Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass) (20 page)

He didn’t even want to think about what else Darrow had implied—that a union between Wendlyn and Terrasen
had
been attempted over ten years ago, with marriage between him and Aelin the asking price, only to be rejected by their kin across the sea.

He loved his cousin, but the thought of touching her like that made his stomach turn. He had a feeling she returned the sentiment.

She hadn’t shown him the letter she’d written to Wendlyn. It hadn’t occurred to him until now to ask to see it. Aedion stared up at the lone figure before the vast, dark sea.

And realized he didn’t want to know.

He was a general, a warrior honed by blood and rage and loss; he had seen and done things that still drew him from his sleep, night after night, but … He did not want to know. Not yet.

Lysandra said, “We should leave before dawn. I don’t like the smell of this place.”

He inclined his head toward the fifty soldiers camped inside the temple walls. “Obviously.”

But before she could speak, blue flames sparked at Aelin’s fingertips. The signal.

Lysandra shifted into a ghost leopard, and Aedion faded into the shadows as she loosed a roar that set the nearby homes tumbling awake. People spilled out of their doors just as the soldiers threw open the gates to the temple to see what the commotion was about.

Aelin was off the roof in a few nimble maneuvers, landing with feline grace as the soldiers shoved into the street, weapons out and eyes wide.

Those eyes grew wider as Lysandra slunk up beside Aelin, snarling. As Aedion fell into step on her other side. Together, they pulled off their hoods. Someone gasped behind them.

Not at their golden hair, their faces. But at the hand wreathed in blue flame as Aelin lifted it above her head and said to the soldiers pointing crossbows at them, “Get the hell out of my temple.”

The soldiers blinked. One of the townsfolk behind them began weeping as a crown of fire appeared atop Aelin’s hair. As the cloth smothering Goldryn burned away and the ruby glowed bloodred.

Aedion smiled at the Adarlanian bastards, unhooked his shield from across his back, and said, “My lady gives you a choice: leave now … or never leave at all.”

The soldiers exchanged glances. The flame around Aelin’s head burned brighter, a beacon in the dark.
Symbols have power indeed
.

There she was, crowned in flame, a bastion against the gathered night. So Aedion drew the Sword of Orynth from its sheath along his spine. Someone cried out at the sight of that ancient, mighty blade.

More and more soldiers filled the open temple courtyard beyond the gate. And some dropped their weapons outright, lifting their hands. Backing away.

“You bleeding cowards,” a soldier snarled, shoving to the front. A commander, from the decorations on his red-and-gold uniform. Human. No black rings on any of them. His lip curled as he beheld Aedion, the shield and sword he held angled and ready for bloodletting. “The Wolf of the North.” The sneer deepened. “And the fire-breathing bitch herself.”

Aelin, to her credit, only looked bored. And she said one last time to the human soldiers gathered there, shifting on their feet, “Live or die; it’s your choice. But make it now.”

“Don’t listen to the bitch,” the commander snapped. “Simple parlor tricks, Lord Meah said.”

But five more soldiers dropped their weapons and ran. Outright sprinted into the streets. “Anyone else?” Aelin asked softly.

Thirty-five soldiers remained, weapons out, faces hard. Aedion had fought against and alongside such men. Aelin looked to him in question. Aedion nodded. The commander had his claws in them—they would only retreat when the man did.

“Come on, then. Let’s see what you have to offer,” the commander taunted. “I’ve got a lovely farmer’s daughter I want to finish—”

As if she were blowing out a candle, Aelin exhaled a breath toward the man.

First the commander went quiet. As if every thought, every feeling had halted. Then his body seemed to stiffen, like he’d been turned to stone.

And for a heartbeat, Aedion thought the man
had
been turned to stone as his skin, his Adarlanian uniform, turned varying shades of gray.

But as the sea breeze brushed past, and the man simply
fell
apart into nothing but ashes, Aedion realized with no small amount of shock what she had done.

She’d burned him alive. From the inside out. Someone screamed.

Aelin merely said, “I warned you.” A few soldiers now bolted.

But most held their ground, hate and disgust shining in their eyes at the magic, at his queen—at him.

And Aedion smiled like the wolf he was as he lifted the Sword of Orynth and unleashed himself upon the line of soldiers raising weapons on the left, Lysandra lunging to the right with a guttural snarl, and Aelin rained down flames of gold and ruby upon the world.

They took back the temple in twenty minutes.

It was only ten before they had control of it, the soldiers either dead or, if they’d surrendered, hauled to the town dungeon by the men and women who had joined the fight. The other ten minutes were spent scouring the place for any ambushers. But they found only their trappings and refuse, and the sight of the temple in such disrepair, the sacred walls carved with the names of Adarlanian brutes, the ancient urns of never-ending fire extinguished or used for chamber pots…

Aelin had let them all see when she sent a razing fire through the place, gobbling up any trace of those soldiers, removing years of dirt and dust and gull droppings to reveal the glorious, ancient carvings beneath, etched into every pillar and step and wall.

The temple complex comprised three buildings around a massive courtyard: the archives, the residence for the long-dead priestesses, and the temple proper, where the ancient Rock was held. It was in the archives, the most defensible area by far, that she left Aedion and Lysandra to find anything suitable for bedding, a wall of flame now encompassing the entire site.

Aedion’s eyes still shone with the thrill of battle when she claimed she wanted a moment alone by the Rock. He’d fought beautifully—and she’d made sure to leave some men alive for him to take down. She was not the only symbol here tonight, not the only one watched.

And as for the shifter who had ripped into those soldiers with such feral savagery … Aelin left her again in falcon form, perched on a rotting beam in the cavernous archives, staring at the enormous rendering of a sea dragon carved into the floor, at last revealed by that razing fire. One of many similar carvings throughout, the heritage of a people long since exiled.

From every space inside the temple, the crashing of waves on the shore far below whispered or roared. There was nothing to absorb the sound, to
soften it. Great, sprawling rooms and courtyards where there should have been altars and statues and gardens of reflection were wholly empty, the smoke of her fire still lingering.

Good. Fire could destroy—but also cleanse.

She crept across the darkened temple-complex grounds to where the innermost, holiest of sanctuaries sprawled to the lip of the sea. Golden light leaked onto the rocky ground before the inner sanctum’s steps—light from the now-eternally-burning vats of flame to honor Brannon’s gift.

Still clothed in black, Aelin was little more than a shadow as she dimmed those fires to sleepy, murmuring embers and entered the heart of the temple.

A great sea wall had been built to push back the wrath of storms from the stone itself, but even then, the space was damp, the air thick with brine.

Aelin cleared the massive antechamber and strode between the two fat pillars that framed the inner sanctuary. At its far end, open to the wrath of the sea beyond, arose the massive black Rock.

It was smooth as glass, no doubt from the reverent hands that had touched it over the millennia, and perhaps as big as a farmer’s market wagon. It jutted upward, overhanging the sea, and starlight bounced off its pocked surface as Aelin extinguished every flame but the sole white candle fluttering in the center of the Rock.

The temple carvings revealed no Wyrdmarks or further messages from the Little Folk. Just swirls and stags.

She’d have to do this the old-fashioned way, then.

Aelin mounted the small stairs that allowed pilgrims to gaze upon the sacred Rock—then stepped onto it.

15

The sea seemed to pause.

Aelin tugged the Wyrdkey from her jacket, letting it rest between her breasts as she took a seat on the overhanging lip of the stone and peered out into the night-veiled sea.

And waited.

The sliver of crescent moon was beginning to descend when a deep male voice said behind her, “You look younger than I thought.”

Aelin stared at the sea, even as her stomach tightened. “But just as good-looking, right?”

She did not hear any footsteps, but the voice was definitely closer as he said, “At least my daughter was right about your humility.”

“Funny, she never implied you had a sense of humor.”

A whisper of wind to her right, then long, muscled legs beneath ancient armor appeared beside hers, sandaled feet dangling into the surf. She finally dared to turn her head, finding that armor continued to a
powerful male body and a broad-boned, handsome face. He might have fooled anyone into thinking he was flesh and blood—were it not for the pale glimmer of blue light along his edges.

Aelin bowed her head slightly to Brannon.

A half smile was his only acknowledgment, his red-gold hair shifting in the moonlight. “A brutal but efficient battle,” he said.

She shrugged. “I was told to come to this temple. I found it occupied. So I unoccupied it. You’re welcome.”

His lips twitched toward a smile. “I cannot stay long.”

“But you’re going to manage to cram in as many cryptic warnings as you can, right?”

Brannon’s brows rose, his brandy-colored eyes crinkling with amusement. “I had my friends send you a message to come for a reason, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it.” She wouldn’t have risked reclaiming the temple otherwise. “But first tell me about Maeve.” She’d had enough of waiting until
they
dumped their message into her lap. She had her own gods-damned questions.

Brannon’s mouth tightened. “Specify what you need to know.”

“Can she be killed?”

The king’s head whipped toward her. “She is old, Heir of Terrasen. She was old when I was a child. Her plans are far-reaching—”

“I know, I know. But will she die if I shove a blade into her heart? Cut off her head?”

A pause. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

Brannon shook his head. “I don’t know. All Fae may be killed, yet she has outlived even our extended life spans, and her power … no one really understands her power.”

“But you journeyed with her to get the keys back—”

“I do not know. But she long feared my flame. And yours.”

“She’s not Valg, is she?”

A low laugh. “No. As cold as one, but no.” Brannon’s edges began to blur a bit.

But he saw the question in her eyes and nodded for her to go on.

Aelin swallowed, her jaw clenching a bit as she forced out a breath. “Does the power ever get easier to handle?”

Brannon’s gaze softened a fraction. “Yes and no. How it impacts your relationships with those around you becomes harder than managing the power—yet is tied to it as well. Magic is no easy gift in any form, yet fire … We burn not just within our magic, but also in our very souls. For better or worse.” His attention flicked to Goldryn, peeking over her shoulder, and he laughed in quiet surprise. “Is the beast in the cave dead?”