Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(148)

“You are fleeing,” Aedion drawled, biting into one of the apples he’d picked up at the market for Ren and the old man. “The longer you stay ­here,” he went on, “the bigger the risk of being discovered and of all our plans falling apart. You’re too recognizable now, and you’re of better use to me in Terrasen. There’s no negotiating, so don’t bother trying.”

“And what about you?” Ren asked the captain, who was seated in his usual chair.

Chaol frowned and said quietly, “I’m going to Anielle in a few days.” To fulfill the bargain he’d made when he sold his freedom to get Aelin to Wendlyn. If Aedion let himself think too much about it, he knew he might feel bad—­might try to convince the captain to stay, even. It ­wasn’t that Aedion liked the captain, or even respected him. In fact, he wished Chaol had never caught him in that stairwell, mourning the slaughter of his people in the labor camps. But ­here they ­were, and there was no going back.

Ren paused his pacing to stare down the captain. “As our spy?”

“You’ll need someone on the inside, regardless of whether I’m in Rifthold or Anielle.”

“I have people on the inside,” Ren said.

Aedion waved a hand. “I don’t care about your people on the inside, Ren. Just be ready to go, and stop being a pain in my ass with your endless questions.” He would chain Ren to a ­horse if he had to.

Aedion was about to turn to go when feet thundered up the stairs. They all had their swords drawn as the door flew open and Murtaugh appeared, panting and grasping the doorframe. The old man’s eyes ­were wild, his mouth opening and closing. Behind him, the stairwell revealed no sign of a threat, no pursuit. But Aedion kept his sword out and angled himself into a better position.

Ren rushed to Murtaugh, slipping an arm under his shoulders, but the old man planted his heels in the rug. “She’s alive,” he said, to Ren, to Aedion, to himself. “She’s—­she’s truly alive.”

Aedion’s heart stopped. Stopped, then started, then stopped again. Slowly, he sheathed his sword, calming his racing mind before he said, “Out with it, old man.”

Murtaugh blinked and let out a choked laugh. “She’s in Wendlyn, and she’s alive.”

The captain stalked across the floor. Aedion might have joined him had his legs not stopped working. For Murtaugh to have heard about her . . . The captain said, “Tell me everything.”

Murtaugh shook his head. “The city’s swarming with the news. People are in the streets.”

“Get to the point,” Aedion snapped.

“General Narrok’s legion did indeed go to Wendlyn,” Murtaugh said. “And no one knows how or why, but Aelin . . . Aelin was there, in the Cambrian Mountains, and was part of a host that met them in battle. They’re saying she’s been hiding in Doranelle all this time.”

Alive, Aedion had to tell himself—­alive, and not dead after the battle, even if Murtaugh’s information about her whereabouts was wrong.

Murtaugh was smiling. “They slaughtered Narrok and his men, and she saved a great number of people—­with magic. Fire, they say—­power the likes of which the world has not seen since Brannon ­himself.”

Aedion’s chest tightened to the point of hurting. The captain was just staring at the old man.

It was a message to the world. Aelin was a warrior, able to fight with blade or magic. And she was done with hiding.

“I’m riding north today. It cannot wait as we had planned,” Murtaugh said, turning toward the door. “Before the king tries to keep the news from spreading, I need to let Terrasen know.” They trailed him down the stairs and into the ware­house below. Even from inside, Aedion’s Fae hearing picked up the rising commotion in the streets. The moment he entered the palace, he would have to consider his every step, every breath. Too many eyes would be on him now.

Aelin. His Queen. Aedion slowly smiled. The king would never suspect, not in a thousand years, who he’d actually sent to Wendlyn—­that his own Champion had destroyed Narrok. Few had ever known about the Galathyniuses’ deeply rooted distrust of Maeve—­so Doranelle would be a believable place to hide and raise a young queen all these years.

“Once I get out of the city,” Murtaugh said, going to the ­horse he’d tied inside the ware­house, “I’ll send riders to every contact, to Fenharrow and Melisande. Ren, you stay ­here. I’ll take care of Suria.”

Aedion gripped the man’s shoulder. “Get word to my Bane—­tell them to lie low until I return, but keep those supply lines with the rebels open at any cost.” He didn’t let go until Murtaugh gave him a nod.

“Grandfather,” Ren said, helping the man into the saddle. “Let me go instead.”

“You stay ­here,” Aedion ordered, and Ren bristled.

Murtaugh murmured his agreement. “Gather what information you can, and then you’ll come to me when I’m ready.”

Aedion didn’t give Ren time to refuse as he hauled open the ware­house door for Murtaugh. Brisk night air poured in, bringing with it the ruckus from the city. Aelin—­Aelin had done this, caused this clamor of sound. The stallion pawed and huffed, and Murtaugh might have galloped off had the captain not surged to grab his reins.