Empire of Storms

by Sarah J. Maas

  But still a face he’d hated, sneered at, debated cutting into tiny pieces for many, many years. A face he’d seen drunk out of his mind at parties mere seasons ago; a face he’d seen buried against the necks of women whose names he’d never bothered to learn; a face that had taunted him in that dungeon cell.

  That face was now hooded, and for all the world, he looked like he was here to inquire about Lysandra’s services—once Aedion had finished with her. The general clenched his teeth. “What?”

  Dorian looked over Lysandra, as if surveying the goods, and Aedion fought the urge to bristle. “Rowan sent me to see if you had any developments.” The prince and Aelin were back at the inn, drinking in the dining room—where all of Rolfe’s spying eyes might see and report them. Dorian blinked at the shifter, starting. “And gods above—you really can take on any human form.”

  Lysandra shrugged, the irreverent street whore debating her rate. “It’s not as interesting as you’d think. I’d like to see if I could become a plant. Or a bit of wind.”

  “Can you … do that?”

  “Of course she can,” Aedion said, pushing off the wall and crossing his arms.

  “No,” Lysandra said, cutting a glare in Aedion’s direction. “And there’s nothing to report. Not even a whiff of Rolfe or his men.”

  Dorian nodded, sliding his hands into his pockets. Silence.

  Aedion’s ankle barked in pain as Lysandra subtly kicked him.

  He reined in his scowl as he said to the king, “So, you and Whitethorn didn’t kill each other.”

  Dorian’s brows scrunched. “He saved my life, nearly got himself burned out to do it. Why should I be anything but grateful?” Lysandra gave Aedion a smug smile.

  But the king asked him, “Are you going to see your father?”

  Aedion cringed. He’d been glad for their venture tonight to avoid deciding. Aelin hadn’t brought it up, and he had been content to come out here, even if it put him at risk of running into the male.

  “Of course I’ll see him,” Aedion said tightly. Lysandra’s moon-white face was calm, steady as she watched him, the face of a woman trained to listen to men, to never show surprise—

  He did not resent what she had been, what she portrayed now, only the monsters who had seen the beauty the child would grow into and taken her into that brothel. Aelin had told him what Arobynn had done to the man she’d loved. It was a miracle the shifter could smile at all.

  Aedion jerked his chin at Dorian. “Go tell Aelin and Rowan we don’t need their hovering. We can manage on our own.”

  Dorian stiffened, but backed down the alley, no more than a disgruntled would-be customer.

  Lysandra shoved a hand against Aedion’s chest and hissed, “That man has endured enough, Aedion. A little kindness wouldn’t kill you.”

  “He stabbed Aelin. If you knew him as I have, you wouldn’t be so willing to fawn over—”

  “No one expects you to fawn over him. But a kind word, some respect—”

  He rolled his eyes. “Keep your voice down.”

  She did—but went on, “He was enslaved; he was tortured for months. Not just by his father, but by that thing inside of him. He was violated, and even if you cannot draw up forgiveness for stabbing Aelin against his own will, then try to have some compassion for that.” Aedion’s heart stuttered at the anger and pain on her face. And that word she’d used—

  He swallowed hard, checking the street behind them. No sign of anyone hunting for the treasure they bore. “I knew Dorian as a reckless, arrogant—”

  “I knew your queen as the same. We were children then. We are allowed to make mistakes, to figure out who we wish to be. If you will allow Aelin the gift of your acceptance—”

  “I don’t care if he was as arrogant and vain as Aelin, I don’t care if he was enslaved to a demon that took his mind. I look at him and see my family butchered, see those tracks to the river, and hear Quinn tell me that Aelin was drowned and dead.” His breathing was uneven, and his throat burned, but he ignored it.

  Lysandra said, “Aelin forgave him. Aelin never once held it against him.”

  Aedion snarled at her. Lysandra snarled right back and held his stare with the face not trained or built for bedrooms, but the true one beneath—wild and unbroken and indomitable. No matter what body she wore, she was the Staghorns given form, the heart of Oakwald.

  Aedion said hoarsely, “I’ll try.”

  “Try harder. Try better.”

  Aedion braced his palm against the wall again and leaned in to glower in her face. She did not yield an inch. “There is an order and rank in our court, lady, and last I checked, you were not number three. You don’t give me commands.”

  “This isn’t a battlefield,” Lysandra hissed. “Any ranks are formalities. And the last I checked…” She poked his chest, right between his pectorals, and he could have sworn the tip of a claw pierced the skin beneath his clothes. “You weren’t pathetic enough to enforce rank to hide from being in the wrong.”

  His blood sparked and thrummed. Aedion found himself taking in the sensuous curves of her mouth, now pressed thin with anger.

  The hot temper in her eyes faded, and as she retracted her finger as if she’d been burned, he froze at the panic that filled her features instead. Shit. Shit—

  Lysandra backed away a step, too casual to be anything but a calculated move. But Aedion tried—for her sake, he tried to stop thinking about her mouth—

  “You truly want to meet your father?” she asked calmly. Too calmly.

  He nodded, swallowing hard. Too soon—she wouldn’t want a man’s touch for a long time. Maybe forever. And he’d be damned if he pushed her into it before she wanted to. And gods above, if Lysandra ever looked at any man with interest like that … he’d be glad for her. Glad she was choosing for herself, even if it wasn’t him she picked—

  “I…” Aedion swallowed, forcing himself to remember what she’d asked. His father. Right. “Did he want to see me?” was all he could think to ask.

  She cocked her head to the side, the movement so feline he wondered if she was spending too much time in that ghost leopard’s fur. “He nearly bit Aelin’s head off when she refused to tell him where and who you are.” Ice filled his veins. If his father had been rude to her—“But I got the sense,” Lysandra quickly clarified as he tensed, “that he is the sort of male who would respect your wishes if you chose not to see him. Yet in this small town, with the company we’re keeping … that might prove impossible.”

  “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 quietl
y, “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.

  With the sodden earth, sleeping on it was nearly impossible. So the women laid out wherever they could in the two wagons, leaving the men to draw straws each night for who would get any remaining space and who would sleep on the ground atop a makeshift floor of reeds. Lorcan, somehow, always got the short straw, either by his own devices, sleight of hand from Nik, who ran security and the nightly straw-drawing, or simply from sheer bad luck.

  But at least it kept Lorcan far, far away from her, and kept their interactions to a minimum.

  Those few conversations they’d had—held when he escorted her to draw water from a swollen stream or gather whatever firewood could be found on the plain—weren’t much to bother her, either. He pressed her for more details regarding Morath, more information about the guards’ clothes, the armies camped around it, the servants and witches.

  She’d started at the top of the Keep—with the aeries and wyverns and witches. Then she’d descended, floor by floor. It had taken them these two weeks to work their way down to the sublevels, and their companions had no idea that while the young, married couple snuck off for more “firewood,” whispering sweet nothings was the last thing on their minds.

  When the caravan stopped that night, Elide aimed for a copse of trees in the heart of the field to see what could be used at their large campfire. Lorcan trailed at her side, as quiet as the hissing grasses around them. The nickering of the horses and clamor of their companions readying for the evening meal faded behind, and Elide frowned as her boot sank deep into a pocket of mud. She yanked on it, ankle barking at bearing her weight, and gritted her teeth until—

  Lorcan’s magic pushed against her leg, an invisible hand freeing her boot, and she tumbled into him. His arm and side were as hard and unyielding as the magic he’d used, and she rebounded away, tall grass crunching beneath her. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Lorcan stalked ahead and said without looking back, “We finished at the three dungeons and their entrances yesterday night. Tell me about what’s inside them.”

  Her mouth went a bit dry as she recalled the cell she’d squatted in, the darkness and tight air…

  “I don’t know what’s inside,” she lied, following him. “Suffering people, no doubt.”

  Lorcan stooped, his dark head disappearing beneath a wave of grass. When he emerged, two sticks were gripped in his massive hands. He snapped them with little effort. “You described everything else with no problem. Yet your scent changed just now. Why?”

  She strode past him, bending over and over to collect whatever scattered wood she could find. “They did horrible things down there,” she said over a shoulder. “You could sometimes hear people screaming.” She prayed Terrasen would be better. It had to be.

  “Who did they keep down there? Enemy soldiers?” Potential allies, no doubt, for whatever he planned to do.

  “Whoever they wanted to torture.” The hands of those guards, their sneers— “I assume you’re going to leave as soon as I finish describing the last pit of Morath?” She plucked up stick after stick, ankle objecting with each shift in her balance.

  “Is there a problem if I do? That was our bargain. I’ve stayed longer than I intended.”

  She turned, finding him with an armful of larger sticks. He unceremoniously dumped them into the small pile in her arms and thumbed free the hatchet at his side before prowling to the curving, fallen branch behind him. “So, am I just to play the abandoned wife, then?”

  “You’re already playing the oracle, so what difference does another role make?” Lorcan brought his hatchet down upon the branch with a solid thwack! The blade sank unnervingly deep; wood groaned. “Describe the dungeons.”

  It was only fair, and it had been their bargain, after all: his protection and help to get her out of harm’s way, in exchange for what she knew. And he’d been complacent in all the lies she’d spun to their company—quiet, but he’d gone along with it.

  “The dungeons are gone,” Elide managed to say. “Or most of them should be. Along with the catacombs.”

  Thwack, thwack, thwack. Lorcan severed the branch, the wood yielding with a splintering cry. He set to cutting another section apart. “Taken
out in that blast?” He lifted his axe, the muscles in his powerful back shifting beneath his dark shirt, but paused. “You said you were near the courtyard when the blast happened—how do you know the dungeons are gone?”

  Fine. She had lied about it. But … “The explosion came from the catacombs and took out some of the towers. One would assume the dungeons would be in its path, too.”

  “I don’t make plans based on assumptions.” He resumed hacking apart the branch, and Elide rolled her eyes at his back. “Tell me the layout of the northern dungeon.”

  Elide turned toward the sinking sun staining the fields with orange and gold beyond them. “Figure it out yourself.”

  The thud of metal on wood halted. Even the wind in the grasses died down.

  But she had endured death and despair and terror, and she had told him enough—turned over every horrible stone, looked around every dark corner at Morath for him. His rudeness, his arrogance … He could go to hell.

  She had barely set one foot into the swaying grasses when Lorcan was before her, no more than a lethal shadow himself. Even the sun seemed to avoid the broad planes of his tan face, though the wind dared ruffle the silken black strands of his hair across it.

  “We have a bargain, girl.”

  Elide met that depthless gaze. “You did not specify when I had to tell you. So I may take as much time as I wish to recall details, if you desire to wring every last one of them from me.”

  His teeth flashed. “Do not toy with me.”

  “Or what?” She stepped around him as if he were no more than a rock in a stream. Of course, walking with temper was a bit difficult when every other step was limping, but she kept her chin high. “Kill me, hurt me, and you’ll still be out of answers.”

  Faster than she could see, his arm lashed out—gripping her by the elbow. “Marion,” he growled.

  That name. She looked up at his harsh, wild face—a face born in a different age, a different world. “Take your hand off me.”