Heir of Fire(59)
But she had no right to tell those stories as if they were her own. And she could not remember them correctly, not as they had been told at her bedside.
She clamped down on the thought as hard as she could, shoving it back long enough to calmly say, “No, thank you,” and walk away. No one came after her. She didn’t give a damn what Rowan made of the whole thing.
The whispers died with each step, and it wasn’t until she’d shut the door to her freezing room and slid into bed that she loosed a sigh. The rain stopped, the clouds cleared on a brisk wind, and through the window, a patch of stars flickered above the tree line.
She had no stories to tell. All the legends of Terrasen were lost to her, and only fragments were strewn through her memories like rubble.
She pulled her scrap of blanket higher and draped an arm over her eyes, shutting out the ever-watching stars.
18
Mercifully, Dorian wasn’t forced to entertain Aedion again, and saw little of him outside of state dinners and meetings, where the general pretended he didn’t exist. He saw little of Chaol, too, which was a relief, given how awkward their conversations had been of late. But he’d begun to spar with the guards in the mornings. It was about as fun as lying on a bed of hot nails, but at least it gave him something to do with the restless, anxious energy that hounded him day and night.
Not to mention all those cuts and scrapes and sprains gave him an excuse to go to the healers’ catacombs. Sorscha, it seemed, had caught on to his training schedule, and her door was always open when he arrived.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what she’d said in his room, or wondering why someone who had lost everything would dedicate her life to helping the family of the man who had taken it all away. And when she’d said Because I had nowhere else to go . . . for a second, it hadn’t been Sorscha but Celaena, broken with grief and loss and rage, coming to his room because there was no one else to turn to. He’d never known what that was like, that loss, but Sorscha’s kindness to him—which he’d repaid so foully until now—hit him like a stone to the head.
Dorian entered her workroom, and Sorscha looked up from the table and smiled, broadly and prettily and . . . well, wasn’t that exactly the reason he found excuses to come here every day.
He held up his wrist, already stiff and throbbing. “Landed on it badly,” he said by way of greeting. She came around the table, giving him enough time to admire the long lines of her figure in her simple gown. She moved like water, he thought, and often caught himself marveling at the way she used her hands.
“There’s not much I can do for that,” she said after examining his wrist. “But I have a tonic for the pain—only to subdue it, and I can put your arm in a sling if—”
“Gods, no. No sling. I’ll never hear the end of it from the guards.”
Her eyes twinkled, just a bit—in that way they did when she was amused and tried hard not to be.
But if there was no sling, then he had no excuse to be here, and even though he had an inane council meeting in an hour and still needed to bathe . . . He stood. “What are you working on?”
She took a careful step back from him. She always did that, to keep the wall up. “Well, I have a few tonics and salves to make for some of the servants and guards today—to replenish their stocks.” He knew he shouldn’t, but he moved to peer over her narrow shoulder at the worktable, at the bowls and vials and beakers. She made a small noise in her throat, and he swallowed his smile as he leaned a bit closer. “This is normally a task for apprentices, but they were so busy today that I offered to take some of their workload.” She usually talked like this when she was nervous. Which, Dorian had noticed with some satisfaction, was when he came near. And not in a bad way—if he’d sensed that she was truly uncomfortable, he’d have kept his distance. This was more . . . flustered. He liked flustered.