Chapter 6

This was her latest rotation—six months in Fenharrow while the rest of her coven was

spread through Melisande and northern Eyllwe under similar orders. But in the months

that she'd prowled from village to village, she hadn't discovered a single Crochan. These

farmers were the first bit of fun she'd had in weeks. And she would be damned if she

didn't enjoy it.

Manon walked into the field, sucking the blood off her nails as she went. She slipped

through the grasses, no more than shadow and mist.

She found the farmer lost in the middle of the field, softly bleating with fear. And when

he turned, his bladder loosening at the sight of the blood and the iron teeth and the wicked,wicked smile, Manon let him scream all he wanted.Celaena and Rowan rode down the dusty road that meandered between the boulder-

spotted grasslands and into the southern foothills. She'd memorized enough maps of

Wendlyn to know that they'd pass through them and then over the towering Cambrian

Mountains that marked the border between mortal-ruled Wendlyn and the immortal lands

of Queen Maeve.

The sun was setting as they ascended the foothills, the road growing rockier, bordered

on one side by rather harrowing ravines. For a mile, she debated asking Rowan where he

planned to stop for the night. But she was tired. Not just from the day, or the wine, or the

riding.

In her bones, in her blood and breath and soul, she was so, so tired. Talking to anyone

was too taxing. Which made Rowan the perfect companion: he didn't say a single word to

her.

Twilight fell as the road brought them through a dense forest that spread into and over

the mountains, the trees turning from cypress to oak, from narrow to tall and proud, full of

thickets and scattered mossy boulders. Even in the growing dark, the forest seemed to be

breathing. The warm air hummed, leaving a metallic taste coating her tongue. Far behind

them, thunder grumbled.

Wouldn't that be wonderful. Especially since Rowan was finally dismounting to make

camp. From the look of his saddlebags, he didn't have a tent. Or bedrolls. Or blankets.

Perhaps it was now fair to assume that her visit with Maeve wasn't to be pleasant.

Neither of them spoke as they led their horses into the trees, just far enough off the road

to be hidden from any passing travelers. Dumping their gear at the camp he'd selected,

Rowan brought his mare to a nearby stream he must have heard with those pointed ears.

He didn't falter one step in the growing dark, though Celaena certainly stubbed her toes

against a few rocks and roots. Excellent eyesight, even in the dark—another Fae trait. One

she could have if she—

No, she wasn't going to think about that. Not after what had happened on the other side

of that portal. She'd shifted then—and it had been awful enough to remind her that she

had no interest in ever doing it again.

After the horses drank, Rowan didn't wait for her as he took both mares back to the

camp. She used the privacy to see to her own needs, then dropped to her knees on the

grassy bank and drank her fill of the stream. Gods, the water tasted … new and ancient

and powerful and delicious.

She drank until she understood the hole in her belly might very well be from hunger,

then staggered back to camp, finding it by the gleam of Rowan's silver hair. He wordlessly

handed her some bread and cheese, then returned to rubbing down the horses. She

muttered a thank-you, but didn't bother offering to help as she plunked down against atowering oak.

When her belly had stopped hurting so much and she realized just how loudly she'd

been munching on the apple he'd also tossed her while feeding the horses, she mustered

enough energy to say, "Are there so many threats in Wendlyn that we can't risk a fire?"

He sat against a tree and stretched his legs, crossing his ankles. "Not from mortals."

His first words to her since they'd left the city. It could have been an attempt to spook

her, but she still did a mental inventory of all the weapons she carried. She wouldn't ask.

Didn't want to know what manner of thing might crawl toward a fire.

The tangle of wood and moss and stone loomed, full of the rustling of heavy leaves, the

gurgling of the swollen brook, the flapping of feathered wings. And there, lurking over the

rim of a nearby boulder, were three sets of small, glowing eyes.

The hilt of her dagger was in her palm a heartbeat later. But they just stared at her.

Rowan didn't seem to notice. He only leaned his head against the oak trunk.

They had always known her, the Little Folk. Even when Adarlan's shadow had covered

the continent, they still recognized what she was. Small gifts left at campsites—a fresh

fish, a leaf full of blackberries, a crown of flowers. She'd ignored them, and stayed out of

Oakwald Forest as much as she could.

The faeries kept their unblinking vigil. Wishing she hadn't downed the food so quickly,

Celaena watched them back, ready to spring to a defensive position. Rowan hadn't moved.

What ancient oaths the faeries honored in Terrasen might be disregarded here. Even as

she thought it, more eyes glowed between the trees. More silent witnesses to her arrival.

Because Celaena was Fae, or something like a mongrel. Her great-grandmother had been

Maeve's sister, proclaimed a goddess when she died. Ridiculous, really. Mab had been

very much mortal when she tied her life to the human prince who loved her so fiercely.

She wondered how much these creatures knew about the wars that had destroyed her

land, about the Fae and faeries that had been hunted down, about the burning of the

ancient forests and the butchering of the sacred stags of Terrasen. She wondered if they

had ever learned what became of their brethren in the West.

She didn't know how she found it in herself to care. But they seemed so … curious.

Surprising even herself, Celaena whispered into the humming night, "They still live."

All those eyes vanished. When she glanced at Rowan, he hadn't opened his eyes. But she had the sense that the warrior had been aware the entire time Dorian Havilliard stood before his father's breakfast table, his hands held behind his

back. The king had arrived moments ago but hadn't told him to sit. Once Dorian might

have already said something about it. But having magic, getting drawn into whatever mess

Celaena was in, seeing that other world in the secret tunnels … all of that had changed

everything. The best he could do these days was maintain a low profile—to keep his father

or anyone else from looking too long in his direction. So Dorian stood before the table and

waited.

The King of Adarlan finished off the roast chicken and sipped from whatever was in

his bloodred glass. "You're quiet this morning, Prince." The conqueror of Erilea reached

for a platter of smoked fish.

"I was waiting for you to speak, Father."

Night-black eyes shifted toward him. "Unusual, indeed."

Dorian tensed. Only Celaena and Chaol knew the truth about his magic—and Chaol

had shut him out so completely that Dorian didn't feel like attempting to explain himself

to his friend. But this castle was full of spies and sycophants who wanted nothing more

than to use whatever knowledge they could to advance their position. Including selling out

their Crown Prince. Who knew who'd seen him in the hallways or the library, or who had

discovered that stack of books he'd hidden in Celaena's rooms? He'd since moved them

down to the tomb, where he went every other night—not for answers to the questions that

plagued him but just for an hour of pure silence.

His father resumed eating. He'd been in his father's private chambers only a few times

in his life. They could be a manor house of their own, with their library and dining room

and council chamber. They occupied an entire wing of the glass castle—a wing opposite

from Dorian's mother. His parents had never shared a bed, and he didn't particularly want

to know more than that.

He found his father watching him, the morning sun through the curved wall of glass

making every scar and nick on the king's face even more gruesome. "You're to entertain

Aedion Ashryver today."

Dorian kept his composure as best he could. "Dare I ask why?"

"Since General Ashryver failed to bring his men here, it appears he has some spare

time while awaiting the Bane's arrival. It would be beneficial to you both to become better

acquainted—especially when your choice of friends of late has been so … common."

The cold fury of his magic clawed its way up his spine. "With all due respect, Father, I

have two meetings to prepare for, and—"

"It's not open for debate." His father kept eating. "General Ashryver has been notified,and you will meet him outside your chambers at noon."Dorian knew he should keep quiet, but he found himself asking, "Why do you tolerate

Aedion? Why keep him alive—why make him a general?" He'd been unable to stop

wondering about it since the man's arrival.

His father gave a small, knowing smile. "Because Aedion's rage is a useful blade, and

he is capable of keeping his people in line. He will not risk their slaughter, not when he

has lost so much. He has quelled many a would-be rebellion in the North from that fear,

for he is well aware that it would be his own people—the civilians—who suffered first."

He shared blood with a man this cruel. But Dorian said, "It's still surprising that you'd

keep a general almost as a captive—as little more than a slave. Controlling him through

fear alone seems potentially dangerous."

Indeed, he wondered if his father had told Aedion about Celaena's mission to Wendlyn

—homeland of Aedion's royal bloodline, where Aedion's cousins the Ashryvers still

ruled. Though Aedion trumpeted about his various victories over rebels and acted like he

practically owned half the empire himself … How much did Aedion remember of his kin

across the sea?

His father said, "I have my ways of leashing Aedion should I need to. For now, his

brazen irreverence amuses me." His father jerked his chin toward the door. "I will not be

amused, however, if you miss your appointment with him today."

And just like that, his father fed him to the Wolf.

Despite Dorian's offers to show Aedion the menagerie, the kennels, the stables—even the

damned library—the general only wanted to do one thing: walk through the gardens.

Aedion claimed he was feeling restless and sluggish from too much food the night before,

but the smile he gave Dorian suggested otherwise.

Aedion didn't bother talking to him, too preoccupied with humming bawdy tunes and

inspecting the various women they passed. He'd dropped the half-civilized veneer only

once, when they'd been striding down a narrow path flanked by towering rosebushes—

stunning in the summer, but deadly in the winter—and the guards had been a turn behind,

blind for the moment. Just enough time for Aedion to subtly trip Dorian into one of the

thorny walls, still humming his lewd songs.

A quick maneuver had kept Dorian from falling face-first into the thorns, but his cloak

had ripped, and his hand stung. Rather than give the general the satisfaction of seeing him

hiss and inspect his cuts, Dorian had tucked his barking, freezing fingers into his pockets

as the guards rounded the corner.

They spoke only when Aedion paused by a fountain and braced his scarred hands on

his hips, assessing the garden beyond as though it were a battlefield. Aedion smirked at

the six guards lurking behind, his eyes bright—so bright, Dorian thought, and so strangely

familiar as the general said, "A prince needs an escort in his own palace? I'm insulted they

didn't send more guards to protect you from me."

"You think you could take six men?"

The Wolf had let out a low chuckle and shrugged, the scarred hilt of the Sword of Orynth catching the near-blinding sunlight. "I don't think I should tell you, in case your

father ever decides my usefulness is not worth my temperament."

Some of the guards behind them murmured, but Dorian said, "Probably not."

And that was it—that was all Aedion said to him for the rest of the cold, miserable

walk. Until the general gave him an edged smile and said, "Better get that looked at." That

was when Dorian realized his right hand was still bleeding. Aedion just turned away.

"Thanks for the walk, Prince," the general said over his shoulder, and it felt more like a

threat than anything.

Aedion didn't act without a reason. Perhaps the general had convinced his father to

force this excursion. But for what purpose, Dorian couldn't grasp. Unless Aedion merely

wanted to get a feel for what sort of man Dorian had become and how well Dorian could

play the game. He wouldn't put it past the warrior to have done it just to assess a potential

ally or threat—Aedion, for all his arrogance, had a cunning mind. He probably viewed

court life as another sort of battlefield.

Dorian let Chaol's hand-selected guards lead him back into the wonderfully warm

castle, then dismissed them with a nod. Chaol hadn't come today, and he was grateful—

after that conversation about his magic, after Chaol refused to speak about Celaena,

Dorian wasn't sure what else was left for them to talk about. He didn't believe for one

moment that Chaol would willingly sanction the deaths of innocent men, no matter

whether they were friends or enemies. Chaol had to know, then, that Celaena wouldn't

assassinate the Ashryver royals, for whatever reasons of her own. But there was no point

in bothering to talk to Chaol, not when his friend was keeping secrets, too.

Dorian mulled over his friend's puzzle-box of words again as he walked into the

healers' catacombs, the smell of rosemary and mint wafting past. It was a warren of supply

and examination rooms, kept far from the prying eyes of the glass castle high above. There

was another ward high in the glass castle, for those who wouldn't deign to make the trek

down here, but this was where the best healers in Rifthold—and Adarlan—had honed and

practiced their craft for a thousand years. The pale stones seemed to breathe the essence of

centuries of drying herbs, giving the subterranean halls a pleasant, open feeling.

Dorian found a small workroom where a young woman was hunched over a large oak

table, a variety of glass jars, scales, mortars, and pestles before her, along with vials of

liquid, hanging herbs, and bubbling pots over small, solitary flames. The healing arts were

one of the few that his father hadn't completely outlawed ten years ago—though once,

he'd heard, they'd been even more powerful. Once, healers had used magic to mend and

save. Now they were left with whatever nature provided them.

Dorian stepped into the room and the young woman looked up from the book she was

scanning, a finger pausing on the page. Not beautiful, but—pretty. Clean, elegant lines,

chestnut hair woven in a braid, and golden-tan skin that suggested at least one family

member came from Eyllwe. "Can I—" She got a good look at him, then, and dropped into

a bow. "Your Highness," she said, a flush creeping up the smooth column of her neck.

Dorian held up his bloodied hand. "Thornbush." Rosebush made his cuts seem that much more patheticShe kept her eyes averted, biting her full bottom lip. "Of course." She gestured a

slender hand toward the wooden chair before the table. "Please. Unless—unless you'd

rather go to a proper examination room?"

Dorian normally hated dealing with the stammering and scrambling, but this young

woman was still so red, so soft-spoken that he said, "This is fine," and slid into the chair.

The silence lay heavy on him as she hurried through the workroom, first changing her

dirty white apron, then washing her hands for a good long minute, then gathering all

manner of bandages and tins of salve, then a bowl of hot water and clean rags, and then

finally, finally pulling a chair around the table to face his.

They didn't speak, either, when she carefully washed and then examined his hand. But

he found himself watching her hazel eyes, the sureness of her fingers, and the blush that

remained on her neck and face. "The hand is—very complex," she murmured at last,

studying the cuts. "I just wanted to make sure that nothing was damaged and that there

weren't any thorns lodged in there." She swiftly added, "Your Highness."

"I think it looks worse than it actually is."

With a feather-light touch, she smeared a cloudy salve on his hand, and, like a damn

fool, he winced. "Sorry," she mumbled. "It's to disinfect the cuts. Just in case." She

seemed to curl in on herself, as if he'd give the order to hang her merely for that.

He fumbled for the words, then said, "I've dealt with worse."

It sounded stupid coming out, and she paused for a moment before reaching for the

bandages. "I know," she said, and glanced up at him.

Well, damn. Weren't those eyes just stunning. She quickly looked back down, gently

wrapping his hand. "I'm assigned to the southern wing of the castle—and I'm often on

night duty."

That explained why she looked so familiar. She'd healed not only him that night a

month ago but also Celaena, Chaol, Fleetfoot … had been there for all of their injuries

these past seven months. "I'm sorry, I can't remember your name—"

"It's Sorscha," she said, though there was no anger in it, as there should have been. The

spoiled prince and his entitled friends, too absorbed in their own lives to bother learning

the name of the healer who had patched them up again and again.

She finished wrapping his hand and he said, "In case we didn't say it often enough,

thank you."

Those green-flecked brown eyes lifted again. A tentative smile. "It's an honor, Prince."

She began gathering up her supplies.

Taking that as his cue to leave, he stood and flexed his fingers. "Feels good."

"They're minor wounds, but keep an eye on them." Sorscha dumped the bloodied water

down the sink in the back of the room. "And you needn't come all the way down here the

next time. Just—just send word, Your Highness. We're happy to attend to you." She

curtsied low, with the long-limbed grace of a dancer.

"You've been responsible for the southern stone wing all this time?" The question