Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass) (38 page)

Lorcan had known, as he’d pinned Rowan into the grass outside Mistward, the prince thrashing and screaming for Aelin Galathynius, that everything was about to change. Knew that the commander he’d valued was altered irrevocably. No longer would they glut themselves on wine and women; no longer would Rowan gaze toward a horizon without some glimmer of longing in his eyes.

Love had broken a perfect killing tool. Lorcan wondered if it would take him centuries more to stop being so pissed about it.

And the queen—princess, whatever Aelin called herself … She was a fool. She could have bartered Athril’s ring for Maeve’s armies, for an alliance to wipe Morath off the earth. Even not knowing what the ring was, she could have used it to her advantage.

But she’d chosen Rowan. A prince with no crown, no army, no allies.

They deserved to perish together.

Marion’s soaked head popped out of the tent, and Lorcan twisted to see the heavy wool blanket wrapped around her like a gown. “Can you bring the clothes now?” She chucked her pile out. She’d bundled her underthings in her white shirt, and the leathers … They’d never be dry before morning—and would likely shrink beyond use if washed improperly.

Lorcan stooped, picking up the bundle of clothes and trying not to peer into the tent to learn what she’d hidden beneath the bedroll. “What about standing guard?”

Her hair was plastered to her head, heightening the sharp lines in her cheekbones, her fine nose. But her eyes were bright again, her full lips once more like a rosebud, as she said, “Please get them washed. Quickly.”

Lorcan didn’t bother confirming as he carried her clothes away from the tent, leaving her to sit in partial nakedness inside. Ombriel was in the middle of cooking whatever was in the pot over the fire. Likely rabbit stew. Again. Lorcan examined the clothes in his hands.

Thirty minutes later, he returned to the tent, plate of food in hand. Marion was perched on the bedroll, foot stretched out before her, blanket tucked under her shoulders.

Her skin was so pale. He’d never seen such white unmarred skin.

As if she’d never been let outside.

Her dark brows furrowed at the plate—then at the bundle under his arm.

“Ombriel was busy—so I washed your clothes myself.”

She flushed.

“A body is a body,” he repeated simply to her. “So are undergarments.”

She frowned, but her attention was again riveted on the plate. He set it down before her. “I got you dinner, since I assumed you didn’t want to sit among everyone in your blanket.” He dumped the pile of clothes on her bedroll. “And I got you clothes from Molly. She’s charging you, of course. But at least you won’t sleep naked.”

She dug into the stew without so much as thanking him.

Lorcan was about to leave when she said, “My uncle … He is a commander at Morath.”

Lorcan froze. And looked right to the bedroll.

But Marion continued between bites, “He … locked me in the dungeon once.”

The wind in the grasses died; the campfire far beyond their tent flickered, the people around it huddling closer together as the nighttime insects went silent and the small, furred creatures of the plains scampered into their burrows.

Marion either didn’t notice the surge of his dark power, the magic kissed by Death himself, or didn’t care. She said, “His name is Vernon, and he is clever and cruel, and he will likely try to keep you alive if you are caught. He wields people to gain power for himself. He has no mercy, no soul. There is no moral code that guides him.”

She went back to her food, done for the night.

Lorcan said quietly, “Would you like me to kill him for you?”

Her limpid, dark eyes rose to his face. And for a moment, he could see the woman she’d become—was already becoming. Someone who, regardless of where she’d been born, any queen would prize at her side. “Would there be a cost?”

Lorcan hid his smile. Smart, cunning little witch. “No,” he said, and meant it. “Why did he lock you in the dungeon?”

Marion’s white throat bobbed once. Twice. She seemed to hold his stare through effort of will, through a refusal not to back down from him,
but from her own fears. “Because he wished to see if his bloodline could be crossed with the Valg. That was why I was brought to Morath. To be bred like a prize mare.”

Every thought emptied out of Lorcan’s head.

He had seen and dealt and endured many, many unspeakable things, but this…

“Did he succeed?” he managed to ask.

“Not with me. There were others before me who … Help came too late for them.”

“That explosion was not accidental, was it.”

A small shake of the head.

“You did it?” He glanced to the bedroll—to whatever she hid beneath.

Again that shake of the head. “I will not say who, or how. Not without risking the lives of the people who saved me.”

“Are the ilken—”

“No. The ilken are not the creatures that were bred in the catacombs. Those … those came from the mountains around Morath. Through far darker methods.”

Maeve had to know. She had to know what they were doing in Morath. The horrors being bred there, the army of demons and beasts to rival any from legend. She would never ally with such evil—never be foolish enough to ally with the Valg. Not when she warred with them millennia ago. But if she did not fight … How long would it be before these beasts were howling around Doranelle? Before it was his own continent under siege?

Doranelle could hold out. But he would likely be dead, once he found some way to destroy the keys and Maeve punished him. And with him dead and Whitethorn likely carrion, too … how long would Doranelle last? Decades? Years?

A question snagged in Lorcan’s mind, drawing him to the present, to the stuffy little tent. “Your foot has been ruined for years, though. He locked you in the dungeon that long?”

“No,” she said, not even flinching at his rough description. “I was only in the dungeon for a week. The ankle, the chain … He did that to me long before.”

“What chain.”

She blinked. And he knew she’d meant to avoid telling him that one particular detail.

But now that he looked … he could make out, among the mass of scars, a white band. And there, around her perfect, lovely other ankle, was its twin.

A wind laced with the dust and coldness of a tomb gnawed through the field.

Marion merely said, “When you kill my uncle, ask him yourself.”

31

Well, on the one hand, at least Rolfe’s map worked.

It had been Rowan’s idea, actually. And she might have felt slightly guilty for letting Aedion and Lysandra believe the Pirate Lord had only gone after the Amulet of Orynth, but … at least they now knew his unholy map functioned. And that the Pirate Lord was indeed living in terror of the Valg returning to this harbor.

She wondered what Rolfe made of it—what his map had shown him of the Wyrdkey. If it revealed the difference between it and the Wyrdstone rings his men had been enslaved with. Whatever the reason, the Pirate Lord had sent his barmaid to scout for any hint of the Valg, not realizing Rowan had selected that dead-end alley to ensure
only
someone sent by Rolfe would venture so far down it. And since Aelin had no doubt whatsoever that Aedion and Lysandra had snuck through the streets unnoticed … Well, at least that part of her evening had gone right.

As for the rest of it … It was just past midnight when Aelin wondered how the hell she and Rowan would ever go back to normalcy if they survived this war. If there’d be a day when it wasn’t easy to leap over rooftops as if they were stones on a stream, to break into someone’s room and hold a blade to the occupant’s throat.

They did the first two within the span of fifteen minutes.

And as they found Gavriel and Fenrys waiting for them in their shared room in the Sea Dragon inn, Aelin supposed she needn’t bother with the third. Even if both she and Rowan kept their hands within casual reach of their daggers while they leaned against the wall beside the now-shut window. They’d unlocked it with Rowan’s wind—only to have a candle ignite the moment the window swung away. Revealing two stone-faced Fae warriors, both dressed and armed.

“You could have used the door,” Fenrys said, arms crossed—a bit too casually.

“Why bother when a dramatic entrance is so much more fun?” Aelin countered.

Fenrys’s beautiful face twitched with amusement that didn’t quite meet his onyx eyes. “What a shame it’d be for you to miss out on any of that.”

She grinned at him. He grinned at her.

She supposed both of their smiles were less of a grin and more … teeth-exposing.

She snorted. “You two look like you enjoyed your summer in Doranelle. How’s sweet Aunt Maeve?”

Gavriel’s tattooed hands closed into loose fists. “You deny me the right to see my son and yet you barge into our room in the dead of the night to demand we divulge information about our blood-sworn queen.”

“One,
I
did not deny you anything, kitty-cat.”

Fenrys let out what might have been a choking sound.

“It’s your son’s decision, not mine. I don’t have enough time to oversee or really care.” Lies.

“It must be hard to find the time to care at all,” Fenrys cut in, “when you are facing a mortal life span.” A sly, cutting glance at Rowan. “Or is she due to Settle soon?”

Oh, he was a bastard. A bitter, hard-edged bastard, the laughing side of the coin to Lorcan’s sullen brooding. Maeve certainly had a type.

Rowan’s face yielded nothing. “The matter of Aelin’s Settling is none of your concern.”

“Isn’t it? Knowing if she’s immortal changes things. Many things.”

“Fenrys,” Gavriel warned.

She knew enough about it—the transition pureblooded Fae, and some demi-Fae, went through once their bodies locked into immortal youth. It was a rough process, their bodies and magic needing months to adjust to the sudden freezing and reordering of their aging process. Some Fae had no control over their power—some lost it entirely during the time it took to Settle.

And demi-Fae … some might be longer-lived, some might have the true immortal gift given to them. Like Lorcan. And possibly Aedion. They’d find out in the next few years if he’d take after his mother … or the male sitting across the room from her. If they survived the war.

And as for her … She did not let herself think about it. Precisely for the reasons Fenrys claimed. “I don’t see what it would change,” she said to him. “There’s already one immortal queen. Surely a second would be nothing new.”

“And will you hand out blood oaths to males who catch your eye, or will it just be Whitethorn at your side?”

She could feel the aggression beginning to pour off Rowan, and she was half tempted to grumble,
They’re your friends. Deal with them.
But he kept quiet, containing himself, as she said, “You didn’t seem nearly so interested in me that day at Mistward.”

“Trust me, he was,” Gavriel muttered.

Aelin lifted a brow. But Fenrys was giving Gavriel a look that promised a slow death.

Rowan explained, “Fenrys was the one who … volunteered to train you when Maeve told us you’d come to Wendlyn.”

Was he, now. Interesting. “Why?”

Rowan opened his mouth, but Fenrys cut him off. “It would have gotten me out of Doranelle. And we likely would have had far more fun, anyway. I know what a bastard Whitethorn can be when it comes to training.”

“You two would have stayed on that rooftop in Varese and drunk yourselves to death,” Rowan said. “And as for training … You’re alive today because of that training, boyo.”

Fenrys rolled his eyes. Younger, she realized. Still old by human standards, but Fenrys was and felt younger. Wilder.

“Speaking of Varese,” Aelin said with cool amusement. “And Doranelle…”

“I will warn you,” Gavriel said quietly, “that there is little we know regarding Maeve’s plans, and less still we can reveal with the blood oath’s constraints.”

“How does she do it?” Aelin asked baldly. “With Rowan, it’s not … Every order I give him, even casual ones, are his to decide what to do with. Only when I actively pull on the bond can I get him to … yield. And even then it’s more of a suggestion.”

“It is different with her,” Gavriel said softly. “Dependent on the ruler it is sworn to. You two took the oath to each other with love in your hearts. You had no desire to own or rule him.”