She had gold and silver from Manon. But she wasn’t about to flash it in front of Lorcan, promise or no.

by the time her eyes adjusted to the glow of the wrought-iron chandeliers, Lorcan’s face had changed. His eyes might never be warm, but a bland smile was on his face, his shoulders relaxed—as if he were slightly inconvenienced by the wait but eager for a good meal. He almost looked human.

Elide wondered for a heartbeat if Anneith herself had nudged that other couple to move away—to free up this one table for them. For that very look.

“Husband,” she said sweetly, wriggling her fingers. Lorcan’s mouth tightened, but he took her hand—her fingers dwarfed in his.

His calluses scraped against her own. He noticed it at the same moment she did, sliding his hand to cup hers so he might inspect her palm. She closed her hand, rotating it to grip his again.

“Men will not fear the threat of a brother. I would still be unclaimed—still be open for … invitations. I have seen how little respect men have for anything they think they are entitled to. So you are my husband,” she hissed, “until I say otherwise.”

Anneith must have freed this table, then. Her plan had been to find a troupe or carnival to fall into, disguise themselves as workers, and this …

She took a sip of her stew, steeling herself, thinking of Asterin Blackbeak. Charming, confident, fearless. She’d always had her head at a jaunty angle, a looseness to her limbs, a hint of a smile on her lips. Elide took a breath, letting those memories sink into muscle and flesh and bone.

my husband”—a gesture to Lorcan, who was giving his best attempt at an easy smile—“is an expert sword-thrower. And in our previous troupe, he made good coin matching himself against men who sought to best him in feats of strength.”

“I worked as a fortune-teller—they called me their oracle.” A shrug. “Mostly just shadows and guesswork.” It’d have to be, considering the little fact that she couldn’t read.

“You have no money, do you?” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Looks like I was mistaken.” A flash of white teeth as he smiled—genuinely this time.

He was over five hundred years old—and this … this girl, young woman, she-devil, whatever she was, had just bluffed and lied her way into a job. A sword-thrower indeed.

A number of men, and some women, had noticed Marion when she strode by.

The sweet face paired with sinful curves—and without the limp, with her hair out of her face … She knew exactly what she was doing. Knew people would notice those things, think about those things, instead of the cunning mind and lies she fed them.

It had been a shock, earlier, to feel how rough those delicate hands were. Not just a prisoner in Morath—but a slave.

The calluses were old and dense enough that she’d likely worked for years. Hard labor, from the looks of it—and with that ruined leg …

Even with his lovers, outside the bed itself, he didn’t like casual, careless contact. Some found that intolerable. Some thought they could break him into a decent male who just wanted a home and a good female to work beside him. Not one of them had succeeded.

“Ah,” Marion chimed in, “but isn’t it? A life of open skies and roads, of wandering where the wind takes you, answering to no one and nothing? A life of freedom …” She shook her head. “What more could I ask than to live a life unchecked by cages?” Lorcan knew the words were no lie. He had seen her face when they beheld the grassy plain.

“I want to see life—see the world,” Marion said, her voice softening. “I want to see everything.”

Not shaking from fear, he realized as he caught a whiff of her scent. A slight tang of it, perhaps, but mostly something red-hot, something wild and raging and— Anger. It was boiling rage that made her shake. At the inspection, at the leering of the guards.

An idealist—that’s what Marion was. Someone who wanted to fight for her queen, who believed, as Nik did, that this world could be better.

Lorcan had seen the worst and best in men for five hundred years. There was no such thing as a better world—no such thing as a happy end. Because there were no endings. And there would be nothing waiting for them in this war, nothing waiting for an escaped slave girl, but a shallow grave.