Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)(94)

“They burned the antler throne, Aedion. There is no throne for her.”

“Then I’ll build one myself from the bones of our enemies.”

Ren winced as he stood as well, his injuries no doubt bothering him, and kept his distance. He might not be afraid, but he wasn’t stupid. “Answer the question. Do you want to be king?”

“If she asked me, I would not refuse her.” It was the truth.

“That’s not an answer.”

He knew why Ren had asked. Even Aedion was aware that he could be king—with his legion and ties to the Ashrvyers, he’d be an advantageous match. A warrior-king would make any foes think twice. Even before their kingdom shattered, he’d heard the rumors …

“My only wish,” Aedion said, growling in Ren’s face, “is to see her again. Just once, if that’s all the gods will allow me. If they grant me more time than that, then I’ll thank them every damn day of my life. But for now, all I’m working for is to see her, to know for certain that she’s real—that she survived. The rest is none of your concern.”

He felt Ren’s eyes on him as he vanished through the door to the apartment below.




The tavern was packed with soldiers on rotation home to Adarlan, the heat and reek of bodies making Chaol wish Aedion had done this alone. There was no hiding now that he and Aedion were drinking friends, as the general trumpeted for everyone to hear while the soldiers cheered.

“Better to hide it right under everyone’s noses than pretend, eh?” Aedion murmured to Chaol as yet another free drink was slapped down on their stained, sodden table, courtesy of a soldier who had bowed—actually bowed—to Aedion. “For the Wolf,” said the scarred and tan-skinned soldier, before returning to his packed table of comrades.

Aedion saluted the man with the mug, getting a cheer in response, and there was nothing faked about his feral grin. It hadn’t taken Aedion long to find the soldiers Murtaugh thought they should question—soldiers who had been stationed at one of the suspected spell origin points. While Aedion had been searching for the right group of men, Chaol had taken the time to go about his own duties—which now included considering a candidate to replace him—and packing for his return to Anielle. He’d come into Rifthold today with the excuse of finding a company to ship his first trunk of belongings, a task he’d actually accomplished. He didn’t want to think of what his mother would do when the trunk of books arrived at the Keep.

Chaol didn’t bother looking pleasant as he said, “Get on with it.”

Aedion stood, hoisting his mug. As though they’d all been watching him, the room quieted.

“Soldiers,” he said, loud and soft at once, grave and reverent. He turned in place, mug still upheld. “For your blood, for your scars, for every dent in your shield and nick in your sword, for every friend and foe dead before you …” The mug raised higher, and Aedion bowed his head, golden hair gleaming in the light. “For what you have given, and have yet to give, I salute you.”

For a heartbeat, as the room thundered with roars and cries, Chaol beheld what truly made Aedion a threat—what made him a god to these men, and why the king tolerated his insolence, ring or no ring.

Aedion was not a noble in a castle, sipping wine. He was metal and sweat, sitting in this filthy tavern, drinking their ale. Whether it was real or not, they believed he cared about them, listened to them. They preened when he remembered their names, their wives’ and sisters’ names, and slept assured that he saw them as his brothers. Aedion made sure that they believed he would fight and die for them. Thus they would fight and die for him.

And Chaol was afraid, but not for himself.

He was afraid of what would come when Aedion and Aelin were reunited. For he’d seen in her that same glittering ember that made people look and listen. Had seen her stalk into a council meeting with Councilor Mullison’s head and smile at the King of Adarlan, every man in that room enthralled and petrified by the dark whirlwind of her spirit. The two of them together, both of them lethal, working to build an army, to ignite their people … He was afraid of what they would do to his kingdom.

Because this was still his kingdom. He was working for Dorian, not Aelin—not Aedion. And he didn’t know where all of this put him.




“A contest!” Aedion called, standing on the bench. Chaol hadn’t moved during the long, long hour Aedion had been saluted and toasted by half the men in this room, each one getting a turn to stand and tell his story to the general.

When Aedion had enough of being serenaded by his own enemy, his Ashryver eyes brilliant with a rush that Chaol knew was precisely because he hated each and every one of them and they were eating out of his palm like rabbits, the general roared for the contest.

There were a few shouted suggestions for drinking games, but Aedion hoisted his mug again, and silence fell. “Farthest to travel drinks for free.”

There were cries of Banjali, Orynth, Melisande, Anielle, Endovier, but then … “Quiet, all of you!” An older, gray-haired soldier stood. “I got you all beat.” He lifted his glass to the general, and pulled a scroll from his vest. Release papers. “I just spent five years at Noll.”

Bulls-eye. Aedion thumped the empty seat at the table. “Then you drink with us, my friend.” The room cheered again.