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So where had Adarlan’s fleet been all this time? Rowan discovered the answer five days into their stay: the Gulf of Oro.
Erawan had skillfully divided his fleet, placing it in enough key locations that Rowan informed Dorian they’d have to sacrifice land, allies, and geographical advantages in order to hold others.
Rowan’s fork clinked against his plate as he lowered it—and waited with preternatural stillness.
He smelled Aelin
Even in the watery light, Dorian could perfectly see the woman sitting at Rolfe’s desk, her black clothes dirty, weapons gleaming, and her feet propped on the dark wooden surface.
Aelin Galathynius, her hands laced behind her head, grinned at them all and said, “I like this office far better than your other one, Rolfe.”
She inclined her head to Dorian. “Hello, Majesty.” “Hello, Celaena,” he said as calmly as he could,
Because it was Celaena who sat here—for whatever purpose, it was Celaena Sardothien in this room.
She just gave Rowan a sultry sweep from foot to face. Rowan’s expression remained unreadable, eyes intent— near-glowing. And then Aelin said to Rowan with a secret smile, “You, I don’t know. But I’d like to.”
Rowan’s lips tugged upward. “I’m not on the market, unfortunately.” “Pity,” Aelin said,
“She must be a rare, staggering beauty to make you so faithful.” Gods save them all. He could have sworn Fenrys coughed behind him.
copper, their plunking the only sound. “She must be clever”—plunk—“and fascinating”—plunk—“and very, very talented.” Plunk, plunk, plunk went the emeralds. She examined the four gems remaining in her hand. “She must be the most wonderful person who ever existed.”
But Aelin only had eyes for Rowan as the warrior said to her, “She is indeed that. And more.”
“You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.”
“And where is the sixteen-year-old self-righteous brat who wrecked six of my ships, stole two of them, and destroyed my town, all for the sake of two hundred slaves?”
“Spend a year in Endovier, Rolfe, and you quickly learn how to play a different sort of game.”
“I told you”—Rolfe seethed with quiet venom—“that you’d one day pay for that arrogance.” Aelin’s smile became lethal. “Indeed I did. And so did Arobynn Hamel.”
Dorian glanced at Rowan. But delight shone in the prince’s eyes—delight and pride and simmering lust. Dorian quickly looked away.
Aelin let out a low whistle. “Allow me to introduce to you, Captain Rolfe, the incomparable, the beautiful, and the absolutely and all-around flawless Queen of Terrasen.”
The males shifted as Aelin Galathynius indeed strode into the room, clad in a dark green tunic of equal wear and dirt, her golden hair unbound, her turquoise-and-gold eyes laughing as she strode past a slack-jawed Rolfe and perched on the arm of Aelin’s chair.
Aelin and Aelin looked at each other. The one in black grinned up at the newcomer. “Oh, you are gorgeous, aren’t you?” The one in green smiled, but for all its delight, all its wicked mischief … It was a softer smile, made with a mouth that was perhaps less used to snarling and teeth-baring and getting away with saying hideous, swaggering things. Lysandra, then.
Even Gavriel’s placid face was slack at the sight of the shape-shifter—his tattoos bobbing as he swallowed. Aedion’s father. And if Aedion was here with Aelin …
Dorian said, “She is Aelin Galathynius. And Celaena Sardothien.”
“The cadre is working with us on the condition that it’ll lead them to Lorcan, since Maeve sent them to kill him. I refused to divulge his whereabouts. Most of Adarlan’s fleet is in the Gulf of Oro thanks to some foul agreement with Melisande to use their ports, and Maeve’s own armada sails for Eyllwe—whether to attack or aid, we don’t know.”
about Maeve’s armada was correct. But then Rowan added, “And I missed you like hell.” She smiled despite what he’d told her, pulling back to look at him. Untouched, unharmed.
It had taken all her wits and abilities to avoid leaving traces of her scent today for him to detect—and the shocked delight on his face had been utterly worth it.
“The feeling, Prince,” she murmured, “is mutual.”
Just for the hell of it, she smiled and stuck out her tongue. Not the real thing—but a forked tongue of silver fire that wriggled like a snake’s in the air.
“We win this war, and you have the two largest kingdoms on this continent proclaiming you the undisputed King of all Pirates. Skull’s Bay and the Dead Islands become not a hideout for your people, but a proper home. A new kingdom.”
“The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by the dreamers, Rolfe.”
But if we win this war, it will be a new world—a free world. That is my promise—to you, to anyone who will march under my banner. A better world. And you will have to decide where your place in it shall be.”
“Tell me where my son is. Now.” Ah—there it was. The face of the Lion. The warrior who had felled armies, whose reputation made wintered soldiers shudder. Whose fallen warriors were tattooed all over him.
Dorian, a few steps behind, laughed quietly—which was good, she supposed. Good that he was laughing. He had not been the last time she saw him.
The evening air was heavy with sweet fruit and climbing flowers, the fountain in the center gurgling softly. She wondered if the owner of the inn hailed from the Red Desert—if they’d seen the use of water and stone and greenery at the Keep of the Silent Assassins.
“Rowan’s always looking for an excuse to show off. Dramatic rescues give him purpose and fulfillment in his dull, immortal life.”
“Manon Blackbeak,” Aedion mused, “would be a valuable ally, if we can get her to turn.”
“Perhaps getting Manon to turn on her kin would ignite an internal battle among the witches,” she said. “Maybe they’ll save us the task of killing them and just destroy each other.”
And all of them then looked to the thin necklace of scars marring the base of Aelin’s throat—where the scent permanently marked her as a Witch Killer.
She doubted it was a coincidence that Maeve was sailing for Eyllwe at the same moment Brannon had commanded she go to the Stone Marshes on its southwestern peninsula. Or that the gods-damned Morath fleet was squatting in the Gulf of Oro—right on its other side.
Each shift took something out of Lysandra. The bigger the change, the bigger the animal, the steeper the cost. Aedion had witnessed her morph from butterfly to bumblebee to hummingbird to bat within the span of a few minutes. But going from human to ghost leopard to bear or elk or horse, she’d once demonstrated, took longer between shifts, the magic having to draw up the strength to become that size, to fill the body with all its inherent power.
“It’s not as interesting as you’d think. I’d like to see if I could become a plant. Or a bit of wind.” “Can you … do that?”
“I knew Dorian as a reckless, arrogant—” “I knew your queen as the same. We were children then. We are allowed to make mistakes, to figure out who we wish to be. If you will allow Aelin the gift of your acceptance—” “I don’t care if he was as arrogant and vain as Aelin, I don’t care if he was enslaved to a demon that took his mind. I look at him and see my family butchered, see those tracks to the river, and hear Quinn tell me that Aelin was drowned and dead.”
“Aelin forgave him. Aelin never once held it against him.”
Lysandra snarled right back and held his stare with the face not trained or built for bedrooms, but the true one beneath—wild and unbroken and indomitable. No matter what body she wore, she was the Staghorns given form, the heart of Oakwald.
Too soon—she wouldn’t want a man’s touch for a long time. Maybe forever. And he’d be damned if he pushed her into it before she wanted to. And gods above, if Lysandra ever looked at any man with interest like that … he’d be glad for her. Glad she was choosing for herself, even if it wasn’t him she picked—
“I’ve heard so many stories about him—the Lion of Doranelle. He’s a gods-damned white knight. I don’t think he’ll approve of a son most people call Adarlan’s Whore.”
He knew about that—the shifter-father who had either abandoned her mother or not even known she was pregnant. And then the mother who had thrown Lysandra into the street when she discovered her heritage.
“My whole life has been … not about what I want. I don’t know how to choose those things.”
from the moment he’d arrived in Terrasen at age five, he’d been trained—his path chosen. And when Terrasen had burned beneath Adarlan’s torches, another hand had gripped the leash of his fate. Even now, with war upon them … Had he truly never wanted something for himself? All he’d wanted had been the blood oath. And Aelin had given that away to Rowan. He didn’t resent her for it, not anymore, but … He had not realized he had asked for so little.
He sometimes wished Arobynn Hamel were still alive—just so he could kill the assassin-king himself.
He couldn’t explain why, but he wanted her there. She got under his skin so damn easily, but … Lysandra steadied him. Perhaps because she was something new. Something he had not encountered, had not filled with hope and pain and wishes. Not too many of them, at least.
