Page 129 of Dance of Kings and Thieves

“Good. I’m going to go to Nik. He’s my target. But you focus on that boulder and step through.”

Gunnar scrubbed his hands together and nodded. I counted down, then together we crossed into the wall.

One breath, one heartbeat passed, and I stepped out of the darkness directly in front of Niklas. He’d hidden between two fallen logs, well concealed by trees and tall grass.

He beamed, mischief in his eyes. “I’d say we have some plans to make with this little shadow walking development.”

“I hit the damn boulder!” Gunnar’s voice rose in the distance.

The smile couldn’t be helped. Shadows had always been my shield, my cloak against the cruelties of the East.

Now, they would help us win back the wretched kingdom at long last.

CHAPTERFORTY

THE NIGHTRENDER

Niall’s vowswould be in two days’ time. The moon was nearly full, and already coaches and cabriolets had been spotted traveling the roads of Klockglas toward the Black Palace.

My blood was in a constant boil waiting for our mark. Niall would expect us, no mistake. By now, announcements had already been made that the Lord and Lady Magnate were brutally murdered by the memory thief and the Malevolent.

Sabain had been spotted by Raum, Isak, Fiske, and Hob at their last watch duty. The bastard had been taking to the streets of Rutten, mesmerizing the entire bleeding township with sickly twisted hopes that Niall would be their saving grace against our murderous guild. Hells, I could hardly stand the anticipation of driving my blacksteel through his bowels.

The grounds of the Black Palace would be well protected, but if our scheme worked, the Rifters and violent Southern fae Niall planned to guard his gates would not be a problem.

I supposed I should’ve been grateful for the moment of distraction of a loose end we needed to see through before we took our blades to the Black Palace.

After Valen was freed from the bloodlust, we’d rested, then returned to the sea, the small red-eyed fae boy in tow.

Thorvald’s son looked worse than the night we’d found him. Bruises had deepened, his leg was still splinted where the bone had snapped just below the knee, and the gashes still oozed blood through the hardened scabs.

Despite it all, the child seemed overjoyed to be out upon the waters. His little fingers drifted in the smooth waves as we bobbed on one of the North’s warships in the space where the Howl Sea met the Fates Ocean.

Stieg, Valen, and Elise sat beside the boy, keeping him distracted by asking him questions about his home while we waited for Thorvald’s return.

Gunnar stood at the bow with Eryka, staring at the stars and laughing. Herja and Hagen were with Sol and Tor. The two men had dozens of questions for the princess on raising an infant. Officially, the found fae boy would be named the newest prince in the North.

Malin slipped her fingers through mine. “You are staring at the tide with murderous attention. Has it offended you?”

I chuckled and kissed her palm. “Not yet, but if Thorvald does not hurry his damn—”

The moment I started to utter my threat, the sea billowed in frothy white. The water parted, and in great gusts of wind and power, Thorvald’s ship shattered through the surface of the ocean.

Erik smiled, but there was a bit of trepidation in his expression. As if he looked forward to seeing his father, but feared the man in the same breath.

Thorvald’s massive, strangely shaped ship banked next to the warship.

“Ready, Erik?” Stieg asked.

The boy nodded and allowed the warrior to lift him, careful not to jostle his broken leg too fiercely.

The clank of chains, and the whistle of rope unraveling rattled the night as a long gangplank connected the two ships. From the main deck of the vessel, Thorvald appeared. He looked healthier, his skin smoother, his cheekbones less pronounced after a few nights back on the sea.

The sea king stomped down the plank, his brother at his back. Once he stepped on the warship, Thorvald’s red eyes locked on his boy.

Erik’s smile widened. “Papa.”

Thorvald didn’t show a hint of satisfaction. Not a lick of gratitude. Hells, he seemed bleeding angry at the sight of his boy.