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

Enda kept his hand on the hilt of his fine sword, utterly calm. “You look … different,” his cousin said, brows twitching toward each other. “Better.”

There had been a time when Enda had been his friend—before Lyria. Before … everything. And Rowan might have been inclined to explain who and what was responsible for this change, but he didn’t have time. No, time was not his ally this night.

But Rowan said, “You look different as well, Prince.”

Enda gave a half smile. “You can thank my mate for that.”

Once, it might have sent a pang of agony through him. That Enda spoke of it reminded him that his cousin might not be a battle-honed warrior, but the courtier was as good as any at marking important details—noting Aelin’s scent, now forever entwined with his own. So Rowan nodded, smiling a bit himself. “It was Lord Kerrigan’s son, wasn’t it?”

Indeed, there was another’s scent woven through Enda’s, the claiming deep and true. “It was.” Enda again smiled—now at a ring on his finger. “We were mated and married earlier this summer.”

“You mean to tell me you waited a hundred years for him?”

Enda shrugged, his grip on his sword lightening. “When it comes to the right person, Prince, waiting a hundred years is worth it.”

He knew. He understood him so damn well that it made his chest crack to think of it.

“Endymion,” he said hoarsely. “Enda, I need you to listen.”

There were plenty of people who might have called for the guards, but he knew Enda—or had. He was but one of several cousins who’d shoved their noses into his business for years. Tried, Rowan now wondered, not for gossip but … to fight to keep some small scrap of him alive. Enda more than any of them.

So Endymion gave him the gift of listening. Rowan tried to keep it concise, tried to keep his hands from trembling. In the end, he supposed his request was simple.

When he finished, Enda studied him, any response hidden behind that court-trained mask of neutrality.

Then Enda said, “I will consider it.”

It was the best Rowan could hope for. He said nothing else to his cousin before he shifted again and flapped into the night—toward another banner he had once marched beside.

And ship to ship, Rowan went. The same speech. The same request.

All of them, all his cousins, had the same answer.

I will consider it.





62


Manon was awake when Dorian stormed into her room an hour before dawn. He ignored her unlaced shirt, the swell of those lush breasts he’d tasted only yesterday, as he said, “Put your clothes on and follow me.”

Mercifully, the witch obeyed. Though he had a feeling it was mostly from curiosity.

When he reached Aelin’s chamber, he bothered to knock—just in case the queen and Rowan were utilizing their potentially last few hours together. But the queen was already awake and dressed, the prince nowhere to be found. Aelin took one look at Dorian’s face. “What is it?”

He didn’t tell either woman anything as he led them down into the cargo hold, the upper levels of the ship already astir with battle preparations.

While they’d debated and readied for the past day, he’d contemplated Manon’s warning, after she’d made his very blood sing with pleasure. Unless you would like to learn precisely what parts of me are made of iron the next time you touch me, I decide those things.

Over and over, he’d considered the way the words had snagged on a sharp corner of memory. He’d lain awake all night while he descended into his still-depleted well of magic. And as the light had begun to shift …

Dorian tugged the sheet off the witch mirror carefully held in place against the wall. The Lock—or whatever it was. In the muted reflection, the two queens were frowning at his back.

Manon’s iron nails slid out. “I would be careful handling that if I were you.”

“The warning is noted and appreciated,” he said, meeting those gold eyes in the mirror. She didn’t return his smile. Neither did Aelin. He sighed. “I don’t think this witch mirror has any power. Or, rather, not a tangible, brute power. I think its power is knowledge.”

Aelin’s steps were near-silent as she approached. “I was told the Lock would allow me to bind the three keys into the gate. You think this mirror knows how to do that?”

He simply nodded, trying not to be too offended by the skepticism scrunching her face.

Aelin picked at a loose thread on her jacket. “But what does the Lock-mirror-whatever-it-is have to do with the armada breathing down our necks?”

He tried not to roll his eyes. “It has to do with what Deanna said. What if the Lock wasn’t just for binding them back into the gate, but a tool for safely controlling the keys?”

Aelin frowned at the mirror. “So I’m going to lug that thing onto the deck and use it to blow apart Maeve’s armada with the two keys we have?”

He took a steadying breath, beseeching the gods for patience. “I said I think this mirror’s power is knowledge. I think it will show you how to wield the keys safely. So you can come back here and wield them without consequence.”

A slow blink. “What do you mean, come back here?”

Manon answered, now stepping close as she studied the mirror. “It’s a traveling mirror.”