Heir of Fire (63 page)

“I think,” Chaol said, and Sorscha turned, brows high, ready to get to work. “I think,” he said again, smiling faintly, “that this kingdom could use a healer as its queen.”

She did not smile at him, as he'd hoped. Instead she looked unfathomably sad as she returned to her work. Chaol le
ft
without further word to ready himself for his experiment with Dorian—­the only person in this castle, perhaps in the world, who could help him. Help them all.

Dorian had raw power, Celaena had said, power to be shaped as he willed it.
Th
at was the only thing similar enough to the power of the Wyrdkeys, neither good nor evil. And crystals, Chaol had once read in Celaena's magic books, ­were good conduits for magic. It hadn't been hard to buy several from the market—­each about as long as his
fi
nger, white as fresh snow.

Everything was nearly ready when Dorian
fi
nally arrived in one of the secret tunnels and took a seat on the ground. Candles burned around them, and Chaol explained his plan as he
fi
nished pouring the last line of red sand—­from the Red Desert, the merchant had claimed—­between the three crystals. Equidistant from one another, they made the shape Murtaugh had drawn on the map of their continent. In the center of the triangle sat a small bowl of water.

Dorian pinned him with a stare. “Don't blame me if they ­shatter.”

“I have replacements.” He did. He'd bought a dozen crystals.

Dorian stared at the
fi
rst crystal. “You just want me to . . . focus my power on it?”

“
Th
en draw a line of power to the next crystal, then the next, imagining that your goal is to freeze the water in the bowl.
Th
at's all.”

A raised brow. “
Th
at's not even a spell.”

“Just humor me,” Chaol said. “I ­wouldn't have asked if this ­wasn't the only way.” He dipped a
fi
nger in the bowl of water, setting it rippling. Something in his gut said that maybe the spell required nothing more than power and sheer will.

Th
e prince's sigh
fi
lled the stone hall, echoing o
ff
the stones and vaulted ceiling. Dorian gazed at the
fi
rst crystal, roughly representing Ri
ft
hold. For minutes, there was nothing. But then Dorian began sweating, swallowing repeatedly.

“Are you—”

“I'm
fi
ne,” Dorian gasped, and the
fi
rst crystal began to glow white.

Th
e light grew brighter, Dorian sweating and grunting as if he ­were in pain. Chaol was about to ask him to stop when a line shot toward the next crystal—­so fast it was nearly undetectable save for the slight ripple in the sand.
Th
e crystal
fl
ashed bright, and then another line shot out, heading south. Again, the sand rippled in its wake.

Th
e water remained
fl
uid.
Th
e third crystal glowed, and the
fi
nal line completed the triangle, making all three crystals
fl
ash for a moment. And then . . . slowly, crackling so
ft
ly, the water froze. Chaol shoved back against his horror—­horror and awe at how much Dorian's control had grown.

Dorian's skin was pasty and gleamed with sweat. “
Th
is is how he did it, isn't it?”

Chaol nodded. “Ten years ago, with those three towers.
Th
ey ­were all built years before so that this could happen precisely when his invading forces ­were ready, so no one could strike back. Your father's spell must be far more complex, to have frozen magic entirely, but on a basic level, this is probably similar to what occurred.”

“I want to see where they are—­the towers.” Chaol shook his head, but Dorian said, “You've told me everything ­else already. Show me the damn map.”

With a wipe of his hand, a god destroying a world, Dorian knocked down a crystal, releasing the power.
Th
e ice melted, the water rippling and sloshing against the bowl. Just like that. Chaol blinked.

If they could knock out one tower . . . It was such a risk.
Th
ey needed to be sure before acting. Chaol pulled out the map Murtaugh had marked, the map he didn't dare to leave anywhere. “Here, ­here, and ­here,” he said, pointing to Ri
ft
hold, Amaroth, and Noll. “
Th
at's where we know towers ­were built. Watchtowers, but all three had the same traits: black stone, gargoyles . . .”

“You mean to tell me that the clock tower in the garden is one of them?”

Chaol nodded, ignoring the laugh of disbelief. “
Th
at's what we think.”

Th
e prince leaned over the map, bracing a hand against the
fl
oor. He traced a line from Ri
ft
hold to Amaroth, then from Ri
ft
hold to Noll. “
Th
e northward line cuts through the Ferian Gap; the southern cuts directly through Morath. You told Aedion that you thought my father had sent Roland and Kaltain to Morath, along with any other nobles with magic in their blood. What are the odds that it's a mere coincidence?”

“And the Ferian Gap . . .” Chaol had to swallow. “Celaena said she'd heard of wings in the Gap. Nehemia said her scouts did not come back, that something was brewing there.”

“Two spots for him to breed what­ever army he's making, perhaps drawing on this power as it makes a current through them.”

“
Th
ree.” Chaol pointed to the Dead Islands. “We had a report that something strange was being bred there . . . and that it's been sent to Wendlyn.”

“But my father sent Celaena.”
Th
e prince swore. “
Th
ere's no way to warn them?”

“We've already tried.”

Dorian wiped the sweat from his brow. “So you're working with them—­you're on their side.”

“No. I don't know. We just share information. But this is all information that helps us. You.”

Dorian's eyes hardened, and Chaol winced as a cool breeze swept in.

“So what are you going to do?” Dorian asked. “Just . . . knock down the clock tower?”

Destroying the clock tower was an act of war—­an act that could endanger the lives of too many people.
Th
ere would be no going back. He didn't even want to tell Aedion or Ren, for fear of what they'd do.
Th
ey ­wouldn't think twice before incinerating it, perhaps killing everyone in this castle in the pro­cess. “I don't know. I don't know what to do. You ­were right about that.”

He wished he had something more to say to Dorian, but even small talk was an e
ff
ort now. He was closing in on candidates to replace him as Captain of the Guard, sending more trunks to Anielle every week, and he could barely bring himself to look at his own men. As for Dorian . . . there was so much le
ft
between them.

“Now's not the time,” Dorian said quietly, as if he could read Chaol's mind.

Chaol swallowed. “I want to thank you. I know what you're risking is—”

“We're all risking something.”
Th
ere was so little of the friend he'd grown up with.
Th
e prince glanced at his pocket watch. “I need to go.” Dorian stalked to the stairs, and there was no fear in his face, no doubt, as he said, “You gave me the truth today, so I'll share mine: even if it meant us being friends again, I don't think I would want to go back to how it was before—­who
I
was before. And this . . .” He jerked his chin toward the scattered crystals and the bowl of water. “I think this is a good change, too. Don't fear it.”

Dorian le
ft
, and Chaol opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was too stunned. When Dorian had spoken, it hadn't been a prince who looked at him.

It had been a king.

57

Celaena slept for two days.

She hardly remembered what had happened a
ft
er she incinerated Narrok and the Valg prince, though she had a vague sense of Rowan's men and the others having the fortress under control.
Th
ey'd lost only about
fift
een in total, since the soldiers had not wanted to kill the demi-­Fae but to capture them for the Valg princes to haul back to Adarlan. When they subdued the surviving enemy soldiers, locking them in the dungeon, they'd come back hours later to
fi
nd them all dead.
Th
ey'd carried poison with them—­and it seemed they had no inclination to be interrogated.

Celaena stumbled up the blood-­soaked steps and into bed, brie
fl
y stopping to frown at the hair that now fell just past her collarbones thanks to the razor-­sharp nails of the Valg princes, and collapsed into a deep sleep. By the time she awoke, the gore was cleaned away, the soldiers ­were buried, and Rowan had hidden the four Wyrdstone collars somewhere in the woods. He would have
fl
own them out to the sea and dumped them there, but she knew he'd stayed to look a
ft
er her—­and did not trust his friends to do anything but hand them over to Maeve.

Rowan's cadre was leaving when she
fi
nally awoke, having lingered to help with repairs and healing, but it was only Gavriel who bothered to acknowledge her. She and Rowan ­were heading into the woods for a walk (she'd had to bully him into letting her out of bed) when they passed by the golden-­haired male lingering by the back gate.

Rowan sti
ff
ened. He'd asked her point-­blank what had happened when his friends had arrived—­if any of them had tried to help. She had tried to avoid it, but he was relentless, and she
fi
nally told him that only Gavriel had shown any inclination. She didn't blame his men.
Th
ey didn't know her, owed her nothing, and Rowan had been inside, in harm's way. She didn't know why it mattered so much to Rowan, and he told her it was none of her business.

But there was Gavriel, waiting for them at the back gate. Since Rowan was stone-­faced, she smiled for both of them as they approached.

“I thought you'd be gone by now,” Rowan said.

Gavriel's tawny eyes
fl
ickered. “
Th
e twins and Vaughan le
ft
an hour ago, and Lorcan le
ft
at dawn. He said to tell you good-­bye.”

Rowan nodded in a way that made it very clear he knew Lorcan had done no such thing. “What do you want?”

She ­wasn't quite sure they had the same de
fi
nition of
friend
that she did. But Gavriel looked at her from head to toe and back up again, then at Rowan, and said, “Be careful when you face Maeve. We'll have given our reports by then.”

Rowan's stormy expression didn't improve. “Travel swi
ft
ly,” he said, and kept walking.

Celaena lingered, studying the Fae warrior, the glimmer of sadness in his golden eyes. Like Rowan, he was enslaved to Maeve—­and yet he thought to warn them. With the blood oath, Maeve could order him to divulge every detail, including this moment. And punish him for it. But for his friend . . .

“
Th
ank you,” she said to the golden-­haired warrior. He blinked, and Rowan froze. Her arms ached from the inside out, and her cut hand was ban­daged and still tender, but she extended it to him. “For the warning. And for hesitating that day.”

Gavriel looked at her hand for a moment before shaking it with surprising gentleness. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Nineteen,” she said, and he loosed a breath that could have been sadness or relief or maybe both, and told her that made her magic even more impressive. She debated saying that he would be less impressed once he learned of her nickname for him, but winked at him instead.

Rowan was frowning when she caught up to him, but said nothing. As they walked away, Gavriel murmured, “Good luck, Rowan.”

•

Rowan brought her to a forest pool she'd never seen before, the clear water fed by a lovely waterfall that seemed to dance in the sunlight. He took a seat on a broad,
fl
at, sun-­warmed rock, pulling o
ff
his boots and rolling up his pants to dip his feet in the water. She winced at every sore muscle and bone in her body as she sat. Rowan scowled, but she gave him a look that dared him to order her back to bed rest.

When her own feet ­were in the pool and they had let the music of the forest sink into them, Rowan spoke. “
Th
ere is no undoing what happened with Narrok. Once the world hears that Aelin Galathynius fought against Adarlan, they will know you are alive.
He
will know you are alive, and where you are, and that you do not plan to cower. He will hunt you for the rest of your life.”

“I accepted that fate from the moment I stepped outside the barrier,” she said quietly. She kicked at the water, the ripples spreading out across the pool.
Th
e movement sent shuddering pain through her magic-­ravaged body, and she hissed.

Rowan handed her the skein of water he'd brought with him but hadn't touched. She took a sip and found it contained the pain-­killing tonic she'd been guzzling since she'd awoken that morning.

Good luck, Rowan
, Gavriel had said to his friend.
Th
ere was a day coming, all too soon, when she would also have to bid him farewell. What would her parting words be? Would she be able to o
ff
er him only a blessing for luck? She wished she had something to give him—­some kind of protection against the queen who held his leash.
Th
e Eye of Elena was with Chaol.
Th
e Amulet of Orynth—­she would have o
ff
ered him that, if she hadn't lost it. Heirloom or no, she would rest easier if she knew it was protecting him.