Heir of Fire(49)
Chaol had stood on the street corner where the courtesan said she’d left him, but found nothing. And wasn’t it fascinating that no one really seemed to know exactly when the Bane would arrive, or where they were currently camped—only that they were on their way. Chaol was too busy during the day to track Aedion down, and during the king’s various meetings and luncheons, confronting the general was impossible. But tonight he planned to arrive at the party early enough that he’d see if Aedion even showed and where he slipped off to. The sooner he could get something on Aedion, the sooner he could settle all this nonsense and keep the king from looking too long in his direction before he turned in his resignation.
He’d only called this meeting because of a thought that had awoken him in the middle of the night—a slightly insane, highly dangerous plan that would likely get him killed before it even accomplished anything. He’d skimmed through all those books Celaena had found on magic, and found nothing at all about how he might help Dorian—and Celaena—by freeing it. But Celaena had once told him that the rebel group Archer and Nehemia had run claimed two things: one, that they knew where Aelin Galathynius was; and two, that they were close to finding a way to break the King of Adarlan’s mysterious power over the continent. The first one was a lie, of course, but if there was the slightest chance that these rebels knew how to free magic . . . he had to take it. He was already going out to trail Aedion, and he’d seen all of Celaena’s notes about the rebel hideouts, so he had an idea of where they could be found. This would have to be dealt with carefully, and he still needed as much time as he could buy.
His father’s dead smile faded, and true steel, honed by decades of ruling Anielle, shone through. “Rumor has it you consider yourself a man of honor. Though I wonder what manner of man you truly are, if you do not honor your bargains. I wonder . . .” His father made a good show of chewing on his bottom lip. “I wonder what your motive was, then, in sending your woman to Wendlyn.” Chaol fought the urge to stiffen. “For the noble Captain Westfall, there would be no question that he truly wanted His Majesty’s Champion to dispatch our foreign enemies. Yet for the oath-breaker, the liar . . .”
“I am not breaking my vow to you,” Chaol said, meaning every word. “I intend to go to Anielle—I will swear that in any temple, before any god. But only when I’ve found a replacement.”
“You swore a month,” his father growled.
“You’re to have me for the rest of my damned life. What is a month or two more to you?”
His father’s nostrils flared. What purpose, then, did his father have in wanting him to return so quickly? Chaol was about to ask, itching to make his father squirm a bit, when an envelope landed on his desk.
It had been years—years and years, but he still remembered his mother’s handwriting, still recalled the elegant way in which she drew his name. “What is this?”
“Your mother sent a letter to you. I suppose she’s expressing her joy at your anticipated return.” Chaol didn’t touch the envelope. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I have nothing to say to her, and no interest in what she has to say to me,” Chaol lied. Another trap, another way to unnerve him. But he had so much to do here, so many things to learn and uncover. He’d honor his vow soon enough.
His father snatched back the letter, tucking it into his tunic. “She will be most saddened to hear that.” And he knew his father, well aware of Chaol’s lie, would tell his mother exactly what he’d said. For a heartbeat, his blood roared in his ears, the way it always had when he’d witnessed his father belittling his mother, reprimanding her, ignoring her.
He took a steadying breath. “Four months, then I’ll go. Set the date and it’ll be done.”
“Two months.”