Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(206)

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.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


It’s always so difficult to sum up my overwhelming gratitude for the people who not only work so tirelessly to make this book a reality, but who also provide me with such unwavering support and friendship. I don’t know what I would do without them in my life, and I thank the universe every single day that they’re in it.

To my husband, Josh: Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you. Thank you for the laughter on the days when I didn’t think I could smile, for holding my hand when I needed a reminder that I was loved, and for being my best friend and safe harbor. You are the greatest joy in my life, and even a thousand pages would not be enough to express how much I love you.

To Annie: By now, it would not surprise me at all if you’ve learned to read. You are the other great joy in my life, and your unconditional love and unfailing sass make a solitary job into something that never feels lonely—not for one moment. I love you, baby pup.

To Tamar Rydzinski: I have been so grateful for your wisdom, bad-assery, and brilliance from the very first moment you called me all those years ago. But this year especially, I’ve been even more thankful for your friendship. Thank you for having my back no matter what. I’m so lucky to have you in my corner.