Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(10)

Rowan emerged from the rain in his Fae form, his silver hair plastered to his head, his tattoo stark on his tan face. No sign of the lords.

But Rowan held his hunting knife against the bared throat of a young, slender-nosed man and escorted him toward the fire—the stranger’s travel-stained, soaked clothes bearing Darrow’s crest of a striking badger.

“A messenger,” Rowan ground out.





Aelin decided right then and there she didn’t particularly enjoy surprises.

The messenger’s blue eyes were wide, but his rain-slick, freckled face was calm. Steady. Even as he took in Lysandra, her fangs gilded with firelight. Even as Rowan nudged him forward, that cruel knife still angled at his throat.

Aedion jerked his chin at Rowan. “He can’t very well deliver the message with a blade at his windpipe.”

Rowan lowered his weapon, but the Fae Prince didn’t sheathe his knife. Didn’t move more than a foot from the man.

Aedion demanded, “Where are they?”

The man bowed swiftly to her cousin. “At a tavern, four miles from here, General—”

The words died as Aelin at last stepped around the curve of the fire. She kept it burning high, kept Evangeline and Fleetfoot ensconced within. The messenger let out a small noise.

He knew. With the way he kept glancing between her and Aedion, seeing the same eyes, the same hair color … he knew. And as if the thought had hit him, the messenger bowed.

Aelin watched the way the man lowered his eyes, watched the exposed back of his neck, his skin shining with rain. Her magic simmered in response. And that thing—that hideous power hanging between her breasts—seemed to open an ancient eye at all the commotion.

The messenger stiffened, wide-eyed at Lysandra’s silent approach, her whiskers twitching as she sniffed at his wet clothes. He was smart enough to remain still.

“Is the meeting canceled?” Aedion said tightly, scanning the woods again.

The man winced. “No, General—but they want you to come to the tavern where they’re staying. Because of the rain.”

Aedion rolled his eyes. “Go tell Darrow to drag his carcass out here. Water won’t kill him.”

“It’s not Lord Darrow,” the man said quickly. “With all due respect, Lord Murtaugh’s slowed down this summer. Lord Ren didn’t want him out in the dark and rain.”

The old man had ridden across the kingdoms like a demon from hell this spring, Aelin remembered. Perhaps it had taken its toll. Aedion sighed. “You know we’ll need to scout the tavern first. The meeting will be later than they want.”

“Of course, General. They’ll expect that.” The messenger cringed as he at last spotted Evangeline and Fleetfoot within the flame’s ring of safety. And despite the Fae Prince armed beside him, despite the ghost leopard with unsheathed claws sniffing at him, the sight of Aelin’s fire made his face go deathly pale. “But they are waiting—and Lord Darrow is impatient. Being outside Orynth’s walls makes him anxious. Makes us all anxious, these days.”

Aelin snorted softly. Indeed.





3


Manon Blackbeak stood at attention by one end of the long, dark bridge into Morath and watched her grandmother’s coven descend from the gray clouds.

Even with the plumes and pillars of smoke from the countless forges, the High Witch of the Blackbeak Witch-Clan’s voluminous obsidian robes were unmistakable. No other dressed as the Matron did. Her coven swept from the heavy cloud cover, keeping a respectful distance from the Matron and the extra rider flanking her massive bull.

Manon, her Thirteen in rank behind her, made no movement as the wyverns and their riders landed on the dark stones of the courtyard across the bridge. Far below, the rushing of a filthy, ruined river roared, vying with the scrape of talons on stone and the rustle of settling wings.

Her grandmother had come to Morath.

Or what was left of it, when one-third was nothing more than rubble.

Asterin hissed in a breath as Manon’s grandmother dismounted in a smooth movement, scowling at the black fortress looming above Manon and her Thirteen. Duke Perrington was already waiting in his council chamber, and Manon had no doubt his pet, Lord Vernon, would do his best to undermine and shake her at every turn. If Vernon were to make a move to be rid of Manon, it would be now—when her grandmother was seeing for herself what Manon had accomplished.

And failed to do.

Manon kept her back straight as her grandmother strode across the broad stone bridge, her steps drowned out by the rush of the river, the beat of distant wings, and those forges working day and night to equip their army. When she could see the white in her grandmother’s eyes, Manon bowed.

The creak of flying leathers told her the Thirteen had followed suit.

When Manon lifted her head, her grandmother was before her.

Death, cruel and cunning, waited in that gold-flecked onyx stare.

“Take me to the duke,” the Matron said by way of greeting.

Manon felt her Thirteen stiffen. Not at the words, but at the High Witch’s coven now following on her heels. Rare—so rare for them to track her, guard her.

But this was a citadel of men—and demons. And this would be an extended stay, if not permanent, judging by the fact that her grandmother had brought along the beautiful, dark-haired young witch currently warming her bed. The Matron would be a fool not to take extra protection. Even if the Thirteen had always been enough. Should have been enough.