“When she gets home, you need to lie low in Anielle,” Aedion said, swigging from the bottle. “Once it comes out who she was all these years.”

And it would, Chaol knew. He was already preparing to get Dorian and Sorscha out of the castle. Even if they had done nothing wrong, they had been her friends. If the king knew that Celaena was Aelin, it could be just as deadly as if he discovered that Dorian had magic. When she came home, everything would change.

Yes, Aelin would come home. But not to Chaol. She would come home to Terrasen, to Aedion and Ren and the court that was re­gathering in her name. She would come home to war and bloodshed and responsibility. Part of him still could not fathom what she’d done to Narrok, the battle cry she’d issued from across the sea. He could not accept that part of her, so bloodthirsty and unyielding. Even as Celaena, it had been hard to swallow at times, and he had tried to look past it, but as Aelin . . . He’d known, since the moment he figured out who she was, that while Celaena would always pick him, Aelin would not.

And it would not be Celaena Sardothien who returned to this continent. It would take time, he knew—­for it to stop hurting, to let go. But the pain ­wouldn’t last forever.

“Is there . . .” Aedion clenched his jaw as if debating saying the rest. “Is there anything you want me to tell her, or give her?” At any moment, any time, Aedion might have to flee to Terrasen and to his queen.

The Eye of Elena was warm at his neck, and Chaol almost reached for it. But he ­couldn’t bring himself to send her that message, or to let go of her that completely—­not yet. Just as he ­couldn’t bring himself to tell Aedion about the clock tower.

“Tell her,” Chaol said quietly, “that I had nothing to do with you. Tell her you barely spoke to me. Or Dorian. Tell her I am fine in Anielle, and that we are all safe.”

Aedion was quiet long enough that Chaol got up to leave. But then the general said, “What would you have given—­just to see her again?”

Chaol ­couldn’t turn around as he said, “It ­doesn’t matter now.”

•

Sorscha rested her head on the soft spot between Dorian’s shoulder and chest, breathing in the smell of him. He was already sleeping deeply. Almost—­they had almost taken things over the edge to­night, but she had again hesitated, again let that stupid doubt creep in when he asked her if she was ready, and though she wanted to say yes, she had said no.

She lay awake, stomach tight and mind racing. There was so much she wanted to do and see with him. But she could feel the world shifting—­the wind changing. Aelin Galathynius was alive. And even if Sorscha gave everything to Dorian, the upcoming weeks and months would be trying enough for him without having to worry about her.

If the captain and the prince decided to act on their knowledge, if magic was freed . . . it would be chaos. People might go as mad from its sudden return as they’d gone from its departure. She didn’t want to think what the king would do.

Yet no matter what happened tomorrow, or next week, or next year, she was grateful. Grateful to the gods, to fate, to herself for being brave enough to kiss him that night. Grateful for this little bit of time she’d been given with him.

She still thought about what the captain had said all those weeks ago—­about being queen.

But Dorian needed a true queen if he was to survive this. Someday, perhaps, she’d have to face the choice of letting him go for the greater good. She was still quiet, and small. If she could hardly stand up to Amithy, how could she ever be expected to fight for her country?

No, she could not be queen, for there ­were limits to her bravery, and to what she could offer.

But for now . . . for now, she could be selfish for a little longer.

•

For two days, Chaol continued to plan an escape for Dorian and Sorscha, Aedion working with him. They hadn’t objected when he’d explained—­and there had even been a hint of relief in the prince’s eyes. They would all go tomorrow, when Chaol left for Anielle. It was the perfect excuse to get them out of the castle: they wanted to accompany their friend for a day or two before bidding him farewell. He knew Dorian would try to return to Rifthold, that he’d have to fight him on it, but at least they could both agree that Sorscha was to get out. Some of Aedion’s own belongings ­were already at the apartment, where Ren continued to gather resources for them all.

Just in case. Chaol had turned in his formal suggestions for his replacement to the king, and the announcement would be made tomorrow morning. After all these years, all that planning and hoping and working, he was leaving. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave his sword to his replacement, as he should have done. Tomorrow—­he only had to get through tomorrow.

But there was no way Chaol could prepare for the summons he received from the King of Adarlan to meet him in his private council chamber. When he arrived, Aedion was already inside, surrounded by fifteen guards Chaol did not recognize, all wearing those tunics with the royal wyvern embroidered with black thread.

The King of Adarlan was grinning.

•

Dorian heard within minutes that Aedion and Chaol had been summoned to his father’s private council room. As soon as he heard, he ran—­not for Chaol, but to Sorscha.

He almost collapsed with relief when he found her in her workroom. But he willed strength to his knees as he crossed the room in a few strides and grabbed her hand. “We’re getting out. Now. You are getting out of this castle right now, Sorscha.”

She pulled back. “What happened? Tell me, what—”

“We’re going now,” he panted.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” someone purred from the open doorway.

He turned to find Amithy—­the old healer—­standing there, arms crossed and smiling faintly. Dorian could do nothing as half a dozen unfamiliar guards appeared behind her and she said, “The king wants to see you both in his chambers. Immediately.”

64

In the council room high in the glass castle, Aedion had already marked the exits and considered what furniture he could use as a defense or as a weapon. They’d taken his sword when they’d come for him in his rooms, though they hadn’t shackled him. A lethal mistake. The captain ­wasn’t shackled, either; in fact, the fools had left him armed. The captain was doing his best to look vaguely confused as the king watched them from his glass throne.

“What an interesting night this has turned out to be. What interesting information my spies have brought me,” the king said, looking from Aedion to Chaol to Dorian and his woman.

“My most talented general is found to be sneaking around Rifthold in the dead of night—­after spending so much of my gold on parties he does not even bother attending. And he has somehow, despite years of animosity, become close with my Captain of the Guard. While my son”—­Aedion did not envy the smile the king gave the Crown Prince—“has apparently been dabbling with the rabble. Again.”

To his credit, Dorian snarled and said, “Consider your words carefully, Father.”

“Oh?” The king raised a thick, scarred brow. “I had it on good authority that you ­were planning to run away with this healer. Why would you ever do such a thing?”

The prince’s throat bobbed, but he kept his head high. “Because I ­can’t stand the thought of her spending another minute in this ­festering shithole that you call a court.” Aedion ­couldn’t help but admire him for it—­for yielding nothing until the king showed his hand. Smart man—­brave man. But it might not be enough to get them out of this alive.

“Good,” the king said. “Neither can I.”

He waved a hand, and before Aedion could bark a warning, the guards separated the prince and the girl. Four held Dorian back, and two forced Sorscha to kneel with a kick behind the knees.

She cried out as she hit the marble, but went silent—­the ­whole room went silent—­as a third guard pulled a sword and placed it lightly on the back of her slender neck.

“Don’t you dare,” Dorian growled.

Aedion looked to Chaol, but the captain was frozen. These ­were not his guards. Their uniforms ­were those of the men who had hunted Ren. They had the same dead eyes, the same vileness, that had made him not at all regret killing their colleagues in the alley. He’d taken down six that night with minimal damage—­how many could he cut down now? His gaze met the captain’s, and the captain flicked his eyes to the guard who held Aedion’s sword. That would be one of his first moves—­get Aedion a sword so they could fight.