Heir of Fire(233)
Somehow, even though her long life had been gone for ten years . . .
Somehow, that regret made her feel incredibly, heavily mortal.
63
Aedion let out a low whistle and offered Chaol the bottle of wine between them on the rooftop of Celaena’s apartment. Chaol, not feeling at all like drinking, shook his head.
“I wish I had been there to see it.” He gave Chaol a wolfish smile. “I’m surprised you’re not condemning me for saying that.”
“Whatever creatures the king sent with Narrok, I do not think they were innocent men,” Chaol said. “Or really men at all anymore.”
She had done it—had made such a statement that even days later, Aedion was still celebrating. Quietly, of course.
Chaol had come here tonight planning to tell Aedion and Ren what he knew of the spell the king had used and how they might destroy it. But he hadn’t yet. He still wondered what Aedion would do with that knowledge. Especially once Chaol left for Anielle in three days.
“When she gets home, you need to lie low in Anielle,” Aedion said, swigging from the bottle. “Once it comes out who she was all these years.”
And it would, Chaol knew. He was already preparing to get Dorian and Sorscha out of the castle. Even if they had done nothing wrong, they had been her friends. If the king knew that Celaena was Aelin, it could be just as deadly as if he discovered that Dorian had magic. When she came home, everything would change.
Yes, Aelin would come home. But not to Chaol. She would come home to Terrasen, to Aedion and Ren and the court that was regathering in her name. She would come home to war and bloodshed and responsibility. Part of him still could not fathom what she’d done to Narrok, the battle cry she’d issued from across the sea. He could not accept that part of her, so bloodthirsty and unyielding. Even as Celaena, it had been hard to swallow at times, and he had tried to look past it, but as Aelin . . . He’d known, since the moment he figured out who she was, that while Celaena would always pick him, Aelin would not.
And it would not be Celaena Sardothien who returned to this continent. It would take time, he knew—for it to stop hurting, to let go. But the pain wouldn’t last forever.
“Is there . . .” Aedion clenched his jaw as if debating saying the rest. “Is there anything you want me to tell her, or give her?” At any moment, any time, Aedion might have to flee to Terrasen and to his queen.
The Eye of Elena was warm at his neck, and Chaol almost reached for it. But he couldn’t bring himself to send her that message, or to let go of her that completely—not yet. Just as he couldn’t bring himself to tell Aedion about the clock tower.
“Tell her,” Chaol said quietly, “that I had nothing to do with you. Tell her you barely spoke to me. Or Dorian. Tell her I am fine in Anielle, and that we are all safe.”
Aedion was quiet long enough that Chaol got up to leave. But then the general said, “What would you have given—just to see her again?”
Chaol couldn’t turn around as he said, “It doesn’t matter now.”
•
Sorscha rested her head on the soft spot between Dorian’s shoulder and chest, breathing in the smell of him. He was already sleeping deeply. Almost—they had almost taken things over the edge tonight, but she had again hesitated, again let that stupid doubt creep in when he asked her if she was ready, and though she wanted to say yes, she had said no.
She lay awake, stomach tight and mind racing. There was so much she wanted to do and see with him. But she could feel the world shifting—the wind changing. Aelin Galathynius was alive. And even if Sorscha gave everything to Dorian, the upcoming weeks and months would be trying enough for him without having to worry about her.