Heir of Fire
“Hold him still,” his father barked, digging his knee in deeper.
The breath was sucked from his chest, and his ribs groaned in agony. But there was nothing Dorian could do to stop it.
He wrenched his arm from one of the guards—wrenched it free and reached, bellowing.
He had just touched Sorscha’s limp hand when cool stone gripped his throat, there was a faint click and hiss, and the darkness swept in to tear him apart.
•
Chaol ran. He did not have the time to take anything except what he had on him as he sprinted like hell for Dorian’s rooms. Fleetfoot was waiting, as she had been all night, and he scooped her over a shoulder and hauled her to Celaena’s room and into the secret passage. Down and down they went, the dog unusually obedient.
Three blasts shook the castle, shaking dust from the stones above. He kept running, knowing each blast meant Dorian was alive a bit longer, and dreading the silence to come.
Hope—that was what he carried with him. The hope of a better world that Aedion and Sorscha and Dorian had sacrificed themselves for.
He made one stop, with Fleetfoot still gripped over his shoulder.
With a silent prayer to the gods for their forgiveness, Chaol hurtled into the tomb to grab Damaris, shoving the sacred blade through his belt and stuffing a few handfuls of gold into his cloak pockets. And though the skull-shaped knocker didn’t move, he told Mort precisely where he would be. “Just in case she comes back. In case . . . in case she doesn’t know.”
Mort remained stationary, but Chaol had the sense he’d been listening all the same as he grabbed the satchel containing Dorian and Celaena’s magic books and fled to the passage that would take him to the sewer tunnel. A few minutes later, he was raising the heavy iron grate over the sewer stream. The outside beyond was wholly dark and still.
As he heaved Fleetfoot back into his arms to swing them both around the wall and onto the stream bank beyond, the castle went silent. There were screams, yes, but silence lurked beneath them. He did not want to know if Dorian was alive or dead.
He couldn’t decide which was worse.
•
When Chaol got to the hidden apartment, Ren was pacing. “Where’s—”
There was blood on him, he realized. The spray from Sorscha’s neck. Chaol didn’t know how he found the words, but he told Ren what had happened.
“So it’s just us?” Ren asked quietly. Chaol nodded. Fleetfoot was sniffing around in the apartment, having made her inspection and decided Ren wasn’t worth eating—even after Ren had protested that the dog might draw too much attention. She was staying; that was nonnegotiable.
A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. “Then we find a way to free Aedion. As soon as possible. You and me. Between your knowledge of the castle and my contacts, we can find a way.” Then he whispered, “You said Dorian’s woman was—was a healer?” When Chaol nodded, Ren looked like he was about to be sick, but he asked, “Was she named Sorscha?”
“You were the friend she sent those letters to,” Chaol breathed.
“I kept pressing her for information, kept . . .” Ren covered his face and took a shuddering breath. When his eyes at last met Chaol’s, they were bright. Slowly, Ren held out a hand. “You and me, we’ll find a way to free them. Both Aedion and your prince.”
Chaol didn’t hesitate as he gripped the rebel’s outstretched hand.
66
“Morath,” Manon said, wondering if she’d heard right. “For battle?”
Her grandmother turned from the desk, eyes flashing. “To serve the duke, just as the king ordered. He wants the Wing Leader in Morath with half the host ready to fly at a moment’s notice. The others are to stay here under Iskra’s command to monitor the north.”
“And you—where will you be?”
Her grandmother hissed, rising. “So many questions now that you’re Wing Leader.”
Manon bowed her head. They had not spoken of the Crochan. Manon had gotten the message: next time, it would be one of the Thirteen on her knees. So she kept her head down as she said, “I only ask because I would not be parted with you, Grandmother.”
“Liar. And a pathetic one.” Her grandmother turned back to the desk. “I shall remain here, but come to you in Morath during the summer. We have work to finish here.”
Manon lifted her chin, her new red cloak pooling around her, and asked, “And when shall we fly to Morath?”
Her grandmother smiled, iron teeth shining. “Tomorrow.”
•
Even under the cover of darkness, the warm spring breeze was full of new grass and snow-melted rivers, only disrupted by the booming of wings as Manon led the host south along the Fangs.
They kept to the shadows of the mountains, shifting ranks and dipping out of sight to prevent anyone from getting an accurate count of their numbers. Manon sighed through her nose, and the wind ripped the sound away, just as it streamed her long red cloak behind her.
Asterin and Sorrel flanked her, silent like the rest of the covens for the long hours they’d flown down the mountains. They would cross Oakwald where Morath’s mountains were closest, then rise above the cover of the cloud line for the rest of the journey. Unseen and as quiet as possible—that was how the king wanted them to arrive at the duke’s mountain fortress. They flew all night down the Fangs, swift and sleek as shadows, and the earth below quivered in their wake.
Sorrel was stone-faced, monitoring the skies around them, but Asterin was smiling faintly. It was not a wild grin, or one that promised death, but a calm smile. To be aloft and skimming the clouds. Where every Blackbeak belonged. Where Manon belonged.
Asterin caught her stare and smiled wider, as if there wasn’t a host of witches flying behind them and Morath lying ahead. Her cousin turned her face into the wind, breathing it in, exultant.
Manon did not let herself savor that beautiful breeze or open herself to that joy. She had work to do; they all did. Despite what the Crochan had said, Manon had not been born with a heart, or a soul. She did not need them.
Once they fought the king’s war, when his enemies were bleeding out around them . . . only then would they ride to reclaim their broken kingdom.
And she would go home at last.
67
The rising sun was staining the Avery River with gold as the cloaked man strode onto a rickety dock in the slums. Fishermen were heading out for the day, revelers were stumbling in for the night, and Rifthold was still asleep—unaware of what had happened the night before.