Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass)

by Sarah J. Maas

  “There is no one else.”

  Again, her eyes went to the map on his table. “You once said I would pay for my arrogance. And I did. Many times. But Sam and I took on your entire city and fleet and destroyed it. All for two hundred lives you deemed less than human. So perhaps I’ve been underestimating myself. Perhaps I do not need you after all.”

  She turned again, and Rolfe sneered, “Did Sam die still pining after you, or did you finally stop treating him like filth?”

  There was a choking sound, and a slam and rattle of glasses. She looked slowly to find Rowan with his hand around Rolfe’s neck, the captain pressed onto the map, the figures scattered everywhere, Rowan’s snarling teeth close to ripping off Rolfe’s ear.

  Fenrys smirked a bit. “I told you to choose your words carefully, Rolfe.”

  Aedion seemed to be doing his best to ignore his father as he said to the captain, “Nice to meet you.” Then he strolled toward where Aelin, Dorian, and Lysandra waited by the door.

  Rowan leaned in, murmuring something in Rolfe’s ear that made him blanch, then shoved him a bit harder into the table before stalking for Aelin.

  Rolfe set his hands on the table, pushing up to bark some surely stupid words at them, but went rigid. As if some pulse thrashed through his body.

  He turned his hands over, fitting the edges of his palms together.

  His eyes lifted—but not to her. To the windows.

  To the bells that had begun ringing in the twin watchtowers flanking the mouth of the bay.

  The frantic pealing set the streets beyond them halting, silencing.

  Each bleat’s meaning was clear enough.

  Rolfe’s face went pale.

  Aelin watched as black—darker than the ink that had been etched there—spread across his fingers, to his palms. Black such as only the Valg could bring.

  Oh, there was no doubt now that the map worked.

  She said to her companions, “We leave. Now.”

  Rolfe was already storming toward her—toward the door. He said nothing as he flung it open, striding onto the quay, where his first mate and quartermaster were already sprinting for him.

  Aelin shut the door behind Rolfe and surveyed her friends. And the cadre.

  It was Fenrys who spoke first, rising to his feet and watching through the window as Rolfe and his men rushed about. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  Dorian said quietly, “If that force reaches this town, these people—”

  “It won’t,” Aelin said, meeting Rowan’s stare. Pine-green eyes held her own.

  Show them why you’re my blood-sworn, she silently told him.

  A hint of a wicked smile. Rowan turned to them. “Let’s go.”

  “Go,” Fenrys blurted, pointing to the window. “Where?”

  “There’s a boat,” Aedion said, “anchored on the other side of the island.” He inclined his head toward Lysandra. “You’d think they’d notice a skiff being tugged out to sea by a shark last night, but—”

  The door banged open, and Rolfe’s towering figure filled it. “You.”

  Aelin put a hand on her chest. “Me?”

  “You sent that magic out there; you summoned them.”

  She barked a laugh, pushing off the table. “If I ever learn such a useful talent, I’d use it for summoning my allies, I think. Or the Mycenians, since you seem so adamant they don’t exist.” She glanced over his shoulder—the sky was still clear. “Good luck,” she said, stepping around him.

  Dorian blurted, “What?”

  Aelin looked the King of Adarlan over. “This isn’t our battle. And I won’t sacrifice my kingdom’s fate over a skirmish with the Valg. If you have any sense, you won’t, either.” Rolfe’s face contorted with wrath—even as fear, deep and true, shone in his eyes. She took a step toward the chaotic streets but paused, turning to the Pirate Lord. “I suppose the cadre will be coming with me, too. Since they’re now my allies.”

  Silently, Fenrys and Gavriel approached, and she could have sighed with relief that they did so without question, that Gavriel was willing to do whatever it took to stay near his son.

  Rolfe hissed, “You think withholding your assistance will sway me into helping you?” But far beyond the bay, between the distant, humped islands, a cloud of darkness gathered.

  “I meant what I said, Rolfe. I can do fine without you, armada or no. Mycenians or no. And this island has now become dangerous for my cause.” She inclined her head toward the sea. “I’ll offer a prayer to Mala for you.” She patted the hilt of Goldryn. “A bit of advice, from one professional criminal to the other: cut off their heads. It’s the only way to kill them. Unless you burn them alive, but I bet most would jump ship and swim to shore before your flaming arrows can do much damage.”

  “And what of your idealism—what of that child who stole two hundred slaves from me? You’d leave the people of this island to perish?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “I told you, Rolfe, that Endovier taught me some things.”

  Rolfe swore. “Do you think Sam would stand for this?”

  “Sam is dead,” she said, “because men like you and Arobynn have power. But Arobynn’s reign is now over.” She smiled at the darkening horizon. “Seems like yours might end rather soon as well.”

  “You bitch—”

  Rowan snarled, taking all of a step before Rolfe flinched away.

  Rushing footsteps sounded, then Rolfe’s quartermaster filled the doorway. He panted as he rested a hand on the threshold, the other gripping the sea dragon-shaped pommel of his sword. “We are knee-deep in shit.”

  Aelin paused. Rolfe’s face tightened. “How bad?” the captain asked.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Eight warships teeming with soldiers—at least a hundred on each, more on the lower levels I couldn’t see. They’re flanked by two sea-wyverns. All moving so fast that it’s like storm winds carry them.”

  Aelin cut a glance at Rowan. “How quickly can we get to that boat?”

  Rolfe was gazing at the few ships in his harbor, his face deathly pale. At Ship-Breaker out in the bay, the chain currently beneath the calm surface. Fenrys, seeing the captain’s stare, observed, “Those sea-wyverns will snap that chain. Get your people off this island. Use every skiff and sloop you have and get them out.”

  Rolfe slowly turned to Aelin, his sea-green eyes simmering with hate. And resignation. “Is this an attempt to call my bluff?”

  Aelin toyed with the end of her braid. “No. It’s convenient timing, but no.”

  Rolfe surveyed them all—the power that could level this island if they chose. His voice was hoarse as he at last spoke. “I want to be admiral. I want this entire archipelago. I want Ilium. And when this war is over, I want Lord in front of my name, as it was before my ancestors’ names long ago. What of my payment?”

  Aelin surveyed him in turn, the entire room deathly quiet compared to the chaos of outside. “For every Morath ship you sack, you can keep whatever gold and treasure is aboard it. But weapons and ammunition go to the front. I’ll give you land, but no royal titles beyond those of Lord of Ilium and King of the Archipelago. If you bear any offspring, I will recognize them as your heirs—as I would any children Dorian might bear.”

  Dorian nodded gravely. “Adarlan will recognize you and your heirs, and this land as yours.”

  Rolfe ground out, “You send those bastards down to the inky black, and my fleet is yours. I cannot guarantee the Mycenians will rise, though. We’ve been scattered too far and too long. Only a small number live here, and they will not stir without proper … motivation.” He glanced toward the bar, as if he’d expected to see someone behind it.

  But Aelin held out her hand, smiling faintly. “Leave that to me.”

  Tattooed skin met scarred flesh as Rolfe shook her hand. Hard enough to break bones, but she did it right back. Sent a little flame searing into his fingers.

  He hissed, pulling back his hand, and Aelin grinned. “Welcome to Her
Majesty’s army, Privateer Rolfe.” She gestured to the open door. “Shall we?”

  Aelin was insane, Dorian realized. Brilliant and wicked, but insane.

  And perhaps the greatest, most unremorseful liar he’d ever encountered.

  He’d felt her summons sweep through the world. Felt fire hum against his skin. There was no mistaking who it belonged to. And there was no mistaking that it had gone right to the Dead End, where the forces dwelling there would know there was one person alive with that kind of flame at her disposal, and track the magic back here.

  He didn’t know what had triggered it, why she’d chosen now, but—

  But Rowan had informed Aelin how the Valg haunted Rolfe. How he had this city watched day and night, terrified of their return. So Aelin had used it to her advantage. The Mycenians—holy gods. They were little more than a bedtime story and cautionary tale. But here they were, carefully hidden away. Until Aelin had smoked them out.

  And as the Pirate Lord and Queen of Terrasen shook hands and she grinned at Rolfe, Dorian realized he … perhaps he could do with a bit more wickedness and insanity, too.

  This war would not be won on smiles and manners.

  It would be won by a woman willing to gamble with an entire island full of people to get what she needed to save them all. A woman whose friends were equally willing to play along, to rip their souls to shreds if it meant saving the greater population. They knew the weight of the lives panicking around them if they gambled wrong. Aelin perhaps more than anyone else.

  Aelin and Rolfe stalked through the open tavern doorway and into the street beyond. Behind him, Fenrys let out a low whistle. “Gods help you, Rowan, that woman is…”

  Dorian didn’t wait to hear the rest as he followed the pirate and the queen into the street, Aedion and Lysandra trailing. Fenrys kept at a distance from the others, but Gavriel remained close, his gaze still fixed on his son. Gods, they looked so much alike, moved alike, the Lion and the Wolf.

  Rolfe barked to his men waiting in a line before him, “Every ship that can bear men sails now.” He rattled off orders, delegating his men to various ships long bereft of crew to run them, including his own, while Aelin stood there, hands braced on her hips, watching them all.

  She said to the captain, “What’s your fastest ship?”

  He pointed at his own.

  She held his stare, and Dorian waited for the wild, reckless plan. But she said without looking at any of them, “Rowan, Lysandra, Fenrys, and Gavriel, you’re with me. Aedion, you get on the northern watchtower and man the mounted harpoon. Any ship gets too close to the chain, you blast a hole through their gods-damned side.” Dorian stiffened as she at last addressed him, seeing the orders already in her eyes. He opened his mouth to object, but Aelin said simply, “This battle is no place for a king.”

  “And it’s one for a queen?”

  There was no amusement, nothing but icy calm as she handed him a sword he hadn’t realized she’d been carrying at her side. Damaris.

  Goldryn was still strapped across her back, its ruby glowing like a living ember as she said, “One of us has to live, Dorian. You take the southern watchtower—stay at the base, and get your magic ready. Any forces that try to cross the chain, you take them out.”

  Not with steel, but magic. He fastened Damaris to his sword belt, its weight foreign. “And what are you going to do?” he demanded. As if in answer, his power writhed in his gut, like an asp curling to strike.

  Aelin glanced at Rowan, at his tattooed hand. “Rolfe, get whatever iron chains you have left from your slave-mongering. We’re going to need them.”

  For her—for Rowan. As a check against their magic, if it got out of control.

  Because Aelin … Aelin was going to sail that ship right into the heart of the enemy fleet and blow them all out of the water.

  34

  She was a liar, and a murderer, and a thief, and Aelin had a feeling she’d be called much worse by the end of this war. But as that unnatural darkness gathered on the horizon, she wondered if she might have bitten off more than she and all her fanged friends could chew.

  She did not give her fear an inch of space.

  Did not do anything but let black fire ripple through her.

  Securing this alliance was only part of it. The other part, the bigger part … was the message. Not to Morath.

  But to the world.

  To any potential allies watching this continent, contemplating if it was indeed a lost cause.

  Today her message would thunder across the realms.

  She was not a rebel princess, shattering enemy castles and killing kings.

  She was a force of nature. She was a calamity and a commander of immortal warriors of legend. And if those allies did not join with her … she wanted them to think of today, of what she would do, and wonder if they might find her on their shores, in their harbors, one day, too.

  They had not come ten years ago. She wanted them to know she had not forgotten it.

  Rolfe finished barking orders to his men and rushed aboard the Sea Dragon, Aedion and Dorian hurtling for horses to carry them to their respective watchtowers. Aelin turned to Lysandra, the shifter calmly monitoring all. Aelin said quietly, “Do you know what I need you to do?”

  Lysandra’s moss-green eyes were bright as she nodded.

  Aelin did not allow herself to embrace the shifter. Did not allow herself to so much as touch her friend’s hand. Not with Rolfe watching. Not with the citizens of this town watching, the lost Mycenians among them. So Aelin merely said, “Good hunting.”

  Fenrys let out a choked sound, as if he realized what she had indeed demanded of the shape-shifter. Beside him, Gavriel was still too busy staring after Aedion, who hadn’t so much as glanced at his father before fastening his shield and sword across his back, mounting a sorry-looking mare, and galloping for the watchtower.

  Aelin said to Rowan, the wind already dancing in the silver hair of her warrior-prince, “We move now.”

  So they did.

  People were panicking in the streets as the dark force took shape on the horizon: massive ships with black sails, converging on the bay as if they were indeed carried on a preternatural wind.

  But Aelin, Lysandra close to her, stalked for the towering Sea Dragon, Rowan and his two companions falling into step behind them.

  People halted and gawked while they ascended the gangway, securing and rearranging their weapons. Knives and swords, Rowan’s hatchet gleaming while he hooked it at his side, a bow and quiver full of black-feathered arrows that Aelin assumed Fenrys could fire with deadly accuracy, and more blades. As they prowled onto the gently rocking deck of the Sea Dragon, the wood meticulously polished, Aelin supposed that together they formed a walking armory.

  Gavriel had no sooner set foot on board than the gangway was hauled up by Rolfe’s men. The others, seated on benches flanking the deck, lifted oars, two men to a seat. Rowan jerked his chin at Gavriel and Fenrys, and the two wordlessly went to join the men, his cadre falling into rank and rhythms that were older than some kingdoms.

  Rolfe stalked out a door that no doubt led to his chambers, two men behind him bearing enormous iron chains.

  Aelin strode for them. “Anchor them to the mainmast and make sure there’s enough room for them to reach right … here.” She pointed to where she now stood in the heart of the deck. Enough space clear of everyone, enough space for her and Rowan to work.

  Rolfe barked an order to begin rowing, glancing once at Fenrys and Gavriel—who each manned an oar themselves, teeth bared as they threw their considerable strength into the motion.

  Slowly, the ship began moving—the others around them stirring as well.

  But they had to be out of the bay first, had to get past the boundary of Ship-Breaker.

  Rolfe’s men looped the chains around the mast, leaving enough length to reach Aelin.

  Iron would provide a bite, an anchor to remind her who she was, what she was. Iron would keep her tethered
when the sheer vastness of her magic, of Rowan’s magic, threatened to sweep her away.

  The Sea Dragon inched over the harbor, the call and grunting of Rolfe’s men as they rowed drowning out the din of the town behind them.

  She flicked a glance toward either watchtower to see Dorian arrive—then Aedion’s golden hair racing up the outer spiral staircase to the enormous mounted harpoon at the top. Her heart strained for a moment as she flashed between now and a time when she’d seen Sam running up those same stairs—not to defend this town, but to wreck it.

  She shook off the icy grip of memory and turned to Lysandra, standing at the deck rail, watching her cousin as well. “Now.”

  Even Rolfe paused his ordering at the word.

  Lysandra gracefully sat on the broad wooden railing, pivoted her legs over the side … and dropped into the water.

  Rolfe’s men rushed to the rail. People in boats flanking them did the same, spotting the woman plunge into the vivid blue.

  But it was not a woman who came out.

  Below, deep down, Aelin could make out the glow and shift and spread. Men began cursing.

  But Lysandra kept growing and growing beneath the surface, along the sandy harbor floor.

  Faster, the men rowed.

  But the ship’s speed was nothing compared to the speed of the creature that emerged from the waves.

  A broad jade-green snout, peppered with shredding white teeth, huffed a mighty breath then arced back under the water, revealing a flash of a massive head and cunning eyes as she disappeared.

  Some men screamed. Rolfe braced a hand on the wheel. His first mate, that sea dragon sword freshly polished at his side, dropped to his knees.

  Lysandra dove, and she let them see the long, powerful body that broke the surface bit by bit as she plunged down, her jade scales gleaming like jewels in the blinding midday sun. See the legend straight from their prophecies: the Mycenians would only return when the sea dragons did.

  And so Aelin had ensured that one appeared right in their gods-damned harbor.

  “Holy gods,” Fenrys muttered from where he rowed.