Heir of Fire (41 page)

She obeyed. He didn't give her leave to sit, so she leaned against the wooden door and waited. He kept his back to her, and she watched the powerful muscles expand and contract as he took a deep breath.
Th
en another.
Th
en—

“When my mate died, it took me a very, very long time to come back.”

It took her a moment to think of what to say. “How long ago?”

“Two hundred three years, twenty-­seven days ago.” He gestured to the tattoo on his face, neck, arms. “
Th
is tells the story of how it happened. Of the shame I'll carry until my last breath.”

Th
e warrior who had come the other day had such hollow eyes . . . “Others come to you to have their own grief and shame tattooed on them.”

“Gavriel lost three of his soldiers in an ambush in the southern mountains.
Th
ey ­were slaughtered. He survived. For as long as he's been a warrior, he's tattooed himself with the names of those under his command who have fallen. But where the blame lies has little to do with the point of the markings.”

“Were you to blame?”

Slowly, he turned—­not quite all the way, but enough to give her a sidelong glance. “Yes. When I was young, I was . . . ferocious in my e
ff
orts to win valor for myself and my bloodline. Wherever Maeve sent me on campaigns, I went. Along the way, I mated a female of our race. Lyria,” he said, almost reverently. “She sold
fl
owers in the market in Doranelle. Maeve disapproved, but . . . when you meet your mate, there is nothing you can do to alter it. She was mine, and no one could tell me otherwise. Mating her cost me Maeve's favor, and I still yearned so badly to prove myself. So when war came calling and Maeve o
ff
ered me a chance to redeem myself, I took it. Lyria begged me not to go. But I was so arrogant, so misguided, that I le
ft
her at our mountain home and went o
ff
to war. I le
ft
her alone,” he said, and again looked at Celaena.

You le
ft
me
, she had said to him.
Th
at was when he'd snapped—­the wounds of centuries ago rising up to swallow him as viciously as her own past consumed her.

“I was gone for months, winning all that glory I so foolishly sought. And then we got word that our enemies had been secretly trying to gain entrance to Doranelle through the mountain passes.” Her stomach dropped to her feet. Rowan ran a hand through his hair, scratched at his face. “I
fl
ew home. As fast as I'd ever
fl
own. When I got there, I found that . . . found she had been with child. And they had slaughtered her anyway, and burnt our ­house to cinders.

“When you lose a mate, you don't . . .” A shake of the head. “I lost all sense of self, of time and place. I hunted them down, all the males who hurt her. I took a long while killing them. She was pregnant—­had been pregnant since I'd le
ft
her. But I'd been so enamored with my own foolish agenda that I hadn't scented it on her. I le
ft
my pregnant mate alone.”

Her voice broke, but she managed to say, “What did you do a
ft
er you killed them?”

His face was stark and his eyes focused on some far-­o
ff
sight. “For ten years, I did nothing. I vanished. I went mad. Beyond mad. I felt nothing at all. I just . . . le
ft
. I wandered the world, in and out of my forms, hardly marking the seasons, eating only when my hawk told me it needed to feed or it would die. I
would
have let myself die—­except I . . . ­couldn't bring myself . . .” He trailed o
ff
and cleared his throat. “I might have stayed that way forever, but Maeve tracked me down. She said it was enough time spent in mourning, and that I was to serve her as prince and commander—­to work with a handful of other warriors to protect the realm. It was the
fi
rst time I had spoken to anyone since that day I found Lyria.
Th
e
fi
rst time I'd heard my name—­or remembered it.”

“So you went with her?”

“I had nothing. No one. At that point, I hoped serving her might get me killed, and then I could see Lyria again. So when I returned to Doranelle, I wrote the story of my shame on my
fl
esh. And then I bound myself to Maeve with the blood oath, and have served her since.”

“How—how did you come back from that kind of loss?”

“I didn't. For a long while I ­couldn't. I think I'm still . . . not back. I might never be.”

She nodded, lips pressed tight, and glanced toward the window.

“But maybe,” he said, quietly enough that she looked at him again. He didn't smile, but his eyes ­were inquisitive. “Maybe we could
fi
nd the way back together.”

He would not apologize for today, or yesterday, or for any of it. And she would not ask him to, not now that she understood that in the weeks she had been looking at him it had been like gazing at a re
fl
ection. No wonder she had loathed him.

“I think,” she said, barely more than a whisper, “I would like that very much.”

He held out a hand. “Together, then.”

She studied the scarred, callused palm, then the tattooed face, full of a grim sort of hope. Someone who might—­who
did
understand what it was like to be crippled at your very core, someone who was still climbing inch by inch out of that abyss.

Perhaps they would never get out of it, perhaps they would never be ­whole again, but . . . “Together,” she said, and took his outstretched hand.

And somewhere far and deep inside her, an ember began to glow.

Part Two

Heir of Fire

36

“
Th
ings are ready for your meeting to­night with Captain Westfall?” Aedion could have sworn Ren Allsbrook bristled as he bit out the name.

Seated beside the young lord on the ledge of the roof of the ware­house apartment, Aedion considered Ren's tone, decided it ­wasn't enough of a challenge to warrant a verbal slap, and gave a nod as he went back to cleaning his nails with one of his
fi
ghting knives.

Ren had been recovering for days now, a
ft
er the captain had set him up in the guest room of the apartment.
Th
e old man had refused to take the main bedroom, saying he'd prefer the couch, but Aedion wondered what exactly Murtaugh had observed when they arrived in the apartment. If he suspected who the own­er was—­Celaena or Aelin or both—­he revealed nothing.

Aedion hadn't seen Ren since the opium den, and didn't really know why he'd bothered to come to­night. He said, “You've managed to build yourself a network of lowlifes ­here.
Th
at's a far cry from the lo
ft
y towers of Allsbrook Castle.”

Ren's jaw tightened. “You're a far cry from the white towers of Orynth, too. We all are.” A breeze ru
ffl
ed Ren's shaggy hair. “
Th
ank you. For—­helping that night.”

“It was nothing,” Aedion said coolly, giving him a lazy smile.

“You killed for me, then hid me.
Th
at isn't nothing. I owe you.”

Aedion was plenty used to accepting gratitude from other men, from his men, but this . . . “You should have told me,” he said, dropping the grin as he watched the golden lights twinkling across the city, “that you and your grandfather had no home.” Or money. No wonder Ren's clothes ­were so shabby.
Th
e shame Aedion had felt that night had almost overwhelmed him—­and had haunted him for the past few days, honing his temper to a near-­lethal edge. He'd tried working it o
ff
with the castle guards, but sparring with the men who protected the king had only sharpened it.

“I don't see how it's relevant to anything,” Ren said tightly. Aedion could understand pride.
Th
e kind Ren had went deep, and admitting this vulnerability was as hard for him as it was for Aedion to accept Ren's gratitude. Ren said, “If you
fi
nd out how to break the spell on magic, you're going to do it, right?”

“Yes. It could make a di
ff
erence in what­ever battles lie ahead.”

“It didn't make a di
ff
erence ten years ago.” Ren's face was a mask of ice, and then Aedion remembered. Ren hardly had a drop of magic. But Ren's two elder sisters . . .
Th
e girls had been away at their mountain school when everything went to hell. A school for magic.

As if reading his thoughts, as if this ­were a reprieve from the city below them, Ren said, “When the soldiers dragged us to the butchering blocks, that was what they mocked my parents about. Because even with their magic, my sisters' school was defenseless—­they could do nothing against ten thousand soldiers.”

“I'm sorry,” Aedion said.
Th
at was all he could o
ff
er for the time being, until Aelin returned.

Ren looked right at him. “Going back to Terrasen will be . . . hard. For me, and for my grandfather.” He seemed to struggle with the words, or just with the idea of telling anyone anything, but Aedion gave him the time he needed. At last Ren said, “I'm not sure I'm civilized enough anymore. I don't know if . . . if I could be a lord, even. If my people would
want
me as lord. My grandfather is better suited, but he's an Allsbrook by marriage and he says he ­doesn't want to rule.”

Ah. Aedion found himself actually pausing—­contemplating.
Th
e wrong word, the wrong reaction, could make Ren shut up forever. It shouldn't matter, but it did. So he said, “My life has been war and death for the past ten years. It will probably be war and death for the next few as well. But if there's ever a day when we
fi
nd peace . . .” Gods, that word, that beautiful word. “It'll be a strange transition for all of us. For what­ever it's worth, I don't see how the people of Allsbrook ­wouldn't embrace a lord who spent years trying to break Adarlan's rule—­or a lord who spent years in poverty for that dream.”

“I've . . . done things,” Ren said. “Bad things.” Aedion had suspected as much from the moment Ren gave them the address of the opium den.

“So have we all,” Aedion said.
So has Aelin
. He wanted to say it, but he still didn't want Ren or Murtaugh or anyone knowing a damn thing about her. It was her story to tell.

Aedion knew the conversation was about to take a turn for the ugly when Ren tensed and asked too quietly, “What do you plan to do about Captain Westfall?”

“Right now, Captain Westfall is useful to me, and useful to our queen.”

“So as soon as he's outlived his usefulness . . .”

“I'll decide that when the time comes—­if it's safe to leave him alive.” Ren opened his mouth, but Aedion added, “
Th
is is the way it has to be.
Th
e way I operate.” Even if he'd helped save Ren's life and given him a place to stay.

“I wonder what our queen will think of the way you operate.”

Aedion
fl
ashed him a glare that had sent men running. But he knew Ren ­wasn't particularly scared of him, not with what he had seen and endured. Not a
ft
er Aedion had killed for him.

Aedion said, “If she's smart, then she'll let me do what needs to be done. She'll use me as the weapon I am.”

“What if she wishes to be your friend? Would you deny her that, too?”

“I will deny her nothing.”

“And if she asks you to be her king?”

Aedion bared his teeth. “Enough.”

“Do you want to be king?”

Aedion swung his legs back onto the roof and stood. “All I want,” he snarled, “is for my people to be free and my queen restored to her throne.”

“
Th
ey burned the antler throne, Aedion.
Th
ere is no throne for her.”

“
Th
en I'll build one myself from the bones of our enemies.”

Ren winced as he stood as well, his injuries no doubt bothering him, and kept his distance. He might not be afraid, but he ­wasn't stupid. “Answer the question. Do you want to be king?”

“If she asked me, I would not refuse her.” It was the truth.

“
Th
at's not an answer.”

He knew why Ren had asked. Even Aedion was aware that he
could
be king—­with his legion and ties to the Ashrvyers, he'd be an advantageous match. A warrior-­king would make any foes think twice. Even before their kingdom shattered, he'd heard the rumors . . .

“My only wish,” Aedion said, growling in Ren's face, “is to see her again. Just once, if that's all the gods will allow me. If they grant me more time than that, then I'll thank them every damn day of my life. But for now, all I'm working for is to see her, to know for certain that she's real—­that she survived.
Th
e rest is none of your concern.”

He felt Ren's eyes on him as he vanished through the door to the apartment below.

•

Th
e tavern was packed with soldiers on rotation home to Adarlan, the heat and reek of bodies making Chaol wish Aedion had done this alone.
Th
ere was no hiding now that he and Aedion ­were
drinking
friends
, as the general trumpeted for everyone to hear while the soldiers cheered.

“Better to hide it right under everyone's noses than pretend, eh?” Aedion murmured to Chaol as yet another free drink was slapped down on their stained, sodden table, courtesy of a soldier who had bowed—­actually
bowed
—­to Aedion. “For the Wolf,” said the scarred and tan-­skinned soldier, before returning to his packed table of comrades.