Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5)(62)

Rowan opened his mouth, no doubt to demand an answer, when Rolfe thumped his booted foot thrice on the worn floorboards. An answering thump on the wall sounded.

Silence fell. Given Rolfe’s hatred for the Valg, Dorian doubted Morath was about to spring shut a trap, but … he slid deep into his magic as footsteps thudded down the hall. From the tight cast of Rowan’s tattooed face, he knew the prince was doing the same. Especially as Dorian felt his magic reach toward the Fae Prince’s, as it had done that day with Aelin atop the glass castle.

Those footsteps paused outside the office door, and again, that pulse of foreign, mighty magic rose up. Rowan’s hand slid into casual distance of the hunting knife at his thigh.

Dorian focused on his breathing, on hauling up lines and pieces of his magic. Ice bit into his palms as the office door opened.

Two golden-haired males appeared in the doorway.

Rowan’s snarl reverberated through the floorboards and along Dorian’s feet as he took in the muscle, the pointed ears, the gaping mouths that revealed elongated canines…

The two strangers, the source of that power … They were Fae.

The one with night-dark eyes and an edged grin looked Rowan over and drawled, “I liked your hair longer.”

A dagger embedding itself in the wall not an inch from the male’s ear was Rowan’s only answer.





22


Dorian didn’t see the Fae Prince throw the dagger until the blade thudded into the wooden wall, its hilt still bobbing with the impact.

But the dark-eyed, bronze-skinned male—so handsome that Dorian blinked—smirked at the dagger shivering beside his head. “Was your aim that shitty when you cut your own hair?”

The other male beside him—tan, tawny-eyed, with a steady sort of quiet to him—lifted his broad, tattooed hands. “Rowan, put your blades down. We’re not here for you.”

For there were already more weapons gripped in Rowan’s hands. Dorian hadn’t even heard him stand, let alone draw the sword, or the elegant hatchet in the other hand.

Dorian’s magic writhed in his veins as it studied the two strangers. Here you are, it sang.

Alone with Rowan, his magic had become accustomed to the prince’s staggering abyss of power, but the three of these males together, ancient and powerful and primal … They were their own maelstrom. They could wreck this city without even trying. He wondered if Rolfe realized it.

The Pirate Lord said drily, “I take it you know each other.”

The solemn, golden-eyed one nodded, his pale clothes so like the ones Rowan favored: layered, efficient fabric, fit for battlefields. A band of black tattoos encircled the male’s muscled neck. Dorian’s stomach lurched. From a distance, it might very well have been another sort of black collar.

Rowan said tightly, “Gavriel and Fenrys used to … work with me.”

Rolfe’s sea-green eyes darted among them all, assessing, weighing.

Fenrys—Gavriel. Dorian knew those names. Rowan had mentioned them during their journey here … Two members of Rowan’s cadre.

Rowan explained to Dorian, “They are blood-sworn to Maeve. As I used to be.”

Meaning they were here under her orders. And if Maeve had sent not one, but two of her lieutenants to this continent, when Lorcan was already here…

Rowan said through his teeth but sheathed his weapons, “What is your business with Rolfe?”

Dorian released his magic into himself. It settled into his core like a bit of dropped ribbon.

Rolfe waved a hand to the two males. “They’re the bearer of the news I promised you—among other things.”

“And we were just sitting down to lunch,” Fenrys said, those dark eyes dancing. “Shall we?”

Fenrys didn’t wait for them as he ducked back into the hall and walked out.

The tattooed one—Gavriel—sighed quietly. “It’s a long tale, Rowan, and one you and the King of Adarlan”—a flick of tawny eyes in his direction—“must hear.” He gestured to the hall and said, utterly stone-faced, “You know how cranky Fenrys gets when he doesn’t eat.”

“I heard that,” called a deep male voice from the hall.

Dorian reined in his smile, watching Rowan for his reaction instead. But the Fae Prince only jerked his head at Gavriel in silent order to lead the way.

None of them, not even Rolfe, spoke as they descended into the main room. The barmaid was gone, only sparkling glasses behind the bar hinting that she’d been there. And, indeed digging into a steaming bowl of what smelled like fish stew, Fenrys now waited for them at a table in the back.

Gavriel slid into a seat beside the warrior, his mostly full bowl sloshing a bit as the table shifted, and said to Rowan when the prince halted halfway through the room, “Is…” The Fae warrior paused, as if weighing the words and how Rowan might react if the question was posed poorly. Dorian knew why the exact next moment. “Is Aelin Galathynius with you?”

Dorian didn’t know where to look: at the warriors now at the table, at Rowan beside him, or at Rolfe, brows raised as he leaned against the stair banister, with no idea that the queen was his great enemy.

Rowan shook his head once, a swift, cutting move. “My queen is not in our company.”

Fenrys flicked his brows up but continued devouring his meal, his gray jacket unbuttoned to reveal the muscled brown chest peeking through the vee of his white shirt. Gold embroidery swirled along the lapels of the jacket—the only sign of wealth among them.