Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

“My mother died to forge that Lock,” Elena snapped, eyes blazing bright. “She let go of her mortal body so that she could forge the Lock for my father. I was the one who broke the promise for how it was to be used.”

Aelin blinked, and Dorian wondered if he should indeed be worried when even she was speechless. But Aelin only whispered, “Who was your mother?”

Dorian ransacked his memory, all his history lessons on his royal house, but couldn’t recall.

Elena made a sound that might have been a sob, her image fading into cobwebs and moonlight. “She who loved my father best. She who blessed him with such mighty gifts, and then bound herself in a mortal body and offered him the gift of her heart.”

Aelin’s arms slackened at her sides.

Aedion blurted, “Shit.”

Elena laughed humorlessly as she said to Aelin, “Why do you think you burn so brightly? It is not just Brannon’s blood that is in your veins. But Mala’s.”

Aelin breathed, “Mala Fire-Bringer was your mother.”

Elena was already gone.

Aedion said, “Honestly, it’s a miracle you two didn’t kill each other.”

Dorian didn’t bother to correct him that it was technically impossible, given that one of them was already dead. Rather, he weighed all that the queen had said and demanded. Rowan, remaining silent, seemed to be doing the same. Lysandra sniffed around the blood-marks, as if testing for whatever remnants of the ancient queen might be around.

Aelin stared out the open balcony doors, eyes hooded and mouth a tight line. She unfurled her fist and examined the Eye of Elena, still held in her palm.

The clock struck one in the morning. Slowly, Aelin turned to them. To him.

“Mala’s blood flows in our veins,” she said hoarsely, fingers closing around the Eye before she slipped it into the shirt’s pocket.

He blinked, realizing that it indeed did. That perhaps both of them had been so considerably gifted because of it. Dorian said to Rowan, if only because he might have heard or witnessed something in all his travels, “Is it truly possible—for a god to become mortal like that?”

Rowan, who had been watching Aelin a bit warily, twisted to him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. But … Fae have given up their immortality to bind their lives to that of their mortal mates.” Dorian had the distinct feeling Aelin was deliberately examining a spot on her shirt. “It’s certainly possible Mala found a way to do it.”

“It’s not just possible,” Aelin murmured. “She did it. That … pit of power I uncovered today … That was from Mala herself. Elena might be many things, but she wasn’t lying about that.”

Lysandra shifted back into her human form, swaying enough that she set herself down on the bed before Aedion could move to steady her. “So what do we do now?” she asked, her voice gravelly. “Erawan’s fleet squats in the Gulf of Oro; Maeve sails for Eyllwe. But neither knows that we possess this Wyrdkey—or that this Lock exists … and lies directly between their forces.”

For a heartbeat, Dorian felt like a useless fool as they all, including him, looked to Aelin. He was King of Adarlan, he reminded himself. Equal to her. Even if his lands and people had been stolen, his capital captured.

But Aelin rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, loosing a long breath. “I really, really hate that old windbag.” She lifted her head, surveying them all, and said simply, “We sail for the Stone Marshes in the morning to hunt down that Lock.”

“Rolfe and the Mycenians?” Aedion asked.

“He takes half his fleet to find the rest of the Mycenians, wherever they’re hiding. Then they all sail north to Terrasen.”

“Rifthold lies between here and there, with wyverns patrolling it,” Aedion countered. “And this plan depends on if we can trust Rolfe to actually follow through on his promise.”

“Rolfe knows how to stay out of range,” Rowan said. “We have little choice but to trust him. And he honored the promise he made to Aelin regarding the slaves two and a half years ago.” No doubt why Aelin had made him confirm it so thoroughly.

“And the other half of Rolfe’s fleet?” Aedion pushed.

“Some remain to hold the archipelago,” Aelin said. “And some come with us to Eyllwe.”

“You can’t fight Maeve’s armada with a fraction of Rolfe’s fleet,” Aedion said, crossing his arms. Dorian bit back his own agreement, leaving the general to it. “Let alone Morath’s forces.”

“I’m not going there to pick a fight,” was all Aelin said. And that was that.

They dispersed then, Aelin and Rowan slipping off to their own room.

Dorian lay awake, even when his companions’ breathing became deep and slow. He mulled over each word Elena had uttered, mulled over that long-ago appearance of Gavin, who had awoken him to stop Aelin from opening that portal. Perhaps Gavin had done it not to spare Aelin from damnation, but to keep those waiting, cold-eyed gods from seizing her as Deanna had today.

He tucked the speculation away to consider when he was less prone to leaping to conclusions. But the threads lay in a lattice across his mind, in hues of red and green and gold and blue, glimmering and thrumming, whispering their secrets in languages not spoken in this world.