Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(165)

But he knew that this had been the other trap. One for Aedion and Aelin, one for Sorscha. And this one—­this one to draw out Dorian’s power.

Dorian had known it, too. Known it, and still walked into it so Chaol could escape—­to find Aelin and tell her what had happened ­here today. Someone had to get out. Someone had to survive.

He looked at his friend, perhaps for the last time, and said what he had always known, from the moment they’d met, when he’d understood that the prince was his brother in soul. “I love you.”

Dorian merely nodded, eyes still blazing, and lifted his hands again toward his father. Brother. Friend. King.

As another wave of the king’s power filled the room, Chaol shoved through the still-­frozen guards and fled.

•

Aedion knew everything had gone to hell as the castle shuddered. But he was already on his way to the dungeons, bound from head to toe.

It had been such an easy choice to make. When the captain had been about to take the fall for both of them, he’d thought only of Aelin, what it would do to her if her friend died. Even if he never got to see her, it was still better than having to face her when he explained that the captain was dead.

From the sound of it, it seemed the prince was providing a distraction so the captain could flee—­and because there was no way in hell the prince would let his father go unpunished for that woman’s death. So Aedion Ashryver let himself be led into the darkness.

He did not bother with prayers, for himself or for the captain. The gods had not helped him these past ten years, and they would not save him now.

He did not mind dying.

Though he still wished he’d gotten a chance to see her—­just once.

•

Dorian slammed into the marble floor, where the puddle of Sorscha’s blood had now melted.

Even as his father sent a wave of blinding, burning black power crashing onto him, filling his mouth and his veins; even as he screamed, all he could see was that moment—­when the sword cut through flesh and tendon and bone. He could still see her wide eyes, her hair glimmering in the light as it, too, was severed.

He should have saved her. It had been so sudden.

But when the arrow had fired at Chaol . . . that was the death he could not endure. Chaol had drawn his line—­and Dorian was on his side of it. Chaol had called him his king.

So revealing his power to his father did not frighten him.

No, to save his friend, dying did not scare him one bit.

The blast of power receded, and Dorian was left panting on the stones. He had nothing left.

Chaol had gotten away. It was enough.

He reached out an arm toward where Sorscha’s body lay. His arm burned—­maybe it was broken, or maybe it was his father’s power still branding him—­but he reached for her nonetheless.

By the time his father stood over him, he’d managed to move his hand a few inches.

“Do it,” Dorian rasped. He was choking—­on blood and the gods knew what.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” his father said, digging a knee into his chest. “It won’t be death for you, my gifted son.”

There was something dark and gleaming in his father’s hands.

Dorian fought like hell against the guards now pinning his arms, trying to drag up any ounce of power as his father brought the collar of Wyrdstone toward his neck.

A collar, like the ones worn by those things Chaol had said ­were in the Dead Islands.

No—no.

He was screaming it—­screaming it because he’d seen that creature in the catacombs, and heard what was being done to Roland and Kaltain. He had seen what a mere ring could do. This was an entire collar, with no visible keyhole . . .

“Hold him still,” his father barked, digging his knee in deeper.

The breath was sucked from his chest, and his ribs groaned in agony. But there was nothing Dorian could do to stop it.

He wrenched his arm from one of the guards—­wrenched it free and reached, bellowing.

He had just touched Sorscha’s limp hand when cool stone gripped his throat, there was a faint click and hiss, and the darkness swept in to tear him apart.

•

Chaol ran. He did not have the time to take anything except what he had on him as he sprinted like hell for Dorian’s rooms. Fleetfoot was waiting, as she had been all night, and he scooped her over a shoulder and hauled her to Celaena’s room and into the secret passage. Down and down they went, the dog unusually obedient.

Three blasts shook the castle, shaking dust from the stones above. He kept running, knowing each blast meant Dorian was alive a bit longer, and dreading the silence to come.

Hope—that was what he carried with him. The hope of a better world that Aedion and Sorscha and Dorian had sacrificed themselves for.

He made one stop, with Fleetfoot still gripped over his shoulder.

With a silent prayer to the gods for their forgiveness, Chaol hurtled into the tomb to grab Damaris, shoving the sacred blade through his belt and stuffing a few handfuls of gold into his cloak pockets. And though the skull-­shaped knocker didn’t move, he told Mort precisely where he would be. “Just in case she comes back. In case . . . in case she ­doesn’t know.”

Mort remained stationary, but Chaol had the sense he’d been listening all the same as he grabbed the satchel containing Dorian and Celaena’s magic books and fled to the passage that would take him to the sewer tunnel. A few minutes later, he was raising the heavy iron grate over the sewer stream. The outside beyond was wholly dark and still.