Heir of Fire (3 page)

His lips thinned. He surveyed the square—­where people ­were now watching. And everyone instantly found somewhere ­else to be.

When they'd scattered, he said, “You've gathered enough about me at this point to have learned what you need to know.” He spoke the common tongue, and his accent was subtle—­lovely, if she was feeling generous enough to admit it. A so
ft
, rolling purr.

“Fair enough. But what am I to call you?” She gripped the saddle but didn't mount it.

“Rowan.” His tattoo seemed to soak up the sun, so dark it looked freshly inked.

“Well, Rowan—” Oh, he did
not
like her tone one bit. His eyes narrowed slightly in warning, but she went on, “Dare I ask where ­we're going?” She had to be drunk—­still drunk or descending to a new level of apathy—if she was talking to him like this. But she ­couldn't stop, even as the gods or the Wyrd or the threads of fate readied to shove her back toward her original plan of action.

“I'm taking you where you've been summoned.”

As long as she got to see Maeve and ask her questions, she didn't particularly care how she got to Doranelle—­or whom she traveled with.

Do what has to be done
, Elena had told her. In her usual fashion, Elena had omitted to specify
what
had to be done once she arrived in Wendlyn. At least this was better than eating
fl
atbread and drinking wine and being mistaken for a vagrant. Perhaps she could be on a boat back to Adarlan within three weeks, possessing the answers that would solve everything.

It should have energized her. But instead she found herself silently mounting her mare, out of words and the will to use them. Just the past few minutes of interaction had drained her completely.

It was better that Rowan didn't seem inclined to speak as she followed him out of the city.
Th
e guards merely waved them through the walls, some even backing away.

As they rode on, Rowan didn't ask why she was ­here and what she'd been doing for the past ten years while the world had gone to hell. He pulled his pale hood over his silver hair and moved ahead, though it was still easy enough to mark him as di
ff
erent, as a warrior and law unto himself.

If he was truly as old as she suspected, she was likely little more than a speck of dust to him, a
fi
zzle of life in the long-­burning
fi
re of his immortality. He could probably kill her without a second thought—­and then move on to his next task, utterly untroubled by ending her existence.

It didn't unnerve her as much as it should have.

3

For a month now, it had been the same dream. Every night, over and over, until Chaol could see it in his waking hours.

Archer Finn groaning as Celaena shoved her dagger up through his ribs and into his heart. She embraced the handsome courtesan like a lover, but when she gazed over Archer's shoulder, her eyes ­were dead. Hollow.

Th
e dream shi
ft
ed, and Chaol could say nothing, do nothing as the golden-­brown hair darkened to black and the agonized face ­wasn't Archer's but Dorian's.

Th
e Crown Prince jerked, and Celaena held him tighter, twisting the dagger one
fi
nal time before she let Dorian slump to the gray stones of the tunnel. Dorian's blood was already pooling—­too fast. But Chaol still ­couldn't move, ­couldn't go to his friend or the woman he loved.

Th
e wounds on Dorian multiplied, and there was blood—­so much blood. He knew these wounds.
Th
ough he'd never seen the body, he'd combed through the reports detailing what Celaena had done to the rogue assassin Grave in that alley, the way she'd butchered him for killing Nehemia.

Celaena lowered her dagger, ­each drop of blood from its gleaming blade sending ripples through the pool already around her. She tipped back her head, breathing in deep. Breathing in the death before her, taking it into her soul, vengeance and ecstasy mingling at the slaughter of her enemy. Her true enemy.
Th
e Havilliard Empire.

Th
e dream shi
ft
ed again, and Chaol was pinned beneath her as she writhed above him, her head still thrown back, that same expression of ecstasy written across her blood-­splattered face.

Enemy. Lover.

Queen.

•

Th
e memory of the dream splintered as Chaol blinked at Dorian, who was sitting beside him at their old table in the Great Hall—­and waiting for an answer to what­ever he had said. Chaol gave an apologetic wince.

Th
e Crown Prince didn't return Chaol's half smile. Instead, Dorian quietly said, “You ­were thinking about her.”

Chaol took a bite from his lamb stew but tasted nothing. Dorian was too observant for his own good. And Chaol had no interest in talking about Celaena. Not with Dorian, not with anyone.
Th
e truth he knew about her could jeopardize more lives than hers.

“I was thinking about my father,” Chaol lied. “When he returns to Anielle in a few weeks, I'm to go with him.” It was the price for getting Celaena to the safety of Wendlyn: his father's support in exchange for his return to the Silver Lake to take up his title as the heir of Anielle. And he'd been willing to make that sacri
fi
ce; he'd make any sacri
fi
ce to keep Celaena and her secrets safe. Even now that he knew who—
what
she was. Even a
ft
er she'd told him about the king and the Wyrdkeys. If this was the price he had to pay, so be it.

Dorian glanced toward the high table, where the king and Chaol's father dined.
Th
e Crown Prince should have been eating with them, but he'd chosen to sit with Chaol instead. It was the
fi
rst time Dorian had done so in ages—­the
fi
rst time they had spoken since their tense conversation a
ft
er the decision was made to send Celaena to Wendlyn.

Dorian would understand if he knew the truth. But Dorian ­couldn't know who and what Celaena was, or what the king was truly planning.
Th
e potential for disaster was too high. And Dorian's own secrets ­were deadly enough.

“I heard the rumors you ­were to go,” Dorian said warily. “I didn't realize they ­were true.”

Chaol nodded, trying to
fi
nd something—­anything—to say to his friend.

Th
ey still hadn't spoken of the other thing between them, the other bit of truth that had come out that night in the tunnels: Dorian had magic. Chaol didn't want to know anything about it. If the king decided to interrogate him . . . he hoped he'd hold out, if it ever came to that.
Th
e king, he knew, had far darker methods of extracting information than torture. So he hadn't asked, hadn't said one word. And neither had Dorian.

He met Dorian's gaze.
Th
ere was nothing kind in it. But Dorian said, “I'm trying, Chaol.”

Trying, because Chaol's not consulting him on the plan to get Celaena out of Adarlan had been a breach of trust, and one that shamed him, though Dorian could never know that, either. “I know.”

“And despite what happened, I'm fairly certain ­we're not enemies.” Dorian's mouth quirked to the side.

You will always be my enemy
. Celaena had screamed those words at Chaol the night Nehemia had died. Screamed it with ten years' worth of conviction and hatred, a de­cade spent holding the world's greatest secret so deep within her that she'd become another person entirely.

Because Celaena was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terrasen.

It made her his mortal enemy. It made her Dorian's enemy. Chaol still didn't know what to do about it, or what it meant for them, for the life he'd imagined for them.
Th
e future he'd once dreamed of was irrevocably gone.

He'd seen the deadness in her eyes that night in the tunnels, along with the wrath and exhaustion and sorrow. He'd seen her go over the edge when Nehemia died, and knew what she'd done to Grave in retribution. He didn't doubt for one heartbeat that she could snap again.
Th
ere was such glittering darkness in her, an endless ri
ft
straight through her core.

Nehemia's death had shattered her. What
he
had done, his role in that death, had shattered her, too. He knew that. He just prayed that she could piece herself back together again. Because a broken, unpredictable assassin was one thing. But a queen . . .

“You look like you're going to be sick,” Dorian said, bracing his forearms on the table. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Chaol had been staring at nothing again. For a heartbeat, the weight of everything pressed so heavily upon him that he opened up his mouth.

But the boom of swords striking shields in salute echoed from the hallway, and Aedion Ashryver—­the King of Adarlan's infamous General of the North and cousin to Aelin Galathynius—­stalked into the Great Hall.

Th
e hall fell silent, including his father and the king at the high table. Before Aedion was halfway across the room, Chaol was positioned at the bottom of the dais.

It ­wasn't that the young general was a threat. Rather, it was the way Aedion prowled toward the king's table, his shoulder-­length golden hair gleaming in the torchlight as he smirked at them all.

Handsome was a light way of describing what Aedion was. Overwhelming was more like it. Towering and heavily muscled, Aedion was every inch the warrior rumor claimed him to be. Even though his clothes ­were mostly for function, Chaol could tell that the leather of his light armor was of
fi
ne make and exquisitely detailed. A white wolf pelt was slung across his broad shoulders, and a round shield had been strapped to his back—­along with an ancient-­looking sword.

But his face. And his eyes . . . Holy gods.

Chaol put a hand on his sword, schooling his features to remain neutral, disinterested, even as the Wolf of the North came close enough to slaughter him.

Th
ey ­were Celaena's eyes. Ashryver eyes. A stunning turquoise with a core of gold as bright as their hair.
Th
eir hair—­even the shade of it was the same.
Th
ey could have been twins, if Aedion ­weren't twenty-­four and tanned from years in the snow-­bright mountains of Terrasen.

Why had the king bothered to keep Aedion alive all those years ago? Why bother to forge him into one of his
fi
ercest generals? Aedion was a prince of the Ashryver royal line and had been raised in the Galathynius household—­and yet he served the king.

Aedion's grin remained as he stopped before the high table and sketched a bow shallow enough that Chaol was momentarily stunned. “Majesty,” the general said, those damning eyes alight.

Chaol looked at the high table to see if the king, if anyone, noticed the similarities that could doom not only Aedion but also Chaol and Dorian and everyone he cared about. His father just gave him a small, satis
fi
ed smile.

But the king was frowning. “I expected you a month ago.”

Aedion actually had the nerve to shrug. “Apologies.
Th
e Staghorns ­were slammed with a
fi
nal winter storm. I le
ft
when I could.”

Every person in the hall held their breath. Aedion's temper and insolence ­were near-­legendary—part of the reason he was stationed in the far reaches of the North. Chaol had always thought it wise to keep him far from Ri
ft
hold, especially as Aedion seemed to be a bit of a two-­faced bastard, and the Bane—­Aedion's legion—­was notorious for its skill and brutality, but now . . . why had the king summoned him to the capital?

Th
e king picked up his goblet, swirling the wine inside. “I didn't receive word that your legion was ­here.”

“
Th
ey're not.”

Chaol braced for the execution order, praying he ­wouldn't be the one to do it.
Th
e king said, “I told you to bring them, General.”

“Here I was, thinking you wanted the plea­sure of my company.” When the king growled, Aedion said, “
Th
ey'll be ­here within a week or so. I didn't want to miss any of the fun.” Aedion again shrugged those massive shoulders. “At least I didn't come empty-­handed.” He snapped his
fi
ngers behind him and a page rushed in, bearing a large satchel. “Gi
ft
s from the North, courtesy of the last rebel camp we sacked. You'll enjoy them.”

Th
e king rolled his eyes and waved a hand at the page. “Send them to my chambers. Your
gi
ft
s
, Aedion, tend to o
ff
end polite company.” A low chuckle—­from Aedion, from some men at the king's table. Oh, Aedion was dancing a dangerous line. At least Celaena had the good sense to keep her mouth shut around the king.

Considering the trophies the king had collected from Celaena as Champion, the items in that satchel ­wouldn't be mere gold and jewels. But to collect heads and limbs from Aedion's own people, Celaena's people . . .

“I have a council meeting tomorrow; ­I want you there, General,” the king said.

Aedion put a hand on his chest. “Your will is mine, Majesty.”

Chaol had to clamp down on his terror as he beheld what glinted on Aedion's
fi
nger. A black ring—­the same that the king, Perrington, and most of those under their control wore.
Th
at
explained why the king allowed the insolence: when it came down to it, the king's will truly was Aedion's.