Heir of Fire (45 page)

She had failed Aedion so unforgivably that she ­couldn't bring herself to blame or detest him for what he'd become. She'd avoided learning any details about what, exactly, he'd done in the north all these years. Aedion had been
fi
ercely, wildly loyal to Terrasen as a child. She didn't want to know what he'd been forced to do, what had happened to him, to change that. It was by luck or fate or something ­else entirely that he had never been in the castle when she was there. Because not only would he have recognized her, but if he knew what she had done with her life . . . his hatred would make Rowan's look pleasant, probably.

Rowan's features ­were set in a mask of contemplation as she said, “I think facing my cousin a
ft
er everything would be the worst of it—­worse than facing the king.”
Th
ere was nothing she could say or do to atone for what she'd become while their kingdom fell into ruin and their people ­were slaughtered or enslaved.

“Keep working,” Rowan said, jerking his chin at the tools sitting in her lap. She obeyed, and he hissed again at the
fi
rst prick. “Do you think,” he said a
ft
er a moment, “your cousin would kill you or help you? An army like his could change the tide of any war.”

A chill went down her spine at that word—
war
. “I don't know what he would think of me, or where his loyalties lie. And I'd rather not know. Ever.”

Th
ough their eyes ­were identical, their bloodlines were distant enough that she'd heard servants and courtiers alike pondering the usefulness of a Galathynius-­Ashryver ­union someday.
Th
e idea was as laughable now as it had been ten years ago.

“Do
you
have cousins?” she asked.

“Too many. Mora's line was always the most widespread, and my meddlesome, gossiping cousins make my visits to Doranelle . . . irksome.” She smiled a little at the thought. “You'd probably get along with my cousins,” he said. “Especially with the snooping.”

She paused her inking and squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt anyone but an immortal. “You're one to talk,
Prince
. I've never been asked so many questions in my life.”

Not quite true, but not quite an exaggeration, either. No one had ever asked her
these
questions. And she'd never told anyone the answers.

He bared his teeth, though she knew he didn't mean it, and glanced meaningfully at his wrist. “Hurry up,
Princess
. I want to go to bed at some point before dawn.”

She used her free hand to make a particularly vulgar gesture, and he caught it with his own, teeth still out. “
Th
at
is not very queenly.”

“
Th
en it's good I'm not a queen, isn't it?”

But he ­wouldn't let go of her hand. “You have sworn to free your friend's kingdom and save the world—­but will not even consider your own lands. What scares you about seizing your birthright?
Th
e king? Facing what remains of your court?” He kept his face so close to hers that she could see the
fl
ecks of brown in his green eyes. “Give me one good reason why you won't take back your throne. One good reason, and I'll keep my mouth shut about it.”

She weighed the earnestness in his gaze, his breathing, and then said, “Because if I free Eyllwe and destroy the king as Celaena, I can go anywhere a
ft
er that.
Th
e crown . . . my crown is just another set of shackles.”

It was sel
fi
sh and horrible, but it was true. Nehemia, long ago, had once said as much—­it was her most ardent and sel
fi
sh wish to be ordinary, without the weight of her crown. Had her friend known how deeply those words had echoed in her?

She waited for the scolding, saw it simmering in Rowan's eyes. But then he quietly said, “What do you mean,
another
set of shackles?”

He loosened his grip to reveal the two thin bands of scars that wrapped around her wrist. His mouth tightened, and she yanked her wrist back hard enough that he let go.

“Nothing,” she said. “Arobynn, my master, liked to use them for training every now and then.” Arobynn
had
chained her to make her learn how to get free. But the shackles at Endovier had been cra
ft
ed with people like her in mind. It ­wasn't until Chaol had removed them that she'd gotten out.

She didn't want Rowan knowing that—­any of it. Anger and hatred she could handle, but pity . . . And she ­couldn't talk about Chaol, ­couldn't explain just how much he had rebuilt and then shattered her heart, not without explaining Endovier. Not without explaining how one day, she didn't know how distant, she was going back to Endovier and freeing them all. Each and every slave, even if she had to unshackle them all herself.

Celaena went back to her work, and Rowan's face remained tight—­as if he could smell her half truth. “Why did you stay with Arobynn?”

“I knew I wanted two things: First, to disappear from the world and from my enemies, but . . . ah.” It was hard to look him in the eye. “I wanted to hide from myself, mostly. I convinced myself I should disappear, because the second thing I wanted, even then, was to be able to someday . . . hurt people the way I had been hurt. And it turned out that I was very, very good at it.

“If he had tossed me away, I would either have died or wound up with the rebels. If I had grown up with them, I probably would have been found by the king and slaughtered. Or I would have grown up so hateful that I would have been killing Adarlanian soldiers from a young age.” His brows ­rose, and she clicked her tongue. “You thought I was just going to spread my ­whole history at your feet the moment I met you? I'm sure you have even more stories than I do, so stop looking so surprised. Maybe we should just go back to beating each other into a pulp.”

His eyes gleamed with near-­predatory intent. “Oh, not a chance, Princess. You can tell me what you want, when you want, but there's no going back now.”

She li
ft
ed her tools again. “I'm sure your other friends just adore having you around.”

A feral smile, and he grabbed her by the chin—­not hard enough to hurt, but to get her to look at him. “First thing,” he breathed, “we're not friends. I'm still training you, and that means you're still under my command.”
Th
e
fl
icker of hurt must have shown, because he leaned closer, his grip tightening on her jaw. “Second—­whatever we are, what­ever this is? I'm still
fi
guring it out, too. So if I'm going to give you the space you deserve to sort yourself out, then you can damn well give it to me.”

She studied him for a moment, their breath mingling.

“Deal,” she said.

40

“Tell me your greatest wish,” Dorian murmured into Sorscha's hair as he entwined their
fi
ngers, marveling at the smoothness of her tan skin against the calluses of his. Such pretty hands, like mourning doves.

She smiled onto his chest. “I don't have a greatest wish.”

“Liar.” He kissed her hair. “You're the world's worst liar.”

She turned toward the window of his bedroom, the morning light making her dark hair glow. It had been two weeks since that night she'd kissed him, two weeks since she'd started creeping up ­here a
ft
er the castle had gone to sleep.
Th
ey'd been sharing a bed, though not in the manner he still yearned to. And he detested the sneaking and the hiding.

But she'd lose her position if they ­were found out. With him being who he was . . . he could bring down a world of trouble on her just for being associated with him. His mother alone could
fi
nd ways to get her shipped o
ff
somewhere.

“Tell me,” he said again, bending to snatch a kiss. “Tell me, and I'll make it happen.”

He'd always been generous with his lovers. Usually he gave them gi
ft
s to keep them from complaining when he lost interest, but this time he genuinely
wanted
to give her things. He had tried giving her jewelry and clothes, and she had refused it all. So he'd taken to giving her hard-­to-­come-­by herbs and books and special tools for her workroom. She'd tried to refuse those, but he'd worn her down quickly—­mostly by kissing away her protests.

“And if I asked for the moon on a string?”

“
Th
en I would start praying to Deanna.”

She smiled, but Dorian's own grin faded. Deanna, Lady of the Hunt. He usually tried not to think about Celaena, Aelin—­whoever she was. Tried not to think about Chaol and his lying, or Aedion and his treason. He wanted nothing to do with them, not now that Sorscha was with him. He'd been a fool once, swearing he would tear the world apart for Celaena. A boy in love with a wild
fi
re—­or believing he was in love with one.

“Dorian?” Sorscha pulled back to study his face. She looked at him the way he'd once caught Celaena looking at Chaol.

He kissed her again, so
ft
and lingering, and her body melted into his. He savored the silkiness of her skin as he ran a hand down her arm. She yanked back. “I have to go. I'm late.”

He groaned. It was indeed almost breakfast—­and she would be noticed if she didn't leave. She shimmied out of his embrace and into her dress, and he helped tie the stays in the back. Always hiding—­was that to be his life? Not just the women he loved, but his magic, his true thoughts . . .

Sorscha kissed him and was at the door, a hand on the knob. “My greatest wish,” she said with a little smile, “is for a morning when I don't have to run out the door at
fi
rst light.”

Before he could say anything, she was gone.

But he didn't know what he could say, or do, to make it happen. Because Sorscha had her obligations, and he had his.

If he le
ft
to be with her, if he turned on his father, or if his magic was discovered, then his brother would become heir. And the thought of Hollin as king one day . . . What he would do to their world, especially with their father's power . . . No, Dorian could not have the luxury of choosing, because there was no option. He was bound to his crown, and would be until the day he died.

Th
ere was a knock on his door, and Dorian smiled, wondering if Sorscha had come back.
Th
e grin vanished as the door opened.

“We need to talk,” Chaol said from the threshold. Dorian hadn't seen him in weeks, and yet—­his friend looked older. Exhausted.

“Not going to bother with
fl
attery?” Dorian said, plopping onto the couch.

“You would see through it anyway.” Chaol shut the door behind him and leaned against it.

“Humor me.”

“I am sorry, Dorian,” Chaol said so
ft
ly. “More than you know.”

“Sorry because lying cost you me—­and her? Would you be sorry if you hadn't been caught?”

Chaol's jaw tightened. And perhaps Dorian was being unfair, but he didn't care.

“I am sorry for all of it,” Chaol said. “But I—­I've been working to
fi
x it.”

“And what about Celaena? Is working with Aedion actually to help me, or her?”

“Both of you.”

“Do you still love her?” He didn't know why he cared, why it was important.

Chaol closed his eyes for a moment. “A part of me will always love her. But I had to get her out of this castle. Because it was too dangerous, and she was . . . what she was becoming . . .”

“She was not becoming anything di
ff
erent from what she always was and always had the capacity to be. You just
fi
nally saw everything. And once you saw that other part of her . . . ,” Dorian said quietly. It had taken him until now, until Sorscha, to understand what that meant. “You cannot pick and choose what parts of her to love.” He pitied Chaol, he realized. His heart hurt for his friend, for all that Chaol had surely been realizing these past few months. “Just as you cannot pick which parts of me you accept.”

“I don't—”

“You do. But what's done is done, Chaol. And there is no going back, no matter how hard you try to change things. Like it or not, you played a role in getting us all to this point, too. You set her down that path, to revealing what and who she is, to what­ever she decides to do now.”

“You think I wanted any of this to happen?” Chaol splayed his arms. “If I could, I would put it all back to the way it was. If I could, she ­wouldn't be queen, and you ­wouldn't have magic.”

“Of course—­of course you still see the magic as a problem. And of course you wish she ­wasn't who she is. Because you're not really scared of those things, are you? No—­it's what they represent.
Th
e change. But let me tell you,” Dorian breathed, his magic
fl
ickering and then subsiding in a
fl
ash of pain, “things have already changed. And changed because of
you
. I have magic—­there is no undoing that, no getting rid of it. And as for Celaena . . .” He clamped down on the power that surged as he imagined—­for the
fi
rst time, he realized—­what it was to be her. “As for Celaena,” he said again, “you do not have the right to wish she ­were not what she is.
Th
e only thing you have a right to do is decide whether you are her enemy or her friend.”

He did not know all of her story, did not know what had been truth and what had been lies, or what it had been like in Endovier to slave beside her countrymen, or to bow to the man who had murdered her family. But he had seen her—­seen glimpses of the person beneath, regardless of name or title.