Heir of Fire(83)
She’d use every moment until the War Games to train him. When she and her Thirteen were crowned victors, she’d make each and every one of the witches who doubted her, her grandmother included, curse themselves for fools. Because she was Manon Blackbeak, and she’d never failed at anything. And there would be nothing better than watching Abraxos bite off Iskra’s head on the battlefield.
24
It was far too easy to lie to his men about the bruises and cuts on his face when Chaol returned to the castle—an unfortunate incident with a drunk vagrant in Rifthold. Enduring the lies and the injuries was better than being carrion. Chaol’s bargain with Aedion and the rebels had been simple: information for information.
He’d promised more information about their queen, as well as about the king’s black rings, in exchange for what they knew regarding the king’s power. It had kept him alive that night, and every night afterward, when he’d waited for them to change their minds. But they never came for him, and tonight, he and Aedion waited until well past twelve before slipping into Celaena’s old rooms.
It was the first time he’d dared return to the tomb since that night with Celaena and Dorian, and the skull-shaped bronze knocker, Mort, didn’t move or speak at all. Even though Chaol wore the Eye of Elena at his throat, the knocker remained frozen. Perhaps Mort only answered to those with Brannon Galathynius’s blood in their veins.
So he and Aedion combed through the tomb, the dusty halls, scouring every inch for signs of spies or ways to be discovered. When they were at last satisfied that no one could overhear them, Aedion said, “Tell me what I’m doing down here, Captain.”
The general had shown no awe or surprise as Chaol had led him into Elena and Gavin’s resting place, though his eyes had widened slightly at Damaris. But whether or not Aedion knew what it was, he’d said nothing. For all his brashness and arrogance, Chaol had a feeling the man had many, many secrets—and was damn good at concealing them.
It was the other reason why he’d offered the bargain to Aedion and his companions: if the prince’s gifts were discovered, Dorian would need somewhere to hide, and someone to get him to safety if Chaol were incapacitated. Chaol said, “Are you prepared to share whatever information you’ve gathered from your allies?”
Aedion gave him a lazy grin. “So long as you share yours.”
Chaol prayed to any god that would listen that he wasn’t making the wrong move as he pulled the Eye of Elena from his tunic. “Your Queen gave this necklace to me when she left for Wendlyn. It belonged to her ancestor—who summoned her here, to give it to her.” Aedion’s eyes narrowed as he took in the amulet, the blue stone shimmering in the moonlight. “What I am about to tell you,” Chaol said, “changes everything.”
•
Dorian stood in the shadows of the stairwell, listening. Listening, and not quite wanting to accept that Chaol was in the tomb with Aedion Ashryver.
That had been the first shock. For the past week, he’d been creeping down here to hunt for answers after his explosion with Sorscha. Especially now that she had lied through her teeth and risked everything to keep his secret—and to help him find a way to control it.
Tonight he’d been horrified to find the secret door left slightly ajar. He shouldn’t have come, but he’d done it anyway, making up an easy list of lies to tell should he find an unfriendly face down here. Then he’d gotten close enough to hear the two male voices and almost fled . . . Almost, until he’d realized who was talking.
It was impossible, because they hated each other. Yet there they were, in Elena’s tomb. Allies. It was enough, too much. But then he’d heard it—heard what Chaol said to the general, so quietly it was barely audible. “Your Queen gave this necklace to me when she left for Wendlyn.”