“You do not get to blame me for that. For his actions.” She clenched her fists as she looked at him—really looked at him, at the scar that would forever remind her of what he’d done, what she could not forgive.
“So what do I get to blame you for?” he demanded as she started walking again, her steps swift and precise. “Anything?”
He couldn’t mean that—couldn’t possibly mean it. “Are you looking for things to blame me for? How about the fall of the kingdoms? The loss of magic?”
“The second one,” he said through his teeth, “at least I know without a doubt is not your doing.”
She paused again. “What did you say?”
His shoulders tightened. That was all she needed to see to know he’d planned to keep it from her. Not from Celaena, his former friend and lover, but from Aelin—Queen of Terrasen. A threat. Whatever this information about magic was, he hadn’t planned to tell her.
“What, exactly, did you learn about magic, Chaol?” she said too quietly.
He didn’t reply.
“Tell me.”
He shook his head, a gap in the streetlights shadowing his face. “No. Not a chance. Not with you so unpredictable.”
Unpredictable. It was a mercy, she supposed, that magic was indeed stifled here, or else she might have turned the street to cinders around them, just to show him how very predictable she was.
“You found a way to free it, didn’t you. You know how.”
He didn’t try to pretend otherwise. “Having magic free would result only in chaos—it would make things worse. Perhaps make it easier for those demons to find and feed on magic-wielders.”
“You might very well regret those words when you hear the rest of what I have to say,” she hissed, raging and roaring inside. She kept her voice low enough that no one nearby might overhear as she continued. “That collar Dorian is wearing—let me tell you what it does, and let’s see if you refuse to tell me then, if you dismiss what I’ve been doing these past months.” With every word, his face further drained of color. A small, wicked part of her reveled in it. “They target magic-wielders, feeding off the power in their blood. They drain the life from those that aren’t compatible to take in a Valg demon. Or, considering Rifthold’s new favorite pastime, just execute them to drum up fear. They feed on it—fear, misery, despair. It’s like wine to them. The lesser Valg, they can seize a mortal’s body through those black rings. But their civilization—a whole damn civilization,” she said, “is split into hierarchies like our own. And their princes want to come to our world very, very badly. So the king uses collars. Black Wyrdstone collars.” She didn’t think Chaol was breathing. “The collars are stronger, capable of helping the demons stay inside human bodies while they devour the person and power inside. Narrok had one inside him. He begged me at the end to kill him. Nothing else could. I witnessed monsters you cannot begin to imagine take on one of them and fail. Only flame, or beheading, ends it.
“So you see,” she finished, “considering the gifts I have, you’ll find that you want to tell me what you know. I might be the only person capable of freeing Dorian, or at least giving him the mercy of killing him. If he’s even in there.” The last words tasted as horrible as they sounded.
Chaol shook his head. Once. Twice. And she might have felt bad for the panic, for the grief and despair on his face. Until he said, “Did it even occur to you to send us a warning? To let any of us know about the king’s collars?”
It was like a bucket of water had been dumped on her. She blinked. She could have warned them—could have tried. Later—she’d think about that later.
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Right now, we need to help Aedion and Dorian.”
“There is no we.” He unfastened the Eye of Elena from around his neck and chucked it at her. It glimmered in the streetlights as it flew between them. She caught it with one hand, the metal warm against her skin. She didn’t look at it before sliding it into her pocket. He went on. “There hasn’t been a we for a while, Celaena—”
“It’s Aelin now,” she snapped as loudly as she dared. “Celaena Sardothien doesn’t exist anymore.”
“You’re still the same assassin who walked away. You came back only when it was useful for you.”
It was an effort to keep from sending her fist into his nose. Instead she pulled the silver amethyst ring out of her pocket and grabbed his hand, slamming it into his gloved palm. “Why were you meeting with Arobynn Hamel tonight?”
“How—”
“It doesn’t matter. Tell me why.”
“I wanted his help to kill the king.”
Aelin started. “Are you insane? Did you tell him that?”
“No, but he guessed it. I’d been trying to meet with him for a week now, and tonight he summoned me.”
“You’re a fool for going.” She began walking again. Staying in one spot, however deserted, wasn’t wise.
Chaol fell into step beside her. “I didn’t see any other assassins offering their services.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. She curled her fingers, then straightened them one by one. “The price won’t be gold or favors. The price will be the last thing you see coming. Likely the death or suffering of the people you care about.”
“You think I didn’t know that?”
“So you want to have Arobynn kill the king, and what? Put Dorian on the throne? With a Valg demon inside him?”
“I didn’t know that until now. But it changes nothing.”
“It changes everything. Even if you get that collar off, there’s no guarantee the Valg hasn’t taken root inside him. You might replace one monster with another.”
“Why don’t
you say whatever it is you’re getting at, Aelin?” He hissed her name barely loud enough for her to hear.
“Can you kill the king? When it comes down to it, could you kill your king?”
“Dorian is my king.”
It was an effort not to flinch. “Semantics.”
“He killed Sorscha.”
“He killed millions before her.” Perhaps a challenge, perhaps another question.
His eyes flared. “I need to go. I’m meeting Brullo in an hour.”
“I’ll come with you,” she said, glancing toward the glass castle towering over the northeastern quarter of the city. Perhaps she’d learn a bit more about what the Weapons Master knew about Dorian. And how she might be able to put down her friend. Her blood turned icy, sluggish.
“No, you won’t,” Chaol said. Her head snapped toward him. “If you’re there, I have to answer too many questions. I won’t jeopardize Dorian to satisfy your curiosity.”
He kept walking straight, but she turned the corner with a tight shrug. “Do what you want.”
Noticing she was heading away, he halted. “And what are you going to be doing?”
Too much suspicion in that voice. She paused her steps and arched an eyebrow. “Many things. Wicked things.”
“If you give us away, Dorian will—”
She cut him off with a snort. “You refused to share your information, Captain. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to withhold mine.” She made to walk down the street, toward her old apartment.
“Not captain,” he said.
She looked over her shoulder and studied him again. “What happened to your sword?”
His eyes were hollow. “I lost it.”
Ah. “So is it Lord Chaol, then?”
“Just Chaol.”
For a heartbeat, she pitied him, and part of her wished she could say it more kindly, more compassionately. “There’s no getting Dorian out. There’s no saving him.”
“Like hell there isn’t.”
“You’d be better off considering other contenders to put on the throne—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” His eyes were wide, his breathing uneven.