Heir of Fire (4 page)

Chaol kept his face blank as the king gave him a curt nod—­dismissal. Chaol silently bowed, now all too eager to get back to his table. Away from the king—­from the man who held the fate of their world in his bloodied hands. Away from his father, who saw too much. Away from the general, who was now making his rounds through the hall, clapping men on the shoulder, winking at women.

Chaol had mastered the horror roiling in his gut by the time he sank back into his seat and found Dorian frowning. “Gi
ft
s indeed,” the prince muttered. “Gods, he's insu
ff
erable.”

Chaol didn't disagree. Despite the king's black ring, Aedion still seemed to have a mind of his own—­and was as wild o
ff
the battle
fi
eld as he was on it. He usually made Dorian look like a celibate when it came to
fi
nding debauched ways to amuse himself. Chaol had never spent much time with Aedion, nor wanted to, but Dorian had known him for some time now. Since—

Th
ey'd met as children. When Dorian and his father had visited Terrasen in the days before the royal family was slaughtered. When Dorian had met Aelin—­met Celaena.

It was good that Celaena ­wasn't ­here to see what Aedion had become. Not just because of the ring. To turn on your own people—

Aedion slid onto the bench across from them, grinning. A predator assessing prey. “You two ­were sitting at this same table the last time I saw you. Good to know some things don't change.”

Gods, that face. It was Celaena's face—­the other side of the coin.
Th
e same arrogance, the same unchecked anger. But where Celaena crackled with it, Aedion seemed to . . . pulse. And there was something nastier, far more bitter in Aedion's face.

Dorian rested his forearms on the table and gave a lazy smile. “Hello, Aedion.”

Aedion ignored him and reached for a roast leg of lamb, his black ring glinting. “I like the new scar, Captain,” he said, jerking his chin toward the slender white line across Chaol's cheek.
Th
e scar Celaena had given to him the night Nehemia died and she'd tried to kill him—­now a permanent reminder of everything he'd lost. Aedion went on, “Looks like they didn't chew you up just yet. And they
fi
nally gave you a big-­boy sword, too.”

Dorian said, “I'm glad to see that storm didn't dim your spirits.”

“Weeks inside with nothing to do but train and bed women? It was a miracle I bothered to come down from the mountains.”

“I didn't realize you bothered to do anything unless it served your best interests.”

A low laugh. “
Th
ere's that charming Havilliard spirit.” Aedion dug into his meal, and Chaol was about to demand why he was bothering to sit with them—­other than to torment them, as he'd always liked to do when the king ­wasn't looking—­when he noticed that Dorian was staring.

Not at Aedion's sheer size or armor, but at his face, at his eyes . . .

“Shouldn't you be at some party or other?” Chaol said to Aedion. “I'm surprised you're lingering when your usual enticements await in the city.”

“Is that your courtly way of asking for an invitation to my gathering tomorrow, Captain? Surprising. You've always implied that you ­were above my sort of party.”
Th
ose turquoise eyes narrowed and he gave Dorian a sly grin. “You, however—­the last party I threw worked out
very
well for you. Redheaded twins, if I recall correctly.”

“You'll be disappointed to learn I've moved on from that sort of existence,” Dorian said.

Aedion dug back into his meal. “More for me, then.”

Chaol clenched his
fi
sts under the table. Celaena had not exactly been virtuous in the past ten years, but she'd never killed a natural-­born citizen of Terrasen. Had refused to, actually. And Aedion had always been a gods-­damned bastard, but now . . . Did he know what he wore on his
fi
nger? Did he know that despite his arrogance, his de
fi
ance and insolence, the king could
make
him bend to his will whenever he pleased? He ­couldn't warn Aedion, not without potentially getting himself and everyone he cared about killed should Aedion truly have allegiance to the king.

“How are things in Terrasen?” Chaol asked, because Dorian was studying Aedion again.

“What would you like me to tell you?
Th
at we are well-­fed a
ft
er a brutal winter?
Th
at we did not lose many to sickness?” Aedion snorted. “I suppose hunting rebels is always fun, if you've a taste for it. Hopefully His Majesty has summoned the Bane to the South to
fi
nally give them some real action.” As Aedion reached for the water, Chaol glimpsed the hilt of his sword. Dull metal
fl
ecked with dings and scratches, its pommel nothing more than a bit of cracked, rounded horn. Such a simple, plain sword for one of the greatest warriors in Erilea.

“
Th
e Sword of Orynth,” Aedion drawled. “A gi
ft
from His Majesty upon my
fi
rst victory.”

Everyone knew that sword. It had been an heirloom of Terrasen's royal family, passed from ruler to ruler. By right, it was Celaena's. It had belonged to her father. For Aedion to possess it, considering what that sword now did, the lives it took, was a slap in the face to Celaena and to her family.

“I'm surprised you bother with such sentimentality,” Dorian said.

“Symbols have power, Prince,” Aedion said, pinning him with a stare. Celaena's stare—­unyielding and alive with challenge. “You'd be surprised by the power this still wields in the North—­what it does to convince people not to pursue foolhardy plans.”

Perhaps Celaena's skills and cunning ­weren't unusual in her bloodline. But Aedion was an Ashryver, not a Galathynius—­which meant that his great-­grandmother had been Mab, one of the three Fae-­Queens, in recent generations crowned a goddess and renamed Deanna, Lady of the Hunt. Chaol swallowed hard.

Silence fell, taut as a bowstring. “Trouble between you two?” Aedion asked, biting into his meat. “Let me guess: a woman.
Th
e King's Champion, perhaps? Rumor has it she's . . . interesting. Is that why you've moved on from my sort of fun, princeling?” He scanned the hall. “I'd like to meet her, I think.”

Chaol fought the urge to grip his sword. “She's away.”

Aedion instead gave Dorian a cruel smile. “Pity. Perhaps she might have convinced me to move on as well.”

“Mind your mouth,” Chaol snarled. He might have laughed had he not wanted to strangle the general so badly. Dorian merely drummed his
fi
ngers on the table. “And show some respect.”

Aedion chuckled,
fi
nishing o
ff
the lamb. “I am His Majesty's faithful servant, as I have always been.”
Th
ose Ashryver eyes once more settled on Dorian. “Perhaps I'll be your whore someday, too.”

“If you're still alive by then,” Dorian purred.

Aedion went on eating, but Chaol could still feel his relentless focus pinned on them. “Rumor has it a Matron of a witch clan was killed on the premises not too long ago,” Aedion said casually. “She vanished, though her quarters indicated she'd put up a hell of a
fi
ght.”

Dorian said sharply, “What's your interest in that?”

“I make it my business to know when the power brokers of the realm meet their end.”

A shiver spider-­walked down Chaol's spine. He knew little about the witches. Celaena had told him a few stories—­and he'd always prayed they ­were exaggerated. But something like dread
fl
ickered across Dorian's face.

Chaol leaned forward. “It's none of your concern.”

Aedion again ignored him and winked at the prince. Dorian's nostrils
fl
ared, the only sign of the rage that was rising to the surface.
Th
at, and the air in the room shi
ft
ed—­brisker. Magic.

Chaol put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “We're going to be late,” he lied, but Dorian caught it. He had to get Dorian out—­away from Aedion—­and try to leash the disastrous storm that was brewing between the two men. “Rest well, Aedion.” Dorian didn't bother saying anything, his sapphire eyes frozen.

Aedion smirked. “
Th
e party's tomorrow in Ri
ft
hold if you feel like reliving the good old days, Prince.” Oh, the general knew exactly what buttons to push, and he didn't give a damn what a mess it made. It made him dangerous—­deadly.

Especially where Dorian and his magic ­were concerned. Chaol forced himself to say good night to some of his men, to look casual and unconcerned as they walked from the dining hall. Aedion Ashryver had come to Ri
ft
hold, narrowly missing running into his long-­lost cousin.

If Aedion knew Aelin was still alive, if he knew who and what she had become or what she had learned regarding the king's secret power, would he stand with her, or destroy her? Given his actions, given the ring he bore . . . Chaol didn't want the general anywhere near her. Anywhere near Terrasen, either.

He wondered how much blood would spill when Celaena learned what her cousin had done.

Chaol and Dorian walked in silence for most of the trek to the prince's tower. When they turned down an empty hallway and ­were certain no one could overhear them, Dorian said, “I didn't need you to step in.”

“Aedion's a bastard,” Chaol growled.
Th
e conversation could end there, and part of him was tempted to let it, but he made himself say, “I was worried you'd snap. Like you did in the passages.” He loosed a tight breath. “Are you . . . stable?”

“Some days are better than others. Getting angry or frightened seems to set it o
ff
.”

Th
ey entered the hallway that ended in the arched wooden door to Dorian's tower, but Chaol stopped him with an arm on his shoulder. “I don't want details,” he murmured so the guards posted outside Dorian's door ­couldn't hear, “because I don't want my knowledge used against you. I know I've made mistakes, Dorian. Believe me, I know. But my priority has always been—­and still is—­keeping you protected.”

Dorian stared at him for a long moment, cocking his head to the side. Chaol must have looked as miserable as he felt, because the prince's voice was almost gentle as he said, “Why did you really send her to Wendlyn?”

Agony punched through him, raw and razor-­edged. But as much as he yearned to tell the prince about Celaena, as much as he wanted to unload all his secrets so it would
fi
ll the hole in his core, he ­couldn't. So he just said, “I sent her to do what needs to be done,” and strode back down the hall. Dorian didn't call a
ft
er him.

4

Manon pulled her bloodred cloak tightly around herself and pressed into the shadows of the closet, listening to the three men who had broken into her cottage.

She'd tasted the rising fear and rage on the wind all day and had spent the a
ft
ernoon preparing. She'd been sitting on the thatched roof of the whitewashed cottage when she spotted their torches bobbing over the high grasses of the
fi
eld. None of the villagers had tried to stop the three men—­though none had joined them, either.

A Crochan witch had come to their little green valley in the north of Fenharrow, they'd said. In the weeks that she'd been living amongst them, carving out a miserable existence, she'd been waiting for this night. It was the same at every village she'd lived in or visited.

She held her breath, keeping still as a deer as one of the men—­a tall, bearded farmer with hands the size of dinner plates—­stepped into her bedroom. Even from the closet, she could smell the ale on his breath—­and the bloodlust. Oh, the villagers knew exactly what they planned to do with the witch who sold potions and charms from her back door, and who could predict the sex of a babe before it was due. She was surprised it had taken these men so long to work up the nerve to come ­here, to torment and then destroy what petri
fi
ed them.

Th
e farmer stopped in the middle of the room. “We know you're ­here,” he coaxed, even as he stepped toward the bed, scanning every inch of the room. “We just want to talk. Some of the townsfolk are spooked, you see—­more scared of you than you are of them, I bet.”

She knew better than to listen, especially as a dagger glinted behind his back while he peered under the bed. Always the same, at every backwater town and uptight mortal village.

As the man straightened, Manon slipped from the closet and into the darkness behind the bedroom door.

Mu
ffl
ed clinking and thudding told her enough about what the other two men ­were doing: not just looking for her, but stealing what­ever they wanted.
Th
ere ­wasn't much to take; the cottage had already been furnished when she'd arrived, and all her belongings, by training and instinct, ­were in a sack in the corner of the closet she'd just vacated. Take nothing with you, leave nothing behind.

“We just want to talk, witch.”
Th
e man turned from the bed,
fi
nally noticing the closet. He smiled—­in triumph, in anticipation.

With gentle
fi
ngers, Manon eased the bedroom door shut, so quietly the man didn't notice as he headed for the closet. She'd oiled the hinges on every door in this ­house.

His massive hand gripped the closet doorknob, dagger now angled at his side. “Come out, little Crochan,” he crooned.