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

33


“Eyllwe has no standing army,” Aelin said, feeling the blood drain from her face. “There is nothing and no one to fight after this spring—save for rebel militia bands.”

Rowan said to Rolfe, “Do you have exact numbers?”

“No,” the captain said. “The news was given only as a warning—to keep any shipments away from the Avery. I wanted their opinions”—a nod of the chin toward the cadre—“for handling it. Though I suppose I should have invited you, too, since they seem intent on telling you my business.”

None of them deigned to respond. Aelin scanned that line—that line of armies.

Rowan said, “How fast do they move?”

“The legions departed Morath nearly three weeks ago,” Gavriel supplied. “They moved faster than any army I’ve ever seen.”

The timing of it…

No. No—no, it couldn’t be because of Ilium, because she’d taunted him…

“It’s an extermination,” Rolfe said baldly.

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. Even the captain didn’t dare speak.

Rowan slid a hand along her lower back, a silent comfort. He knew—was piecing it together, too.

She opened her eyes, that line burning into her vision, her heart, and said, “It’s a message. For me.” She unfurled her fist, gazing at the scar there.

“Why attack Eyllwe, though?” Fenrys asked. “And why move into position but not sack it?”

She couldn’t say the words aloud. That she’d brought this upon Eyllwe by mocking Erawan, because he knew who Celaena Sardothien had cared for, and he wanted to break her spirit, her heart, by showing her what his armies could do. What they would do, whenever he now felt like it. Not to Terrasen … but to the kingdom of the friend she’d loved so dearly.

The kingdom she had sworn to protect, to save.

Rowan said, “We have personal ties to Eyllwe. He knows it matters to her.”

Fenrys’s eyes lingered on her, scanning. But Gavriel, voice steady, said, “Erawan now holds everything south of the Avery. Save for this archipelago. And even here, he has a foothold in the Dead End.”

Aelin stared at that map, at the space that now seemed so small to the north.

To the west, the vast expanse of the Wastes spread beyond the mountainous continental divide. And her gaze snagged on a small name along the western coast.

Briarcliff.

The name clanged through her, shuddering her awake, and she realized they’d been talking, debating how such an army might move so quickly over the terrain.

She rubbed her temple, staring at that speck on the map.

Considering the life debt owed to her.

Her gaze dragged down—south. To the Red Desert. Where another life debt, many life debts, waited for her to claim them.

Aelin realized they had asked her something, but she didn’t care to figure it out as she said quietly to Rolfe, “You’re going to give me your armada. You’re going to arm it with those firelances I know you’ve ordered, and you will ship any extras to the Mycenian fleet when they arrive.”

Silence.

Rolfe barked a laugh and sat again. “Like hell I am.” He waved that tattooed hand over the map, the waters inked on it churning and changing in some pattern she wondered if only he could read. A pattern she needed him to be able to read, to find that Lock. “This just shows how utterly outmatched you are.” He chewed over her words. “The Mycenian fleet is little more than a myth. A bedside tale.”

Aelin looked to the hilt of Rolfe’s sword, to the inn itself and his ship anchored just outside.

“You are the heir of the Mycenian people,” Aelin said. “And I have come to claim the debt you owe my bloodline on that account, too.”

Rolfe did not move, did not blink.

“Or were all the sea dragon references from some personal fetish?” Aelin asked.

“The Mycenians are gone,” Rolfe said flatly.

“I don’t think so. I think they have been hiding here, in the Dead Islands, for a long, long time. And you somehow managed to claw your way back to power.”

The three Fae males were glancing between them.

Aelin said to Rolfe, “I have liberated Ilium from Adarlan. I took back the city—your ancient home—for you. For the Mycenians. It is yours, if you dare to claim your people’s inheritance.”

Rolfe’s hand shook slightly. He fisted it, tucking it beneath the table.

She allowed a flicker of her magic to rise to the surface then, allowed the gold in her eyes to glow like bright flame. Gavriel and Fenrys straightened as her power filled the room, filled the city. The Wyrdkey between her breasts began thrumming, whispering.

She knew there was nothing human, nothing mortal on her face.

Knew it because Rolfe’s golden-brown skin had paled to a sickly sheen.

She closed her eyes and loosed a breath.

The tendril of power she’d gathered rippled away in an invisible line. The world shuddered in its wake. A city bell chimed once, twice, in its force. Even the waters in the bay shivered as it swept past and out into the archipelago.

When Aelin opened her eyes, the mortality had returned.

“What the rutting hell was that?” Rolfe at last demanded.

Fenrys and Gavriel became very interested in the map before them.