Heir of Fire (56 page)

“I want you out of this castle,” he said. “I'll give you the funds, but I want you away from ­here as soon as you can
fi
nd a way to go without raising suspicion.”

She yanked out of his grasp. “Are you mad?”

No, he'd never seen anything more clearly. “If you stay, if we are caught . . . I will give you what­ever money you need—”

“No money you could o
ff
er could convince me to leave.”

“I'll tie you to a ­horse if I have to. I'm getting you out—”

“And who will look a
ft
er you? Who will make your tonics? You're not even talking to the captain anymore. How could I leave now?”

He gripped her shoulders. She had to understand—­he had to make her understand. Her loyalty was one of the things he loved, but now . . . it would only get her killed. “He murdered
thousands
of people in one sweep. Imagine what he'll do if he
fi
nds you've been helping me.
Th
ere are worse things than death, Sorscha. Please—
please
, just go.”

Her
fi
ngers found his, entwining tight. “Come with me.”

“I ­can't. It will get worse if I leave, if my brother is made heir. And I think . . . I know of some people who might be trying to stop him. If I am ­here, perhaps I can help them in some way.”

Oh, Chaol. He understood completely now why he had sent Celaena to Wendlyn—­understood that his return to Anielle . . . Chaol had sold himself to get Celaena to safety.

“If you stay, I stay,” Sorscha said. “You cannot convince me ­otherwise.”

“Please,” he said, because he didn't have it in him to yell, not with the deaths of those people hanging over him. “Please . . .”

But she brushed her thumb across his cheek. “Together. We'll face this together.”

And it was sel
fi
sh and horrible of him, but he put up no further argument.

•

Chaol went to the tomb for privacy, to mourn, to scream. But he was not alone.

Aedion was sitting on the steps of the spiral stairwell, his forearms braced on his knees. He didn't turn as Chaol set down his candle and sat beside him.

“What do you suppose,” Aedion breathed, staring into the darkness, “the people on other continents, across all those seas, think of us? Do you think they hate us or pity us for what we do to each other? Perhaps it's just as bad there. Perhaps it's worse. But to do what I have to do, to get through it . . . I have to believe it's better. Somewhere, it's better than this.”

Chaol had no answer.

“I have . . .” Aedion's teeth gleamed in the light. “I have been forced to do many, many things. Depraved, despicable things. Yet nothing made me feel as
fi
lthy as I did today, thanking that man for murdering my people.”

Th
ere was nothing he could say to console him, nothing he could promise. So Chaol le
ft
Aedion staring into the darkness.

•

Th
ere was not one empty seat in the Royal
Th
eater that night. Every box and tier was crammed with nobility, merchants, whoever could a
ff
ord the ticket. Jewels and silk gleamed in the light of the glass chandeliers, the riches of a conquering empire.

Th
e news about the slave massacres had struck that a
ft
ernoon, spreading through the city on a wave of murmuring, leaving only silence behind.
Th
e upper tiers of the theater ­were unusually still, as if the audience had come to be soothed, to let the music sweep away the stain of the news.

Only the boxes ­were full of chatter. About what this meant for the fortunes of those seated in the plush crimson velvet chairs, debates over where the new slaves would come from to ensure there was no pause in labor, and about how they should treat their own slaves a
ft
erward. Despite the chiming bells and the raising and dimming of the chandeliers, it took the boxes far longer to quiet than usual.

Th
ey ­were still talking when the red curtains pulled back to reveal the seated orchestra, and it was a miracle they bothered to applaud for the conductor as he hobbled across the stage.

Th
at was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black.
Th
at was when they shut up. And when the conductor raised his arms, it was not a symphony that
fi
lled the cavernous space.

It was the Song of Eyllwe.

Th
en the Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labor camps.

And
fi
nally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become, they played the Song of Adarlan.

When the
fi
nal note
fi
nished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one, they looked to the boxes, to all those jewels bought with the blood of a continent. And without a word, without a bow or another gesture, they walked o
ff
the stage.

Th
e next morning, by royal decree, the theater was shut down.

No one saw those musicians or their conductor again.

50

A cooling breeze kissed down Celaena's neck.
Th
e forest had gone silent, as if the birds and insects had been quieted by her assault on the invisible wall.
Th
e barrier had gobbled down every spark of magic she'd launched at it, and now seemed to hum with fresh power.

Th
e scent of pine and snow wrapped around her, and she turned to
fi
nd Rowan standing against a nearby tree. He'd been there for some time now, giving her space to work herself into exhaustion.

But she was not tired. And she was not done.
Th
ere was still wild
fi
re in her mind, writhing, endless, damning. She let it dim to embers, let the grief and horror die down, too.

Rowan said, “Word just arrived from Wendlyn. Reinforcements aren't coming.”

“
Th
ey didn't come ten years ago,” she said, her throat raw though she had not spoken in hours. Cold, glittering calm was now
fl
owing in her veins. “Why should they bother helping now?”

His eyes
fl
ickered. “Aelin.” When she only gazed into the darkening forest, he suddenly said, “You do not have to stay—­we can go to Doranelle to­night, and you can retrieve your knowledge from Maeve. You have my blessing.”

“Do not insult me by asking me to leave. I am
fi
ghting. Nehemia would have stayed. My parents would have stayed.”

“
Th
ey also had the luxury of knowing that their bloodline did not end with them.”

She gritted her teeth. “You have experience—
you
are needed ­here. You are the only person who can give the demi-­Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to what­ever end.” And if the creatures devoured her body and soul, then she would not mind. She had earned that fate.

For a long moment, he said nothing. But his brows narrowed slightly. “To what­ever end?”

She nodded. He had not needed to mention the massacres, had not needed to try to console her. He knew—­he understood without her having to say a word—­what it was like.

Her magic thrummed in her blood, wanting out, wanting
more
. But it would wait—­it had to wait until it was time. Until she had Narrok and his creatures in her sight.

She realized that Rowan saw each of those thoughts and more as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He extended it to her, its long blade gleaming as if he'd been secretly polishing and caring for it these months.

And when she grasped the dagger, its weight lighter than she remembered, Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her, and said, “Fireheart.”

•

Reinforcements from Wendlyn ­weren't coming—­not out of spite but because a legion of Adarlan's men had attacked the northern border. 
Th
ree thousand men in ships had launched a full-­on assault. Wendlyn had sent every last soldier to the northern coast, and there they would remain.
Th
e demi-­Fae ­were to face Narrok and his forces alone. Rowan calmly encouraged the non
fi
ghters at the fortress to
fl
ee.

But no one
fl
ed. Even Emrys refused, and Malakai merely said that where his mate went, he went.

For hours, they adjusted their plans to accommodate the lack of reinforcements. In the end they didn't have to change much, thankfully. Celaena contributed what she could to the planning, letting Rowan order everyone about and adjust the masterful strategy in that brilliant head of his. She tried not to think about Endovier and Calaculla, but the knowledge of it still simmered in her, brewing during the long hours that they debated.

Th
ey planned until Emrys hauled up a pot from the kitchen and began whacking it with a spoon, ordering them out because dawn would come too soon.

Within a minute of returning to their room, Celaena was undressed and
fl
opping into bed. Rowan took his time, however, peeling o
ff
his shirt and striding to the washbasin. “You did well helping me plan to­night.”

She watched him wash his face, then his neck. “You sound surprised.”

He wiped his face with a towel, then leaned against the dresser, bracing his hands against either end.
Th
e wood groaned, but his face remained still.

Fireheart
, he had called her. Did he know what that name meant to her? She wanted to ask, still had so many questions for him, but right now, a
ft
er all the news of the day, she needed to sleep.

“I sent word,” Rowan said, letting go of the dresser and approaching the bed. She'd le
ft
the sword from the mountain cave on the bedpost, and its smoldering ruby now glinted in the dim light as he ran a
fi
nger down the golden hilt. “To my . . .
cadre
, as you like to call them.”

She braced herself on her elbows. “When?”

“A few days ago. I don't know where they all are or whether they'll arrive in time. Maeve might not let them come—­or some of them might not even ask her.
Th
ey can be . . . unpredictable. And it may be that I just get the order to return to Doranelle, and—”

“You actually called for aid?”

His eyes narrowed.
I just said that I did.

She stood, and he retreated a step.
What changed your mind?

Some things are worth the risk.

He didn't back away again as she approached and said with every ember le
ft
in her shredded heart, “I claim you, Rowan Whitethorn. I don't care what you say and how much you protest. I claim you as my friend.”

He just turned to the washbasin again, but she caught the unspoken words that he'd tried to keep her from reading on his face.
It ­doesn't matter. Even if we survive, when we go to Doranelle, you will walk out of Maeve's realm alone.

•

Emrys joined them—­along with all the demi-­Fae at Mistward who had not been dispatched with messages—­in traveling down to the healers' compound the next morning to help cart the patients to safety. Anyone who could not
fi
ght remained to help the sick and wounded, and Emrys declared he would stay there until the very end. So they le
ft
him, along with a small contingent of sentries in case things went very, very wrong. When Celaena headed o
ff
into the trees with Rowan, she did not bother with good-­byes. Many of the others did not say farewell, either—­it seemed like an invitation for death, and Celaena was fairly certain she ­wasn't on the good side of the gods.

She was awoken that night by a large, callused hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake. It seemed that death was already waiting for them.

51

“Get your sword and your weapons, and
hurry
,” Rowan said to Celaena as she instantly came to her feet, reaching for the dagger beside the bed.

He was already halfway across the room, slinging on his clothes and weapons with lethal e
ffi
ciency. She didn't bother with questions—­he would tell her what was necessary. She hopped into her pants and boots.

“I think ­we've been betrayed,” Rowan said, and her
fi
ngers caught on a buckle of her sword-­belt as she turned to the open window. Quiet. Absolute quiet in the forest.

And along the horizon, a growing smear of blackness. “
Th
ey're coming to­night,” she breathed.

“I did a sweep of the perimeter.” Rowan stu
ff
ed a knife into his boot. “It's as if someone told them where every trap, every warning bell is located.
Th
ey'll be ­here within the hour.”

“Are the ward-­stones still working?” She
fi
nished braiding her hair and strapped her sword across her back.

“Yes—they're intact. I raised the alarm, and Malakai and the others are readying our defenses on the walls.” A small part of her smiled at the thought of what it must have been like for Malakai to
fi
nd a half-­naked Rowan shouting orders in his room.

She asked, “Who would have betrayed us?”

“I don't know, and when I
fi
nd them, I'll splatter them on the walls. But for now, we have bigger problems to worry about.”

Th
e darkness on the horizon had spread, devouring the stars, the trees, the light. “What
is
that?”