Heir of Fire (72 page)

“I knew you had it, boy—” the king started, standing, but Dorian threw out a hand and the king was blasted into his chair by a gust of frozen wind, the window behind him shattering. Wind roared into the room, drowning out all sound.

All sound except Dorian's words as he turned to Chaol, his hands and clothes soaked with Sorscha's blood. “Run. And when you come back . . .”
Th
e king was getting to his feet, but another wave of Dorian's magic slammed into him, knocking him down.
Th
ere ­were tears staining Dorian's bloody cheeks now. “When you come back,” the prince said, “
burn this place to the ground.
”

A wall of crackling black hurtled toward them from behind the throne.

“
Go
,” Dorian ordered, turning toward the onslaught of his father's power.

Light exploded from Dorian, blocking out the wave, and the entire castle shook.

People screamed, and Chaol's knees buckled. For a moment, he debated making a stand with his friend, right there and then.

But he knew that this had been the other trap. One for Aedion and Aelin, one for Sorscha. And this one—­this one to draw out Dorian's power.

Dorian had known it, too. Known it, and still walked into it so Chaol could escape—­to
fi
nd Aelin and tell her what had happened ­here today. Someone had to get out. Someone had to survive.

He looked at his friend, perhaps for the last time, and said what he had always known, from the moment they'd met, when he'd understood that the prince was his brother in soul. “I love you.”

Dorian merely nodded, eyes still blazing, and li
ft
ed his hands again toward his father. Brother. Friend. King.

As another wave of the king's power
fi
lled the room, Chaol shoved through the still-­frozen guards and
fl
ed.

•

Aedion knew everything had gone to hell as the castle shuddered. But he was already on his way to the dungeons, bound from head to toe.

It had been such an easy choice to make. When the captain had been about to take the fall for both of them, he'd thought only of Aelin, what it would do to her if her friend died. Even if he never got to see her, it was still better than having to face her when he explained that the captain was dead.

From the sound of it, it seemed the prince was providing a distraction so the captain could
fl
ee—­and because there was no way in hell the prince would let his father go unpunished for that woman's death. So Aedion Ashryver let himself be led into the darkness.

He did not bother with prayers, for himself or for the captain.
Th
e gods had not helped him these past ten years, and they would not save him now.

He did not mind dying.

Th
ough he still wished he'd gotten a chance to see her—­just once.

•

Dorian slammed into the marble
fl
oor, where the puddle of Sorscha's blood had now melted.

Even as his father sent a wave of blinding, burning black power crashing onto him,
fi
lling his mouth and his veins; even as he screamed, all he could see was that moment—­when the sword cut through
fl
esh and tendon and bone. He could still see her wide eyes, her hair glimmering in the light as it, too, was severed.

He should have saved her. It had been so sudden.

But when the arrow had
fi
red at Chaol . . . that was the death he could not endure. Chaol had drawn his line—­and Dorian was on his side of it. Chaol had called him his king.

So revealing his power to his father did not frighten him.

No, to save his friend, dying did not scare him one bit.

Th
e blast of power receded, and Dorian was le
ft
panting on the stones. He had nothing le
ft
.

Chaol had gotten away. It was enough.

He reached out an arm toward where Sorscha's body lay. His arm burned—­maybe it was broken, or maybe it was his father's power still branding him—­but he reached for her nonetheless.

By the time his father stood over him, he'd managed to move his hand a few inches.

“Do it,” Dorian rasped. He was choking—­on blood and the gods knew what.

“Oh, I don't think so,” his father said, digging a knee into his chest. “It won't be death for you, my gi
ft
ed son.”

Th
ere was something dark and gleaming in his father's hands.

Dorian fought like hell against the guards now pinning his arms, trying to drag up any ounce of power as his father brought the collar of Wyrdstone toward his neck.

A collar, like the ones worn by those
things
Chaol had said ­were in the Dead Islands.

No—no
.

He was screaming it—­screaming it because he'd seen that creature in the catacombs, and heard what was being done to Roland and Kaltain. He had seen what a mere ring could do.
Th
is was an entire collar, with no visible keyhole . . .

“Hold him still,” his father barked, digging his knee in deeper.

Th
e breath was sucked from his chest, and his ribs groaned in agony. But there was nothing Dorian could do to stop it.

He wrenched his arm from one of the guards—­wrenched it free and reached, bellowing.

He had just touched Sorscha's limp hand when cool stone gripped his throat, there was a faint click and hiss, and the darkness swept in to tear him apart.

•

Chaol ran. He did not have the time to take anything except what he had on him as he sprinted like hell for Dorian's rooms. Fleetfoot was waiting, as she had been all night, and he scooped her over a shoulder and hauled her to Celaena's room and into the secret passage. Down and down they went, the dog unusually obedient.

Th
ree blasts shook the castle, shaking dust from the stones above. He kept running, knowing each blast meant Dorian was alive a bit longer, and dreading the silence to come.

Hope—that was what he carried with him.
Th
e hope of a better world that Aedion and Sorscha and Dorian had sacri
fi
ced themselves for.

He made one stop, with Fleetfoot still gripped over his shoulder.

With a silent prayer to the gods for their forgiveness, Chaol hurtled into the tomb to grab Damaris, shoving the sacred blade through his belt and stu
ffi
ng a few handfuls of gold into his cloak pockets. And though the skull-­shaped knocker didn't move, he told Mort precisely where he would be. “Just in case she comes back. In case . . . in case she ­doesn't know.”

Mort remained stationary, but Chaol had the sense he'd been listening all the same as he grabbed the satchel containing Dorian and Celaena's magic books and
fl
ed to the passage that would take him to the sewer tunnel. A few minutes later, he was raising the heavy iron grate over the sewer stream.
Th
e outside beyond was wholly dark and still.

As he heaved Fleetfoot back into his arms to swing them both around the wall and onto the stream bank beyond, the castle went silent.
Th
ere ­were screams, yes, but silence lurked beneath them. He did not want to know if Dorian was alive or dead.

He ­couldn't decide which was worse.

•

When Chaol got to the hidden apartment, Ren was pacing. “Where's—”

Th
ere was blood on him, he realized.
Th
e spray from Sorscha's neck. Chaol didn't know how he found the words, but he told Ren what had happened.

“So it's just us?” Ren asked quietly. Chaol nodded. Fleetfoot was sni
ffi
ng around in the apartment, having made her inspection and decided Ren ­wasn't worth eating—­even a
ft
er Ren had protested that the dog might draw too much attention. She was staying; that was nonnegotiable.

A muscle feathered in Ren's jaw. “
Th
en we
fi
nd a way to free Aedion. As soon as possible. You and me. Between your knowledge of the castle and my contacts, we can
fi
nd a way.”
Th
en he whispered, “You said Dorian's woman was—­was a healer?” When Chaol nodded, Ren looked like he was about to be sick, but he asked, “Was she named Sorscha?”

“You ­were the friend she sent those letters to,” Chaol breathed.

“I kept pressing her for information, kept . . .” Ren covered his face and took a shuddering breath. When his eyes at last met Chaol's, they ­were bright. Slowly, Ren held out a hand. “You and me, we'll
fi
nd a way to free them. Both Aedion and your prince.”

Chaol didn't hesitate as he gripped the rebel's outstretched hand.

66

“Morath,” Manon said, wondering if she'd heard right. “For battle?”

Her grandmother turned from the desk, eyes
fl
ashing. “To serve the duke, just as the king ordered. He wants the Wing Leader in Morath with half the host ready to
fl
y at a moment's notice.
Th
e others are to stay ­here under Iskra's command to monitor the north.”

“And you—­where will you be?”

Her grandmother hissed, rising. “So many questions now that you're Wing Leader.”

Manon bowed her head.
Th
ey had not spoken of the Crochan. Manon had gotten the message: next time, it would be one of the
Th
irteen on her knees. So she kept her head down as she said, “I only ask because I would not be parted with you, Grandmother.”

“Liar. And a pathetic one.” Her grandmother turned back to the desk. “I shall remain ­here, but come to you in Morath during the summer. We have work to
fi
nish ­here.”

Manon li
ft
ed her chin, her new red cloak pooling around her, and asked, “And when shall we
fl
y to Morath?”

Her grandmother smiled, iron teeth shining. “Tomorrow.”

•

Even under the cover of darkness, the warm spring breeze was full of new grass and snow-­melted rivers, only disrupted by the booming of wings as Manon led the host south along the Fangs.

Th
ey kept to the shadows of the mountains, shi
ft
ing ranks and dipping out of sight to prevent anyone from getting an accurate count of their numbers. Manon sighed through her nose, and the wind ripped the sound away, just as it streamed her long red cloak behind her.

Asterin and Sorrel
fl
anked her, silent like the rest of the covens for the long hours they'd
fl
own down the mountains.
Th
ey would cross Oakwald where Morath's mountains ­were closest, then rise above the cover of the cloud line for the rest of the journey. Unseen and as quiet as possible—­that was how the king wanted them to arrive at the duke's mountain fortress.
Th
ey
fl
ew all night down the Fangs, swi
ft
and sleek as shadows, and the earth below quivered in their wake.

Sorrel was stone-­faced, monitoring the skies around them, but Asterin was smiling faintly. It was not a wild grin, or one that promised death, but a calm smile. To be alo
ft
and skimming the clouds. Where every Blackbeak belonged. Where Manon belonged.

Asterin caught her stare and smiled wider, as if there ­wasn't a host of witches
fl
ying behind them and Morath lying ahead. Her cousin turned her face into the wind, breathing it in, exultant.

Manon did not let herself savor that beautiful breeze or open herself to that joy. She had work to do; they all did. Despite what the Crochan had said, Manon had not been born with a heart, or a soul. She did not need them.

Once they fought the king's war, when his enemies ­were bleeding out around them . . . only then would they ­ride to reclaim their broken kingdom.

And she would go home at last.

67

Th
e rising sun was staining the Avery River with gold as the cloaked man strode onto a rickety dock in the slums. Fishermen ­were heading out for the day, revelers ­were stumbling in for the night, and Ri
ft
hold was still asleep—­unaware of what had happened the night before.

Th
e man pulled out a lovely blade, its ea­gle pommel glinting in the
fi
rst light of dawn. For a long moment, he stared at the sword, thinking of all that it had once embodied. But there was a new sword at his side—­an ancient king's blade, from a time when good men had served noble rulers and the world had prospered for it.

He would see that world reborn, even if it took his last breath. Even if he had no name now, no position or title save Oath-­Breaker, Traitor, Liar.

No one noticed when the sword was jettisoned over the river, its pommel catching the sun and burning like golden
fi
re, a
fl
ash of light before it was swallowed by the dark water, never to be seen again.

68

It turned out that the “submission” part of a blood oath was something Rowan liked to interpret as it suited him. During their two-­week trek to the nearest port in Wendlyn, he bossed Celaena around even more—­seeming to believe that now he was part of her court, it entitled him to certain nonnegotiable rights regarding her safety, her movements, and her plans.

She was starting to wonder, as they approached the docks at the end of the cobblestone street, if she had made a teensy mistake in binding him to her forever.
Th
ey'd been arguing for the past three days about her next move—­about the ship she'd hired to take her back to Adarlan.

“
Th
is plan is absurd,” Rowan said for the hundredth time, stopping in the shadows of a tavern by the docks.
Th
e sea air was light and crisp. “Going back alone seems like suicide.”