Empire of Storms

“Neither,” Rowan said, inclining his head slightly.

Like him, Enda was silver-haired, though his green eyes were speckled with brown that could sometimes swallow the color whole when he was in a rage.

If Rowan had been bred and built for battlefields, Enda was sculpted for intrigue and court machinations. His cousin, while tall and muscled enough, lacked Rowan’s breadth of shoulders and solid bulk—though that could also be from the different sorts of training they’d received. Enda knew enough about fighting to warrant being here to lead his father’s forces, but their own educations had crossed little after those first decades of youth, when they had run wild together at his family’s main estate.

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.”

Dorian nodded. “Think about Deanna’s words: ‘Flame and iron, together bound, merge into silver to learn what must be found. A mere step is all it shall take.’” He pointed to the mirror. “Step into the silver—and learn.”

Manon clicked her tongue. “And I suppose she and I are flame and iron.”

Aelin crossed her arms.

Dorian cut the Queen of Terrasen a wry glance. “People other than you can solve things, you know.”

Aelin glared at him. “We don’t have time for what-ifs. Too many things could go wrong.”

“You have little magic left,” Dorian countered, waving a hand toward the mirror. “You could be in and out of this mirror before dawn. And use what you learn to send Maeve a message in no uncertain terms.”

“I can still fight with steel—without the risks and waste of time.”

“You can stop this battle before the losses are too great on either side.” He added carefully, “We’re out of time already, Aelin.”

Those turquoise eyes were steady—if not still furious he’d beat her to the riddle—but something flickered in them. “I know,” she said. “I was hoping …” She shook her head, more at herself. “I ran out of time,” she murmured as if it were an answer, and considered the mirror, then Manon. Then blew out a breath. “This wasn’t my plan.”

“I know,” Dorian said with a half smile. “That’s why you don’t like it.”

Manon asked before Aelin could bite off his head, “But where will the mirror lead?”

Aelin clenched her jaw. “Hopefully not Morath.” Dorian tensed. Perhaps this plan—

“That symbol belongs to both of us,” Manon said, studying the Eye of Elena etched onto it. “And if it takes you to Morath, you’re going to need someone who knows the way out.”

Steps thudded down the stairs at the back of the hold. Dorian twisted toward them, but Aelin smirked at Manon and approached the mirror. “Then I’ll see you on the other side, witch.”

Aedion’s golden head appeared between the crates. “What the hell are you—”