Queen of Shadows
Page 139
“You can leave whenever you please. This is your castle—your kingdom.”
“Is it?” he dared ask.
“You’re the King of Adarlan now,” she said softly, but not gently. “Of course it is.”
His father was dead. Not even a body was left to reveal what they’d done that day.
Aelin had publicly declared she’d killed him, but Dorian knew he’d ended his father when he shattered the castle. He had done it for Chaol, and for Sorscha, and he knew she’d claimed the kill because to tell his people … to tell his people that he’d killed his father—
“I still have to be crowned,” he said at last. His father had stated such wild things in those last few moments; things that changed everything and nothing.
She crossed her legs, leaning back in her seat, but there was nothing casual in her face. “You say that like you hope it doesn’t happen.”
Dorian stifled the urge to touch his neck and confirm that the collar was still gone and clenched his hands behind his back. “Do I deserve to be king after all I did? After all that happened?”
“Only you can answer that question.”
“Do you believe what he said?”
Aelin sucked on her teeth. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Perrington’s going to war with me—with us. My being king won’t stop that army.”
“We’ll figure it out.” She loosed a breath. “But your being king is the first step of it.”
Beyond the window, the day was bright, clear. The world had ended and begun anew, and yet nothing at all had changed, either. The sun would still rise and fall, the seasons would still change, heedless of whether he was free or enslaved, prince or king, heedless of who was alive and who was gone. The world would keep moving on. It didn’t seem right, somehow.
“She died,” he said, his breathing ragged, the room crushing him. “Because of me.”
Aelin got to her feet in a smooth movement and walked to where he stood by the window, only to tug him down onto the sofa beside her. “It is going to take a while. And it might never be right again. But you …” She gripped his hand, as if he hadn’t used those hands to hurt and maim, to stab her. “You will learn to face it, and to endure it. What happened, Dorian, was not your fault.”
“It was. I tried to kill you. And what happened to Chaol—”
“Chaol chose. He chose to buy you time—because your father was to blame. Your father, and the Valg prince inside him, did that to you, and to Sorscha.”
He almost vomited at the name. It would dishonor her to never say it again, to never speak of her again, but he didn’t know if he could let out those two syllables without a part of him dying over and over again.
“You’re not going to believe me,” Aelin went on. “What I’ve just said, you’re not going to believe me. I know it—and that’s fine. I don’t expect you to. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
“You’re the Queen of Terrasen. You can’t be.”
“Says who? We are the masters of our own fates—we decide how to go forward.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re my friend, Dorian.”
A flicker of memory, from the haze of darkness and pain and fear. I came back for you.
“You both came back,” he said.
Her throat bobbed. “You pulled me out of Endovier. I figured I could return the favor.”
Dorian looked at the carpet, at all the threads woven together. “What do I do now?” They were gone: the woman he’d loved—and the man he’d hated. He met her stare. No calculation, no coldness, no pity in those turquoise eyes. Just unflinching honesty, as there had been from the very start with her. “What do I do?”
She had to swallow before she said, “You light up the darkness.”
Chaol Westfall opened his eyes.
The Afterworld looked an awful lot like a bedroom in the stone castle.
There was no pain in his body, at least. Not like the pain that had slammed into him, followed by warring blackness and blue light. And then nothing at all.
He might have yielded to the exhaustion that threatened to drag him back into unconsciousness, but someone—a man—let out a rasping breath, and Chaol turned his head.
There were no sounds, no words in him as he found Dorian seated in a chair beside the bed. Bruised shadows were smudged beneath his eyes; his hair was unkempt, as if he’d been running his hands through it, but—but beyond his unbuttoned jacket, there was no collar. Only a pale line marring his golden skin.
And his eyes … Haunted, but clear. Alive.
Chaol’s vision burned and blurred.
She had done it. Aelin had done it.
Chaol’s face crumpled.
“I didn’t realize I looked that bad,” Dorian said, his voice raw.
He knew then—that the demon inside the prince was gone.
Chaol wept.
Dorian surged from the chair and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He grabbed Chaol’s hand, squeezing it as he pressed his brow against his. “You were dead,” the prince said, his voice breaking. “I thought you were dead.”
Chaol at last mastered himself, and Dorian pulled back far enough to scan his face. “I think I was,” he said. “What—what happened?”
So Dorian told him.
Aelin had saved his city.
And saved his life, too, when she’d slipped the Eye of Elena into his pocket.
Dorian’s hand gripped Chaol’s a bit tighter. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Chaol admitted, flexing his free hand. His chest ached from where the blast had hit him, but the rest of him felt—
He didn’t feel anything.
He couldn’t feel his legs. His toes.
“The healers that survived,” Dorian said very quietly, “said you shouldn’t even be alive. Your spine—I think my father broke it in a few places. They said Amithy might have been able to …” A flicker of rage. “But she died.”
Panic, slow and icy, crept in. He couldn’t move, couldn’t—
“Rowan healed two of the injuries higher up. You would have been … paralyzed”—Dorian choked on the word—“from the neck down otherwise. But the lower fracture … Rowan said it was too complex, and he didn’t dare trying to heal it, not when he could make it worse.”
“Tell me there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Chaol managed to say.
If he couldn’t walk—if he couldn’t move—
“We won’t risk sending you to Wendlyn, not with Maeve there. But the healers at the Torre Cesme could do it.”
“I’m not going to the Southern Continent.” Not now that he’d gotten Dorian back, not now that they’d all somehow survived. “I’ll wait for a healer here.”
“There are no healers left here. Not magically gifted ones. My father and Perrington wiped them out.” Cold flickered in those sapphire eyes. Chaol knew that what his father had claimed, what Dorian had still done to him despite it, would haunt the prince for a while.
Not the prince—the king.
“The Torre Cesme might be your only hope of walking again,” Dorian said.
“Is it?” he dared ask.
“You’re the King of Adarlan now,” she said softly, but not gently. “Of course it is.”
His father was dead. Not even a body was left to reveal what they’d done that day.
Aelin had publicly declared she’d killed him, but Dorian knew he’d ended his father when he shattered the castle. He had done it for Chaol, and for Sorscha, and he knew she’d claimed the kill because to tell his people … to tell his people that he’d killed his father—
“I still have to be crowned,” he said at last. His father had stated such wild things in those last few moments; things that changed everything and nothing.
She crossed her legs, leaning back in her seat, but there was nothing casual in her face. “You say that like you hope it doesn’t happen.”
Dorian stifled the urge to touch his neck and confirm that the collar was still gone and clenched his hands behind his back. “Do I deserve to be king after all I did? After all that happened?”
“Only you can answer that question.”
“Do you believe what he said?”
Aelin sucked on her teeth. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Perrington’s going to war with me—with us. My being king won’t stop that army.”
“We’ll figure it out.” She loosed a breath. “But your being king is the first step of it.”
Beyond the window, the day was bright, clear. The world had ended and begun anew, and yet nothing at all had changed, either. The sun would still rise and fall, the seasons would still change, heedless of whether he was free or enslaved, prince or king, heedless of who was alive and who was gone. The world would keep moving on. It didn’t seem right, somehow.
“She died,” he said, his breathing ragged, the room crushing him. “Because of me.”
Aelin got to her feet in a smooth movement and walked to where he stood by the window, only to tug him down onto the sofa beside her. “It is going to take a while. And it might never be right again. But you …” She gripped his hand, as if he hadn’t used those hands to hurt and maim, to stab her. “You will learn to face it, and to endure it. What happened, Dorian, was not your fault.”
“It was. I tried to kill you. And what happened to Chaol—”
“Chaol chose. He chose to buy you time—because your father was to blame. Your father, and the Valg prince inside him, did that to you, and to Sorscha.”
He almost vomited at the name. It would dishonor her to never say it again, to never speak of her again, but he didn’t know if he could let out those two syllables without a part of him dying over and over again.
“You’re not going to believe me,” Aelin went on. “What I’ve just said, you’re not going to believe me. I know it—and that’s fine. I don’t expect you to. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
“You’re the Queen of Terrasen. You can’t be.”
“Says who? We are the masters of our own fates—we decide how to go forward.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re my friend, Dorian.”
A flicker of memory, from the haze of darkness and pain and fear. I came back for you.
“You both came back,” he said.
Her throat bobbed. “You pulled me out of Endovier. I figured I could return the favor.”
Dorian looked at the carpet, at all the threads woven together. “What do I do now?” They were gone: the woman he’d loved—and the man he’d hated. He met her stare. No calculation, no coldness, no pity in those turquoise eyes. Just unflinching honesty, as there had been from the very start with her. “What do I do?”
She had to swallow before she said, “You light up the darkness.”
Chaol Westfall opened his eyes.
The Afterworld looked an awful lot like a bedroom in the stone castle.
There was no pain in his body, at least. Not like the pain that had slammed into him, followed by warring blackness and blue light. And then nothing at all.
He might have yielded to the exhaustion that threatened to drag him back into unconsciousness, but someone—a man—let out a rasping breath, and Chaol turned his head.
There were no sounds, no words in him as he found Dorian seated in a chair beside the bed. Bruised shadows were smudged beneath his eyes; his hair was unkempt, as if he’d been running his hands through it, but—but beyond his unbuttoned jacket, there was no collar. Only a pale line marring his golden skin.
And his eyes … Haunted, but clear. Alive.
Chaol’s vision burned and blurred.
She had done it. Aelin had done it.
Chaol’s face crumpled.
“I didn’t realize I looked that bad,” Dorian said, his voice raw.
He knew then—that the demon inside the prince was gone.
Chaol wept.
Dorian surged from the chair and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He grabbed Chaol’s hand, squeezing it as he pressed his brow against his. “You were dead,” the prince said, his voice breaking. “I thought you were dead.”
Chaol at last mastered himself, and Dorian pulled back far enough to scan his face. “I think I was,” he said. “What—what happened?”
So Dorian told him.
Aelin had saved his city.
And saved his life, too, when she’d slipped the Eye of Elena into his pocket.
Dorian’s hand gripped Chaol’s a bit tighter. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Chaol admitted, flexing his free hand. His chest ached from where the blast had hit him, but the rest of him felt—
He didn’t feel anything.
He couldn’t feel his legs. His toes.
“The healers that survived,” Dorian said very quietly, “said you shouldn’t even be alive. Your spine—I think my father broke it in a few places. They said Amithy might have been able to …” A flicker of rage. “But she died.”
Panic, slow and icy, crept in. He couldn’t move, couldn’t—
“Rowan healed two of the injuries higher up. You would have been … paralyzed”—Dorian choked on the word—“from the neck down otherwise. But the lower fracture … Rowan said it was too complex, and he didn’t dare trying to heal it, not when he could make it worse.”
“Tell me there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Chaol managed to say.
If he couldn’t walk—if he couldn’t move—
“We won’t risk sending you to Wendlyn, not with Maeve there. But the healers at the Torre Cesme could do it.”
“I’m not going to the Southern Continent.” Not now that he’d gotten Dorian back, not now that they’d all somehow survived. “I’ll wait for a healer here.”
“There are no healers left here. Not magically gifted ones. My father and Perrington wiped them out.” Cold flickered in those sapphire eyes. Chaol knew that what his father had claimed, what Dorian had still done to him despite it, would haunt the prince for a while.
Not the prince—the king.
“The Torre Cesme might be your only hope of walking again,” Dorian said.
