Empire of Storms
Page 47

“Maeve isn’t the sort to share power,” Gavriel cut in calmly. “But before we left, she was readying her armada to leave—for Eyllwe.”
Dorian whooshed out a breath. “Why Eyllwe? Is it possible she could be sending aid?”
From the look on Rowan’s face, Dorian could tell the prince was already cataloging and marking, analyzing what he knew of his former queen, of Eyllwe, and how it tied to everything else.
Dorian tried to control his thundering heart, knowing they could likely hear its shift in rhythm.
Fenrys set down his spoon. “I doubt she’s sending aid to anyone at all—at least not where this continent is concerned. And again, she didn’t tell us her specific reasons.”
“She always tells us,” Rowan countered. “She’s never contained information like that.”
Fenrys’s dark eyes flickered. “That was before you humiliated her by leaving her for Aelin of the Wildfire. And before Lorcan abandoned her as well. She trusts none of us now.”
Eyllwe … Maeve had to know how dear the kingdom was to Aelin. But to launch an armada … There had to be something there, something worth her while. Dorian ran through every lesson he’d been taught, every book he’d read on the kingdom. But nothing sparked.
Rowan said, “Maeve cannot believe she can conquer Eyllwe—at least not for any extended period of time, not without drawing all her armies here, and leaving her realm undefended.”
But perhaps it’d spread Erawan thin, even if the cost of Maeve’s invasion would be steep…
“Again,” Fenrys drawled, “we don’t know details. We only told him”—a jerk of the chin toward where Rolfe still leaned against the banister with crossed arms—“as a courtesy warning—among other things.”
Dorian noted that Rowan didn’t ask if they’d have extended the courtesy to them had they not been here. Or what, exactly, those other things were. The prince said to Rolfe, “I need to dispatch messages. Immediately.”
Rolfe studied his gloved hands. “Why bother? Won’t the recipient arrive soon enough?”
“What?” Dorian braced himself at the simmering temper in Rowan’s tone.
Rolfe smiled. “Rumor has it Aelin Galathynius destroyed General Narrok and his lieutenants over in Wendlyn. And that she accomplished this with a Fae Prince at her side. Impressive.”
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.