Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(128)

Her eyes ­were red enough to suggest that she had. He took her face in his hands, pressing his brow against hers, needing that cool strength. He didn’t know how he’d kept from weeping or vomiting or killing his father on the spot. But looking at her, breathing in her rosemary-­and-­mint scent, he knew why.

“I want you out of this castle,” he said. “I’ll give you the funds, but I want you away from ­here as soon as you can find a way to go without raising suspicion.”

She yanked out of his grasp. “Are you mad?”

No, he’d never seen anything more clearly. “If you stay, if we are caught . . . I will give you what­ever money you need—”

“No money you could offer could convince me to leave.”

“I’ll tie you to a ­horse if I have to. I’m getting you out—”

“And who will look after you? Who will make your tonics? You’re not even talking to the captain anymore. How could I leave now?”

He gripped her shoulders. She had to understand—­he had to make her understand. Her loyalty was one of the things he loved, but now . . . it would only get her killed. “He murdered thousands of people in one sweep. Imagine what he’ll do if he finds you’ve been helping me. There are worse things than death, Sorscha. Please—please, just go.”

Her fingers found his, entwining tight. “Come with me.”

“I ­can’t. It will get worse if I leave, if my brother is made heir. And I think . . . I know of some people who might be trying to stop him. If I am ­here, perhaps I can help them in some way.”

Oh, Chaol. He understood completely now why he had sent Celaena to Wendlyn—­understood that his return to Anielle . . . Chaol had sold himself to get Celaena to safety.

“If you stay, I stay,” Sorscha said. “You cannot convince me ­otherwise.”

“Please,” he said, because he didn’t have it in him to yell, not with the deaths of those people hanging over him. “Please . . .”

But she brushed her thumb across his cheek. “Together. We’ll face this together.”

And it was selfish and horrible of him, but he put up no further argument.

•

Chaol went to the tomb for privacy, to mourn, to scream. But he was not alone.

Aedion was sitting on the steps of the spiral stairwell, his forearms braced on his knees. He didn’t turn as Chaol set down his candle and sat beside him.

“What do you suppose,” Aedion breathed, staring into the darkness, “the people on other continents, across all those seas, think of us? Do you think they hate us or pity us for what we do to each other? Perhaps it’s just as bad there. Perhaps it’s worse. But to do what I have to do, to get through it . . . I have to believe it’s better. Somewhere, it’s better than this.”

Chaol had no answer.

“I have . . .” Aedion’s teeth gleamed in the light. “I have been forced to do many, many things. Depraved, despicable things. Yet nothing made me feel as filthy as I did today, thanking that man for murdering my people.”

There was nothing he could say to console him, nothing he could promise. So Chaol left Aedion staring into the darkness.

•

There was not one empty seat in the Royal Theater that night. Every box and tier was crammed with nobility, merchants, whoever could afford the ticket. Jewels and silk gleamed in the light of the glass chandeliers, the riches of a conquering empire.

The news about the slave massacres had struck that afternoon, spreading through the city on a wave of murmuring, leaving only silence behind. The upper tiers of the theater ­were unusually still, as if the audience had come to be soothed, to let the music sweep away the stain of the news.

Only the boxes ­were full of chatter. About what this meant for the fortunes of those seated in the plush crimson velvet chairs, debates over where the new slaves would come from to ensure there was no pause in labor, and about how they should treat their own slaves afterward. Despite the chiming bells and the raising and dimming of the chandeliers, it took the boxes far longer to quiet than usual.

They ­were still talking when the red curtains pulled back to reveal the seated orchestra, and it was a miracle they bothered to applaud for the conductor as he hobbled across the stage.

That was when they noticed that every musician on the stage was wearing mourning black. That was when they shut up. And when the conductor raised his arms, it was not a symphony that filled the cavernous space.

It was the Song of Eyllwe.

Then the Song of Fenharrow. And Melisande. And Terrasen. Each nation that had people in those labor camps.

And finally, not for pomp or triumph, but to mourn what they had become, they played the Song of Adarlan.

When the final note finished, the conductor turned to the crowd, the musicians standing with him. As one, they looked to the boxes, to all those jewels bought with the blood of a continent. And without a word, without a bow or another gesture, they walked off the stage.

The next morning, by royal decree, the theater was shut down.

No one saw those musicians or their conductor again.

50

A cooling breeze kissed down Celaena’s neck. The forest had gone silent, as if the birds and insects had been quieted by her assault on the invisible wall. The barrier had gobbled down every spark of magic she’d launched at it, and now seemed to hum with fresh power.