The nicest inn in town, the dockmaster had claimed when they asked. Since they at least needed to appear like they could make good on the money they’d offer Rolfe.
And get some rest, if only for a few hours. Rowan stepped toward it, nearly sagging with relief, and looked over a shoulder to motion the king to follow.
But as if the gods themselves wanted to test him, a gust of rain-cooled wind sprayed into their faces, and some sense pricked in its wake. A shift in the air. Like a great pocket of power gathered close, beckoning.
The knife at his side was instantly in his soaked hand as he searched the rooftops, revealing only plumes of rain. Rowan quieted his mind, listening to the city and storm around them.
Dorian swept his dripping hair out of his face, mouth open to speak—until he noted the knife. “You feel it, too.”
Rowan nodded, rain sliding down his nose. “What do you sense?”
The king’s raw power might pick up different feelings, different clues, than what his wind and ice and instinct could detect. But without the training, it might not be clear.
“It feels … old.” Dorian winced, and said over the storm, “Feral. Ruthless. I can’t glean anything more.”
“Does it remind you of the Valg?”
If there was one person who’d know, it’d be the king before him.
“No,” Dorian said, gaze shuttering. “They were abhorrent to my magic. This thing out there … It just makes my magic curious. Wary, but curious. But it’s concealed—somehow.”
Rowan sheathed his knife. “Then stay close and keep alert.”
Dorian had never been in such a place as Skull’s Bay.
Even with the heavy rain lashing them as they hunted the source of that power down the main street, he’d marveled at the blend of lawlessness and complete order of the island-city. It bowed to no king of royal blood—yet was ruled by a Pirate Lord who had clawed his way to power thanks to hands tattooed with a map of the world’s oceans.
A map, rumor claimed, that had revealed where enemies, treasure, and storms awaited him. The cost: his eternal soul.
Aelin had once confirmed that Rolfe was indeed soulless and indeed tattooed. As for the map … She’d shrugged, saying Rolfe claimed it stopped moving when magic fell. Dorian wondered if that map now indicated that he and Rowan walked through his city—if it marked them as enemies.
Perhaps Aelin’s arrival would be known well before she set foot on this island.
Cloaked and hooded and thoroughly soaked, Dorian and Rowan made a wide circuit of the surrounding streets. People had quickly vanished, and the ships in the harbor rocked wildly with the waves lapping over the broad quay and onto the cobblestones. Palms thrashed and hissed, and not even gulls stirred.
His magic remained dormant, rumbling when he’d stiffen at a loud noise from within the taverns, inns, homes, and shops they passed. At his side, Rowan plowed through the storm, the rain and wind seeming to part for him.
They reached the quay, Rolfe’s massive prize ship looming out in the heaving waters, sails tied down against the storm.
At least Rolfe was here. At least that had gone right.
Dorian was so busy observing the ship that he nearly slammed into Rowan’s back as the warrior-prince halted.
He staggered back, Rowan mercifully not commenting on it, then scanned the building that had snagged the prince’s attention.
His magic perked up like a startled deer.
“I shouldn’t even be surprised,” Rowan grumbled, and the blue-painted sign clattered in the winds above the tavern entrance. THE SEA DRAGON.
Two guards stood halfway down the block—guards not for any uniform, but for the fact that they were standing in this storm, hands on their swords.
Rowan angled his head in a way that told Dorian the prince was likely contemplating whether it was worth it to chuck the men into the roiling harbor. But no one stopped them as Rowan gave Dorian a warning look and opened the door to the Pirate Lord’s personal tavern. Golden light, spices, polished wood floors and walls greeted them.
It was empty, despite the storm. Utterly empty, save for the dozen or so tables.
Rowan shut the door behind Dorian, scanning the room, the small stairs in the back. From where they stood, Dorian could see the letters covering most of the tables.
Storm-Chaser. Lady Ann. Tiger-Star.
The sterns of ships. Every table was made from them.
They hadn’t been taken from wrecks. No, this was a trophy room—a reminder to those who met with the Pirate Lord of how, exactly, he had gained his crown.
All the tables seemed centered around one in the back, bigger and more worn than the others. Thresher. The enormous slats were flecked with burn marks and gouges—but the lettering remained clear. As if Rolfe never wanted to forget what ship was used as his personal dining table.
But as for the man himself and that power they’d felt … No sign of either.
A door behind the bar opened, and a slim, brown-haired young woman stepped out. Her apron marked her as the barmaid, but her shoulders were back, head high—gray eyes sharp and clear as she scanned them and remained unimpressed. “He was wondering when you two would come snooping,” she said, her accent rich and thick—like Aedion’s.
Rowan said, “Oh?”
The barmaid jerked her delicate chin toward the narrow wood stairs in the back. “Captain wants to see you—in his office. One flight up, second door down.”
“Why.”
Even Dorian knew not to ignore that tone. But the girl just grabbed a glass, held it to the candlelight to inspect for smudges, and pulled a rag from her apron. Twin tattoos of roaring gray sea d
ragons snaked around her tan forearms, the beasts seeming to slither as her muscles shifted with the movement.
Their scales, he realized, matched her eyes perfectly as she flicked her stare over Dorian and Rowan once more and said coolly, “Don’t keep him waiting.”
Dorian murmured to Rowan as they ascended the creaky, dim stairs, “It could be a trap.”
“Possibly,” Rowan said with equal quiet. “But consider that we were allowed to come to him. If it was a trap, the smarter move would have been to catch us unawares.”
Dorian nodded, something in his chest easing. “And you—your magic is … better?”
That hard face yielded nothing. “I’ll manage.” Not an answer.
Along the second-level hallway, four steely-eyed young men had been stationed, each armed with fine swords whose hilts were fashioned after attacking sea dragons—surely the mark of their captain. None bothered to speak as he and Rowan made for the indicated door.
The Fae Prince knocked once. A grunt was all they got in response.
Dorian didn’t know what he expected from the Lord of Pirates.
But a dark-haired man, a day past thirty if that, lounging on a red velvet chaise before the rain-splattered curve of windows was not it.
21
The Pirate Lord of Skull’s Bay did not turn from where he was sprawled on the chaise, piles of papers littering the worn cobalt rug beneath it. From the neat columns that Dorian could barely make out from where he and Rowan stood a few feet into the man’s office, the papers seemed crammed with tallies of goods or expenses—ill-gained or otherwise.
But Rolfe continued monitoring the ships tilting and bobbing in the harbor, the shadow of Ship-Breaker’s sagging chain cleaving the storm-tossed world beyond them.
Rolfe had likely learned of their arrival not due to any magic map, but from sitting here. Indeed, dark leather gloves adorned his hands—the material scarred and cracked with age. Not a hint of the legendary tattoos lurking beneath.