Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(25)

A small, wretched part of her was fairly smug at the sight of him cowering. But she held up her hands, showing him she was unarmed—at least as far as he could see. “The king thinks you’re part of a rebel movement that’s interrupting his agenda.”

A harsh, barked laugh—so raw that none of the smooth, lovely man was even recognizable in the sound. “I’m not part of any movement! Wyrd damn me, I might be a whore, but I’m not a traitor!” She kept her hands where he could see them, and opened her mouth to tell him to shut up, sit down, and listen. But he went on. “I don’t know anything about a movement like that—I haven’t even heard of anyone who’d dare try to get in the way of the king. But—but …” His panting evened out. “If you spare me, I can feed you information about a group that I know is starting to gather power in Rifthold.”

“The king is targeting the wrong people?”

“I don’t know,” he said quickly, “but this group … this one, he’d probably want to know more about. It seems like they recently learned that the king might be planning some new horror for us all—and they want to try to stop him.”

If she were a nice, decent person, she’d tell him to take the time to calm himself, to right his mind. But she wasn’t a nice, decent person, and his panic was giving his tongue free rein, so she let him go on.

“I’ve only heard my clients whispering about it, every now and then. But there’s a group that’s formed, right here in Rifthold, and they want to put Aelin Galathynius back on Terrasen’s throne.”

Her heart stopped beating. Aelin Galathynius, the lost heir of Terrasen.

“Aelin Galathynius is dead,” she breathed.

Archer shook his head. “They don’t think so. They say she’s alive, and that she’s raising an army against the king. She’s looking to reestablish her court, to find what’s left of King Orlon’s inner circle.”

She just stared at him, willing her fingers to unclench, willing air into her lungs. If it were true … No, it wasn’t true. If these people actually claimed to have met the heir to the throne, then she had to be an imposter.

Was it mere coincidence that Nehemia had mentioned Terrasen’s court that morning? That Terrasen was the one force capable of standing against the king—if it could get to its feet again, with or without the true heir? But Nehemia had sworn to never lie to her; if she’d known anything, she would have said it.

Celaena closed her eyes, though she was aware of Archer’s every movement. In the darkness, she pulled herself together, shoved down that desperate, foolish hope until nothing but an ageless fear blanketed it again.

She opened her eyes. Archer was gaping at her, his face white as death.

“I have no intention of killing you, Archer,” she said. He sagged against the bench, releasing his grip on the dagger. “I’m going to give you a choice. You can fake your own death right now and flee the city before dawn. Or I can give you until the end of the month—four weeks. Four weeks to discreetly get your affairs in order; I assume you have money tied up in Rifthold. But the time comes at a cost: I’ll keep you alive only if you can get me information about whatever this Terrasen rebel movement is—and whatever they know about the king’s plans. At the end of the month, you will fake your death, and you will leave this city, go someplace far away, and never use the name Archer Finn again.”

He stared carefully, warily, at her. “I’ll need the rest of the month to untangle my money.” He loosed a breath, then rubbed his face with his hands. After a long moment, he said, “Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. I’ll get to be free of Clarisse and start my life anew elsewhere.” Though he gave her a wobbly smile, his eyes were still haunted. “Why did the king even suspect me?”

She hated herself for feeling such pity for him. “I don’t know. He just handed me a piece of paper with your name on it, and said you were a part of some movement to upset his plans—whatever those may be.”

Archer snorted. “I only wish I could be that sort of man.”

She studied him: the strong jaw, the broad frame, all suggested strength. But what she’d seen just now—that was not strength. Chaol had known right away what sort of man Archer was. Chaol had seen through the illusion of strength—and she hadn’t. Shame heated her cheeks, but she made herself speak again. “You truly think you can uncover information about this—this movement from Terrasen?” Even though the heir had to be an imposter, the movement itself was worth looking into. Elena had said to look for clues; she might find some here.

Archer nodded. “There’s a ball tomorrow night at a client’s house; I’ve heard him and his friends murmuring about the movement. If I sneak you into the party, it might give you a chance to look around his office. Maybe you’ll even find real traitors at the party—not just suspects.”

And some ideas about what the king might be up to. Oh, this information could be very useful.

“Send along the details to the castle tomorrow morning, care of Lillian Gordaina,” she told him. “But if this party turns out to be a load of nonsense, I’ll reconsider my offer. Don’t make me look the fool, Archer.”

“You’re Arobynn’s protégée,” he said quietly, opening the carriage door and keeping his distance as best he could while he exited. “I wouldn’t dare.”