Empire of Storms

Rowan’s canines flashed. “And your point is, Captain?”

“I just wish to know whether Her Majesty, Queen of Fire, expects a grand parade when she arrives.”

Dorian doubted Rolfe would very much like her other title—Adarlan’s Assassin.

Rowan’s snarl was soft. “Again, she’s not coming here.”

“Oh? You mean to tell me that her lover goes to rescue the King of Adarlan, and instead of taking him north, he brings him here—and it doesn’t somehow mean I’m to soon play host to her?”

At the mention of lover, Rowan gave Fenrys a lethal stare. The beautiful male—really, there was no way to describe him other than that—just shrugged.

But Rowan said to Rolfe, “She asked me to bring King Dorian to persuade you to join our cause. But as you have no interest in any agenda but your own, it seems our trip was wasted. So we have no further use for you at this table, especially if you’re incapable of dispatching messengers.” Rowan flicked his eyes toward the stairs behind Rolfe. “You’re dismissed.”

Fenrys choked on a dark laugh, but Gavriel straightened as Rolfe hissed, “I don’t care who you are and what power you wield. You don’t give me orders in my territory.”

“You’d better get used to taking them,” Rowan said, his voice calm in that way that made Dorian’s every instinct prepare to run. “For if Morath wins this war, they will not be content to let you flounce about these islands, pretending to be king. They will lock you out of every port and river, deny you trade with cities that you have come to depend upon. Who shall your buyers be when there are none left to purchase your goods? I doubt Maeve will bother—or remember you.”

Rolfe snapped, “If these islands are sacked, we will sail to others—and others. The seas are my haven—upon the waves, we will always be free.”

“I’d hardly call squatting in your tavern in fear of Valg assassins free.”

Rolfe’s gloved hands flexed and unfurled, and Dorian wondered if he’d go for the rapier at his side. But then the Pirate Lord said to Fenrys and Gavriel, “We will meet here tomorrow at eleven.” When his gaze shifted to Rowan, it hardened. “Send however many damn messages you want. You may stay until your queen arrives, which I have no doubt she will. At that time, I will hear what the legendary Aelin Galathynius has to say for herself. Until then, get the hell out.” He jerked his chin toward Gavriel and Fenrys. “You can talk to the princes at their own damn lodgings.” Rolfe stalked to the front door, yanking it open to reveal a wall of rain and the four young but hard-looking men lingering on the soaked quay. Their hands shot to their weapons, but Rolfe made no move to summon them. He only pointed out the door.

Rowan stared down the man for a moment, then said to his former companions, “Let’s go.”

They weren’t stupid enough to argue.

This was bad. Undeniably bad.

Rowan’s magic frayed apart as he worked to keep the shields around him and Dorian intact. But he didn’t let Fenrys or Gavriel get a whiff of that exhaustion, didn’t reveal one bit of the effort it took to hold the magic and concentrate.

Rolfe might very well be a lost cause against Erawan or Maeve—especially once he saw Aelin. If Aelin had been present during this conversation, Rowan had a feeling it would have ended with the Sea Dragon—both the inn and the ship anchored in the harbor—aflame. But those sea-wyverns … And Maeve’s armada … He’d think about that later. But shit. Just—shit.

The no-nonsense innkeeper at the Ocean Rose asked no questions as Rowan purchased two rooms—the best the inn had to offer. Not when he laid a gold piece on the counter. Two weeks’ accommodations, plus all meals, plus stabling of their horses if they had them, and unlimited laundry, she’d offered with a knowing look at his clothes.

And whatever guests he wished, she added as Rowan whistled sharply, and Dorian, Fenrys, and Gavriel crossed the flagstone courtyard, hoods on as they edged around the burbling fountain. Rain pattered on the potted palms, rustling the magenta bougainvillea crawling up the walls toward the white-painted balconies, still shuttered against the storm.

Rowan asked the woman to send up what was likely enough food for eight people, then stalked for the polished stairs at the back of the dim dining room, the others falling in behind him. Fenrys, mercifully, kept his mouth shut until they reached Rowan’s room, discarded their cloaks, and Rowan lit a few candles. The act alone left a hole in his chest.

Fenrys sank into one of the cushioned chairs before the dark fireplace, running a finger down the black-painted arm. “Such fine accommodations. Which of the royals is paying, then?”

Dorian, who had been about to claim the seat by the small desk before the shuttered windows, stiffened. Gavriel gave Fenrys a look that said, Please no brawling.

“Does it make a difference?” Rowan asked as he went wall to wall, lifting the framed pictures of lush flora for any spy holes or access points. Then he checked beneath the white-sheeted bed, its posts of twirled black wood kissed with the candlelight, trying not to consider that for all his resolutions … she’d share this room with him. This bed.

The space was secure—serene, even, with the beat of the rain in the courtyard and on the roof, the smell of sweet fruit heavy in the air.

“Someone’s got to have money to finance this war,” Fenrys purred, watching Rowan at last lean against a low dresser beside the door. “Though maybe considering yesterday’s decree from Morath, you’ll be moving to more … economical quarters.”

Well, that said enough about what Fenrys and Gavriel knew regarding Erawan’s decree concerning Dorian and his allies. “Worry over your own business, Fenrys,” Gavriel said.

Fenrys snorted, toying with a small curl of golden hair at his nape. “How you even manage to walk with that much steel on you, Whitethorn, has always been a mystery to me.”

Rowan said smoothly, “How no one has ever cut out your tongue just to shut you up has always been a mystery to me as well.”

An edged chuckle. “I’ve been told it’s my best feature. At least the women think so.”

A low laugh escaped Dorian—the first sound like it Rowan had witnessed from the king.

Rowan braced his hands on the dresser. “How did you keep your scents hidden?”

Gavriel’s tawny eyes darkened. “A new trick of Maeve’s—to keep us nearly invisible in a land that does not receive our kind warmly.” He jerked his chin at Dorian and Rowan. “Though it seems it’s not wholly effective.”

Rowan said, “You two better have a damn good explanation for why you’re here—and why you dragged Rolfe into whatever it is.”

Fenrys drawled, “You get everything you want, Rowan, yet you’re still a stone-cold bastard. Lorcan would be proud.”

“Where’s Connall?” was Rowan’s mocking reply, naming Fenrys’s twin.

Fenrys’s face tightened. “Where do you think? One of us is always the anchor.”

“She’d stop keeping him as collateral if you didn’t make your discontent so obvious.”

Fenrys had always been a pain in his ass. And Rowan had not forgotten that it was Fenrys who had wanted the task of handling Aelin Galathynius this past spring. Fenrys loved anything that was wild and beautiful, and to dangle Aelin before him … Maeve had known it was torture.

Perhaps it was torture, too, for Fenrys to be so far from Maeve’s grip—but to know that his twin was back in Doranelle, that if Fenrys never came back … Connall would be punished in unspeakable ways. It was how the queen had ensnared them in the first place: offspring were rare among the Fae—but twins? Even rarer. And for twins to be born gifted with strength, to grow into males whose dominance rivaled that of warriors centuries older than them…

Maeve had coveted them. Fenrys had refused the offer to join her service. So she’d gone after Connall—the dark to Fenrys’s gold, quiet to Fenrys’s roar, thoughtful to Fenrys’s recklessness.

Fenrys got what he wanted: women, glory, wealth. Connall, though skilled, was forever in his twin’s shadow. So when the queen approached him about the blood oath, at a time when Fenrys, not Connall, had been selected to fight in the war with the Akkadians … Connall had sworn it.