Empire of Storms

Dorian shook his head. “If you go after Maeve, the keys should be kept far away. If I can help by doing this, by finding the third … I will serve you better that way.”

“You’ll likely die,” Aedion cut in sharply. “We go north to bloodshed and killing fields—you head into dangers far worse than that. Morath will be waiting.” Rowan cut him a glare. But his brother was beyond caring. No, Aedion was riding a vicious, vulnerable edge right now—and it wouldn’t take much for that edge to turn lethal. Especially when Dorian had played his part in separating Aelin from their group.

Dorian again looked to Manon, who now smiled faintly at him. It was a smile that softened her face, made it come alive. “He won’t die if I can help it,” the witch said, then surveyed them all. “We journey to find the Crochans—to rally what forces they might have.”

A witch army to counter the Ironteeth legions.

Hope—precious, fragile hope—stirred Rowan’s blood.

Manon merely jerked her chin in farewell and prowled up the bluff to her coven.

So Rowan nodded to Dorian. But the man bowed his head—not the gesture of a friend to a friend. But of one king to another.

Consort, he wanted to say. He was just her consort.

Even if she’d married him so he could have the legal right to save Terrasen and rebuild it. To command the armies she’d given everything to gather for them.

“When we are done, I will join you in Terrasen, Aedion,” the King of Adarlan promised. “So that when you get back, Rowan—when both of you get back—there will be something left to fight for.”

Aedion seemed to consider. To weigh the man’s words and expression. And then the general-prince stepped forward and embraced the king. It was quick, and hard, and Dorian flinched, but that edge in Aedion’s grief-dull eyes had been eased a bit. Silently, Aedion glanced at Damaris, sheathed at Dorian’s side. The blade of Adarlan’s first and greatest king. Aedion seemed to weigh its presence, who bore it. At last, the general-prince nodded, more to himself than anyone. But Dorian still bowed his head in thanks.

When Aedion had stalked toward the longboats, deliberately stepping around Lysandra-Aelin when she tried to speak to him, Rowan said to the king, “You trust the witches?”

A nod. “They’re leaving two wyverns to guard your ship to the edge of the continent. From there, they’ll join us again—and you’ll set off wherever … wherever you need to go.”

Maeve could have taken her anywhere, vanished that ship halfway across the world.

Rowan said to Dorian, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” A half smile. “Thank Manon.”

If they all lived through this, if he got Aelin back, he would.

He embraced Dorian, wished the king well, and watched the man climb up the sandbank to the white-haired witch who waited for him.

Lysandra was already giving orders to Galan and Ilias regarding transporting the two hundred Silent Assassins onto Wendlyn’s ships, Aedion monitoring with crossed arms. Ansel was deep in conversation with Endymion, who didn’t seem to quite know what to do with the red-haired queen with a wolf’s smile. Ansel, however, seemed already inclined to raise hell and have a damn good time doing it. Rowan wished he had more than a moment to spare to thank them both—to thank Enda and each one of his cousins.

All was set, all was ready for that desperate push north. As Aelin had planned.

There would be no rest, no waiting. They did not have the time to spare.

The wyverns stirred, flapping their wings. Dorian climbed into the saddle behind Manon and wrapped his arms around her waist. The witch said something that made him smile. Truly smile.

Dorian lifted his hand in farewell, wincing as Abraxos soared into the skies.

Ten other wyverns took to the air behind them.

The grinning, golden-haired witch—Asterin—and a slender, black-haired, green-eyed one named Briar waited atop their mounts for Gavriel, Lorcan, and Elide. To carry them to the ship that would take them hunting across the sea.

Lorcan made to step toward Elide as she approached Asterin’s wyvern, but she ignored him. Didn’t even look at the male as she took Asterin’s hand and was hauled up into the saddle. And though Lorcan hid it well, Rowan caught the glimmer of devastation on those centuries-hardened features.

Gavriel’s barked curse as he gripped the golden-haired witch’s waist was the only sound of his unease as they flapped into the sky. Only when they were all airborne did Rowan slowly walk up the sandy hill, tying Goldryn’s ancient scabbard to his knife belt as he went.

Her blood-splattered shirt was still lying there, just to the side of the pool of her blood soaking the sand. He had no doubt Cairn had purposely left it.

Rowan bent, picking up the shirt, running his thumbs over the soft fabric.

The coven faded into the horizon; his companions reached their ship, and the others were readying to move the army his mate had summoned for them, pushing the longboats into the surf.

Rowan brought the shirt to his face and breathed in her scent. Felt something stir in him—felt the bond flicker.

He let the shirt drop, let the wind carry it far out to sea, far away from this blood-drenched place that reeked of pain.

I will find you.

Rowan shifted and soared high on a fast, wicked wind of his own making, the glimmering sea sprawling to his right, the marshes a green-and-gray tangle to his left. Chaining the wind to him, swiftly catching up with his companions now flying down the coast, he committed her scent to memory, committed that flicker in the bond to memory.

That flicker he could have sworn he felt in answer, like the fluttering heart of an ember.

Unleashing a cry that set the world trembling, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.