Heir of Fire (29 page)

“I was wondering whether you'd be ­here alone, or with a gaggle of men waiting in the shadows,” Aedion said by way of greeting, sheathing his sword.

Chaol glared at him. “Likewise.”

Aedion moved farther into the apartment, the
fi
erceness on his face shi
ft
ing among wariness, wonder, and sorrow. And it occurred to Chaol that this apartment was the
fi
rst time Aedion was seeing a piece of his lost cousin.
Th
ese ­were her things. She had selected everything, from the
fi
gurines atop the mantel to the green napkins to the old farm table in the kitchen,
fl
ecked and marred by what seemed like countless knives.

Aedion paused in the center of the room, scanning everything. Perhaps to see if there ­were indeed any hidden forces lying in wait, but . . . Chaol muttered something about using the bathing room and gave Aedion the privacy he needed.

•

Th
is was her apartment. Whether she accepted or hated her past, she'd decorated the dining table in Terrasen's royal colors—­green and silver.
Th
e table and the stag
fi
gurine atop the mantel ­were the only shreds of proof that she might remember. Might care.

Everything ­else was comfortable, tasteful, as if the apartment ­were for lounging and nights by the
fi
re. And there ­were so many books—­on shelves, on the tables by the couch, stacked beside the large armchair before the curtained
fl
oor-­to-­ceiling window spanning the entire length of the great room.

Smart. Educated. Cultured, if the knickknacks ­were any indication.
Th
ere ­were things from across the kingdoms, as if she'd picked up something everywhere she went.
Th
e room was a map of her adventures, a map of a ­whole di
ff
erent person. Aelin had lived. She'd lived, and seen and done things.

Th
e kitchen was small but cozy—­and . . . Gods. She had a cooling box.
Th
e captain had mentioned her being notorious as an assassin, but he hadn't mentioned that she was rich. All that blood money—­all these things just proof of what she'd lost. What he'd failed to protect.

She'd become a killer. A damn good one, if this apartment was any indication. Her bedroom was even more outrageous. It had a massive four-­poster bed with a mattress that looked like a cloud, and an attached marble-­tiled bathing room that possessed its own plumbing system.

Well, her closet hadn't changed. His cousin had always loved pretty clothes. Aedion pulled out a deep blue tunic, gold embroidery around the lapels and buttons glimmering in the light from the sconces.
Th
ese ­were clothes for a woman's body. And the scent still clinging to the entire apartment belonged to a woman—­so similar to what he remembered from childhood, but wrapped in mystery and secret smiles. It was impossible for his Fae senses not to notice, to react.

Aedion leaned against the wall of the dressing room, staring at the gowns and the displays of jewelry, now coated in dust. He didn't let himself care about what had been done to him in the past, the people he'd ruined, the battle
fi
elds he'd walked o
ff
covered in blood and gore that ­wasn't his own. As far as he was concerned, he'd lost everything the day Aelin died. He had deserved the punishment for how badly he'd failed. But Aelin . . .

Aedion ran his hands through his hair before stepping into the great room. Aelin would come back from Wendlyn, no matter what the captain believed. Aelin would come back, and when she did . . . With every breath, Aedion felt that lingering scent wrapping tighter around his heart and soul. When she came back, he was never letting her go.

•

Aedion sank onto one of the armchairs before the
fi
re as Chaol said, “Well, I think I've waited long enough to hear what you have to say about magic. I hope it's worthwhile.”

“Regardless of what I know, magic shouldn't be your main plan of defense—­or action.”

“I saw your queen cleave the earth in two with her power,” Chaol said. “Tell me that ­wouldn't turn the tide on a battle
fi
eld—­tell me that you ­wouldn't need that, and others like her.”

“She won't be anywhere near those battle
fi
elds,” Aedion snarled so
ft
ly.

Chaol highly doubted that was true, but wished it was. Aedion would probably have to bind Celaena to her throne to keep her from
fi
ghting on the front lines with her people. “Just tell me.”

Aedion sighed and gazed at the
fi
re, as if beholding a distant horizon. “
Th
e burnings and executions had already started by the time magic disappeared, so the day it happened, I thought the birds ­were just
fl
eeing the soldiers, or looking for carrion. I was locked in one of the tower rooms by the king's orders. Most days I didn't dare look out the window because I didn't want to see what was happening in the city below, but there was such noise from the birds that day that I looked. And . . .” Aedion shook his head. “Something sent them all
fl
ying up in one direction, then another. And then the screaming started. I heard some people just died right on the spot, as if an artery had been cut.”

Aedion spread out a map on the low table between them and put a callused
fi
nger on Orynth. “
Th
ere ­were two waves of birds.
Th
e
fi
rst went north-northwest.” He traced a vague line. “From the tower, I could see far enough that I knew many of them had come from the south—­most of the birds near us didn't move much. But then the second wave shoved all of them to the north and east, like something from the center of the land threw them that way.”

Chaol pointed to Perranth, the second-­largest city in Terrasen. “From ­here?”

“Farther south.” Aedion knocked Chaol's hand out of the way. “Endovier or even lower.”

“You ­couldn't have seen that far.”

“No, but the warrior-­lords of my court made me memorize the birds in Oakwald and all their calls for hunting—­and
fi
ghting. And there ­were birds
fl
ying up toward us that ­were only found in your country. I was counting them to distract myself while—” Another pause, as if Aedion hadn't meant to say that. “I don't remember hearing any birds from the three southern kingdoms.”

Chaol made a rough line, starting in Ri
ft
hold and going out toward the mountains, toward the Ferian Gap. “Like something shot out in this direction.”

“It ­wasn't until the second wave that magic stopped.” Aedion raised a brow. “Don't
you
remember that day?”

“I was ­here; ­if anyone felt pain, they hid it. Magic's been illegal in Adarlan for de­cades. So where does all this get us, Aedion?”

“Well, Murtaugh and Ren had similar experiences.” So then the general launched into another tale: like Aedion, Ren and Murtaugh had experienced a frenzy of local animals and twin waves of
something
the day magic had disappeared. But they'd been in the southern part of their continent, having just arrived in Skull's Bay.

It ­wasn't until six months ago, when they'd been lured into the city by Archer Finn's lies about Aelin's reemergence, that they'd started considering magic—­contemplating ways to break the king's power for their queen. A
ft
er comparing notes with the other rebels in Ri
ft
hold, they realized that others had experienced similar phenomena. Wanting to get a full account, they'd found a merchant from the Deserted Peninsula who was willing to talk—­a man from Xandria who was surprisingly honest, despite the business he'd built on contraband items.

I stole an Asterion mare from the Lord of Xandria
.

Of course Celaena had been to the Deserted Peninsula. And sought out trouble. Despite the ache in his chest, Chaol smiled at the memory as Aedion recalled Murtaugh's report of the merchant's account.

Not two waves when magic vanished in the desert, but three.

Th
e
fi
rst swept down from the north.
Th
e merchant had been with the Lord of Xandria in his fortress high above the city and had seen a faint tremor that made the red sand dance.
Th
e second came from the southwest, barreling right toward them like a sandstorm.
Th
e
fi
nal pulse came from the same inland source Aedion remembered. Seconds later, magic was gone, and people ­were screaming in the streets, and the Lord of Xandria got the order, a week later, to put down all the known or registered magic-­wielders in his city.
Th
en the screaming had become di
ff
erent.

Aedion gave him a sly grin as he
fi
nished. “But Murtaugh
fi
gured out more. ­We're meeting in three days. He can tell you his theories then.”

Chaol started from his chair. “
Th
at's it?
Th
at's all you know—­what you've been lording over me these past few weeks?”

“
Th
ere's still more for you to tell me, so why should I tell you everything?”

“I've told you vital, world-­changing information,” Chaol said through his teeth. “You've just told me stories.”

Aedion's eyes took on a lethal glint. “You'll want to hear what Ren and Murtaugh have to say.” Chaol didn't feel like waiting so long to hear it, but there ­were two state lunches and one formal dinner before then, and he was expected to attend all of them. And present the king with his defense plans for all the events as well.

A
ft
er a moment, Aedion said, “How do you stand working for him? How do you pretend you don't know what that bastard is doing, what he's done to innocent people, to the woman you claim to love?”

“I'm doing what I have to do.” He didn't think Aedion would understand, anyway.

“Tell me why the Captain of the Guard, a Lord of Adarlan, is helping his enemy.
Th
at's all the information I want from you today.”

Chaol wanted to say that, given how much he'd already told him, he didn't have to o
ff
er a damn thing. Instead he said, “I grew up being told we ­were bringing peace and civilization to the continent. What I've seen recently has made me realize how much of it is a lie.”

“You knew about the labor camps, though. About the massacres.”

“It is easy to be lied to when you do not know any of those people
fi
rsthand.” But Celaena with her scars, and Nehemia with her ­people butchered . . . “It's easy to believe when your king tells you that the people in Endovier deserve to be there because they're criminals or rebels who tried to slaughter innocent Adarlanian families.”

“And how many of your countrymen would stand against your king if they, too, learned the truth? If they stopped to consider what it would be like if it were their family, their village, being enslaved or murdered? How many would stand if they knew what power their prince possessed—­if their prince ­rose up to
fi
ght with us?”

Chaol didn't know, and he ­wasn't sure he wanted to. As for Dorian . . . he could not ask that of his friend. Could not expect it. His goal was keeping Dorian safe. Even if it would cost him their friendship, he didn't want Dorian involved. Ever.

•

Th
e past week had been terrifying and wonderful for Dorian.

Terrifying because two more people knew his secret, and because he walked such a
fi
ne line when it came to controlling his magic, which seemed more volatile with each passing day.

Wonderful because every a
ft
ernoon, he visited the forgotten workroom Sorscha had discovered tucked in a lower level of the catacombs where no one would
fi
nd them. She brought books from the gods knew where, herbs and plants and salts and powders, and every day, they researched and trained and pondered.

Th
ere ­weren't many books about dampening a power like his—­many had been burned, she'd told him. But she looked at the magic like a disease: if she could
fi
nd the right channels to block, she could keep it contained. And if not, she always said, they could resort to drugging him, just enough to even out his moods. She didn't like the idea of it, and neither did he, though it was a comfort to know the option was there.

An hour each day was all they could manage together. For that hour, regardless of the laws they ­were breaking, Dorian felt like himself again. Not twisted and reeling and stumbling through the dark, but grounded. Calm. No matter what he told Sorscha, she never judged or betrayed him. Chaol had been that person once. Yet now, when it came to his magic, he could still see fear and a hint of disgust in Chaol's eyes.

“Did you know,” Sorscha said from her spot across the worktable, “that before magic vanished, they had to
fi
nd special ways of subduing gi
ft
ed prisoners?”

Dorian looked up from his book, a useless tome on garden remedies. Before magic vanished . . . at the hand of his father and his Wyrdkeys. His stomach turned. “Because they'd use their magic to break out of prison?”

Sorscha studied the book again. “
Th
at's why a lot of the old prisons use solid iron—­it's immune to magic.”

“I know,” he said, and she raised a brow. She was slowly starting to come alive around him—­though he'd also learned to read her subtle expressions better. “Back when my power
fi
rst appeared, I tried using it on an iron door, and . . . it didn't go well.”