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

Aelin examined a few, her memory straining for the translation. “Some of these aren’t symbols I’ve encountered before. Some are.” She scratched her head. “Should we throw a rock at it—see what it does?” she asked, twisting to where Rowan peered over her shoulder.

But a hollow throb of air pulsed around them, silencing the incessant buzz of the marshes’ inhabitants. And it was that utter silence, the bark of surprise from Fenrys, that had Aelin and Manon shifting into flanking, defensive positions. As if they’d done this a hundred times before.

But Rowan had gone still as he scanned the gray skies, the ruins, the water.

“What is it?” Aelin breathed.

Before her prince could answer, Aelin felt it again. A pulsing, dark wind demanding their attention. Not the Valg. No, this darkness was born of something else.

“Lorcan,” Rowan breathed, a hand on his sword—but not drawing it.

“Is that his magic?” Aelin shuddered as that death-kissed wind shoved at her. She batted it away as if it were a gnat. It snapped at her in answer.

“It’s his warning signal,” Rowan murmured.

“For what?” Manon asked sharply.

Rowan was instantly moving, scaling the high walls with ease, even as stone crumbled away. He balanced on its top, surveying the land on the other side of the wall.

Then he smoothly climbed back down, his splash as he landed echoing off the stones.

Lysandra slithered around a cluster of weeds and halted with a swift thrust of her scaled tail as Rowan said too calmly, “There is an aerial legion approaching.”

Manon breathed, “Ironteeth?”

“No,” Rowan said, meeting Aelin’s gaze with an icy steadiness that had seen him through centuries of battle. “Ilken.”

“How many?” Aelin’s voice turned distant—hollow.

Rowan’s throat bobbed, and she knew he’d been taking in the horizon and surrounding lands not for any chance of winning the battle that was sure to come, but for any shot at getting her out. Even if the rest of them had to buy her time with their own lives.

“Five hundred.”





55


Lorcan’s breath singed his throat with every inhalation, but he kept running through the marshes, Elide laboring beside him, never complaining, only scanning the skies with wide, dark eyes.

Lorcan sent out another flickering blast of his power. Not toward the winged army that raced not too far ahead, but farther—toward wherever Whitethorn and his bitch-queen might be in this festering place. If those ilken reached them long before Lorcan could arrive, that Wyrdkey the bitch carried would be as good as lost. And Elide … He shut out the thoughts.

The ilken flew hard and fast, heading toward what had to be the heart of the marshes. What the hell had brought the queen out here?

Elide flagged, and Lorcan gripped her under an elbow to keep her upright as she stumbled over a bit of pockmarked stone. Faster. If the ilken caught them unawares, if they stole his revenge and that key …

Lorcan sent out burst after burst of his power in every direction.

Keys aside, he didn’t want to see the look on Elide’s face if the ilken got there first. And they found whatever was left of the fire-breather and her court.





There was nowhere to go.

In the heart of this festering plain, there was nowhere to run, or hide.

Erawan had tracked them here. Had sent five hundred ilken to retrieve them. If the ilken had found them on the sea and in this endless wasteland, they’d no doubt be able to find them if they tried hiding among the ruins.

They were all silent as they gathered on a grassy hill at the edge of the ruins, watching that black mass take form. Deep in the ruins behind them, the chest still waited. Untouched.

Aelin knew the Lock couldn’t help—other than to waste their time by opening its container. Brannon could get in line to complain.

And Lorcan … somewhere out there. She’d think on that later. At least Fenrys and Gavriel had remained, rather than charging off to fulfill Maeve’s kill order.

Rowan said, eyes pinned on those swift, leathery wings far on the horizon, “We’ll use the ruin to our advantage. Force them to bottleneck in key areas.” Like a cloud of locusts, the ilken blocked out the clouds, the light, the sky. A dull, glazed sort of calm swept over Aelin.

Eight against five hundred.

Fenrys quickly tied back his golden hair. “We divide it up, take them out. Before they can get close enough. While they’re still in the air.” He tapped his foot on the ground, rolling his shoulders—as if shaking off the grip of that blood oath roaring at him to hunt down Lorcan.

Aelin rasped, “There’s another way.”

“No,” was Rowan’s response.

She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “There is nothing and no one out here. The risk of using that key would be minimal—”

Rowan’s teeth flashed as he snarled, “No, and that’s final.”

Aelin said too quietly, “You don’t give me orders.”

She saw as much as she felt Rowan’s temper rise with dizzying speed. “You will have to pry that key out of my cold, dead hands.”

He meant it, too—he’d make her kill him before he let her use the key in any capacity beyond wielding the Lock.

Aedion let out a low, bitter laugh. “You wanted to send a message to our enemies about your power, Aelin.” Closer and closer that army came, and Rowan’s ice and wind licked at her as he tunneled down into his magic. Aedion jerked his chin toward the army approaching. “It seems Erawan sent his answer.”