But the old men had risen to their feet. She knew one of them.
Aelin didn’t know how she hadn’t recognized Murtaugh that night she’d gone to the warehouse to end so many of them. Especially when he’d been the one who halted her slaughtering.
The other old man, though … while wrinkled, his face was strong—hard. Without amusement or joy or warmth. A man used to getting his way, to being obeyed without question. His body was thin and wiry, but his spine was still straight. Not a warrior of the sword, but of the mind.
Her great-uncle, Orlon, had been both. And kind—she’d never heard a stern or raging word from Orlon. This man, though … Aelin held Darrow’s gray-eyed gaze, predator recognizing predator.
“Lord Darrow,” she said, inclining her head. She couldn’t help the crooked grin. “You look toasty.”
Darrow’s plain face remained unmoved. Unimpressed.
Well, then.
Aelin watched Darrow, waiting—refusing to break his stare until he bowed.
A dip of his head was all he offered.
“A bit lower,” she purred.
Aedion’s gaze snapped to her, full of warning.
Darrow did no such thing.
It was Murtaugh who bowed deeply at the waist and said, “Majesty. We apologize for sending the messenger to fetch you—but my grandson worries after my health.” An attempt at a smile. “To my chagrin.”
Ren ignored his grandfather and pushed off the mantel, his boot-steps the only sound as he rounded the table. “You knew,” he breathed to Aedion.
Lysandra, wisely, shut the door and bid Evangeline and Fleetfoot to stand by the window—to watch for any peering eyes. Aedion gave Ren a little smile. “Surprise.”
Before the young lord could retort, Rowan stepped to Aelin’s side and pulled back his hood.
The men stiffened as the Fae warrior was revealed in his undimmed glory—glazed violence already in his eyes. Already focused on Lord Darrow.
“Now, that is a sight I have not seen for an age,” Darrow murmured.
Murtaugh mastered his shock—and perhaps a bit of fear—enough to extend a hand toward the empty chairs across from them. “Please, sit. Apologies for the mess. We hadn’t realized the messenger might retrieve you so swiftly.” Aelin made no move to sit. Neither did her companions. Murtaugh added, “We can order fresh food if you wish. You must be famished.” Ren shot his grandfather an incredulous look that told her everything she needed to know about the rebel’s opinion of her.
Lord Darrow was watching her again. Assessing.
Humility—gratitude. She should try; she could try, damn it. Darrow had sacrificed for her kingdom; he had men and money to offer in the upcoming battle with Erawan. She had called this meeting; she had asked these lords to meet them. Who cared if it was in another location? They were all here. It was enough.
Aelin forced herself to walk to the table. To claim the chair across from Darrow and Murtaugh.
Ren remained standing, monitoring her with dark fire in his eyes.
She said quietly to Ren, “Thank you—for helping Captain Westfall this spring.”
A muscle flickered in Ren’s jaw, but he said, “How does he fare? Aedion mentioned his injuries in his letter.”
“Last I heard, he was on his way to the healers in Antica. To the Torre Cesme.”
“Good.”
Lord Darrow said, “Would you care to enlighten me on how you know each other, or shall I be required to guess?”
Aelin began counting to ten at the tone. But it was Aedion who said as he claimed a seat, “Careful, Darrow.”
Darrow interlaced his gnarled but manicured fingers and set them on the table. “Or what? Shall you burn me to ash, Princess? Melt my bones?”
Lysandra slipped into a chair beside Aedion and asked with the sweet, unthreatening politeness that had been trained into her, “Is there any water left in that pitcher? Traveling through the storm was rather taxing.”
Aelin could have kissed her friend for the attempt at dulling the razor-sharp tension.
“Who, pray tell, are you?” Darrow frowned at the exquisite beauty, the uptilted eyes that did not shy from his despite her gentle words. Right—he had not known who traveled with her and Aedion. Or what gifts they bore.
“Lysandra,” Aedion answered, unbuckling his shield and setting it on the floor behind them with a heavy thunk. “Lady of Caraverre.”
“There is no Caraverre,” Darrow said.
Aelin shrugged. “There is now.” Lysandra had settled on the name a week ago, whatever it meant, bolting upright in the middle of the night and practically shouting it at Aelin once she’d mastered herself long enough to shift back into her human form. Aelin doubted she’d soon forget the image of a wide-eyed ghost leopard trying to speak. She smiled a bit at Ren, still watching her like a hawk. “I took the liberty of buying the land your family yielded. Looks like you’ll be neighbors.”
“And what bloodline,” Darrow asked, his mouth tightening at the brand across Lysandra’s tattoo, the mark visible no matter what form she took, “does Lady Lysandra hail from?”
“We didn’t arrange this meeting to discuss bloodlines and heritage,” Aelin countered evenly. She looked to Rowan, who gave a confirming nod that the inn staff was far from the room and no one was within hearing range.
Her Fae Prince stalked to the serving table against the wall to fetch the water Lysandra had asked for. He sniffed it, and she knew his magic swept through it, probing the water for any poison or drug, while he floated four glasses over to them on a phantom wind.
Th
e three lords watched in wide-eyed silence. Rowan sat and casually poured the water, then summoned a fifth cup, filled it, and floated it to Evangeline. The girl beamed at the magic and went back to staring out the rain-splattered window. Listening while pretending to be pretty, to be useless and small, as Lysandra had taught her.
Lord Darrow said, “At least your Fae warrior is good for something other than brute violence.”
“If this meeting is interrupted by unfriendly forces,” Aelin said smoothly, “you’ll be glad for that brute violence, Lord Darrow.”
“And what of your particular skill set? Should I be glad of that, too?”
She didn’t care how he’d learned. Aelin cocked her head, choosing each word, forcing herself to think it through for once. “Is there a skill set that you would prefer I possess?”
Darrow smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Some control would do Your Highness well.”
On either side of her, Rowan and Aedion were taut as bowstrings. But if she could keep her temper leashed, then they could—
Your Highness. Not Majesty.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” she said with a little smile of her own. “As for why my court and I wished to meet with you today—”
“Court?” Lord Darrow raised his silver brows. Then he slowly raked his stare over Lysandra, then Aedion, and finally Rowan. Ren was gaping at them all, something like longing—and dismay—on his face. “This is what you consider a court?”
“Obviously, the court will be expanded once we’re in Orynth—”
“And for that matter, I do not see how there can even be a court, as you are not yet queen.”
She kept her chin high. “I’m not sure I catch your meaning.”
Darrow sipped from his tankard of ale. The plunk as he set it down echoed through the room. Beside him, Murtaugh had gone still as death. “Any ruler of Terrasen must be approved by the ruling families of each territory.”
Ice, cold and ancient, cracked through her veins. Aelin wished she could blame it on the thing hanging from her neck.