Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(35)

His father’s dead smile faded, and true steel, honed by de­cades of ruling Anielle, shone through. “Rumor has it you consider yourself a man of honor. Though I wonder what manner of man you truly are, if you do not honor your bargains. I wonder . . .” His father made a good show of chewing on his bottom lip. “I wonder what your motive was, then, in sending your woman to Wendlyn.” Chaol fought the urge to stiffen. “For the noble Captain Westfall, there would be no question that he truly wanted His Majesty’s Champion to dispatch our foreign enemies. Yet for the oath-­breaker, the liar . . .”

“I am not breaking my vow to you,” Chaol said, meaning every word. “I intend to go to Anielle—­I will swear that in any temple, before any god. But only when I’ve found a replacement.”

“You swore a month,” his father growled.

“You’re to have me for the rest of my damned life. What is a month or two more to you?”

His father’s nostrils flared. What purpose, then, did his father have in wanting him to return so quickly? Chaol was about to ask, itching to make his father squirm a bit, when an envelope landed on his desk.

It had been years—­years and years, but he still remembered his mother’s handwriting, still recalled the elegant way in which she drew his name. “What is this?”

“Your mother sent a letter to you. I suppose she’s expressing her joy at your anticipated return.” Chaol didn’t touch the envelope. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“I have nothing to say to her, and no interest in what she has to say to me,” Chaol lied. Another trap, another way to unnerve him. But he had so much to do ­here, so many things to learn and uncover. He’d honor his vow soon enough.

His father snatched back the letter, tucking it into his tunic. “She will be most saddened to hear that.” And he knew his father, well aware of Chaol’s lie, would tell his mother exactly what he’d said. For a heartbeat, his blood roared in his ears, the way it always had when he’d witnessed his father belittling his mother, reprimanding her, ignoring her.

He took a steadying breath. “Four months, then I’ll go. Set the date and it’ll be done.”

“Two months.”

“Three.”

A slow smile. “I could go to the king right now and ask for your dismissal instead of waiting three months.”

Chaol clenched his jaw. “Name your price, then.”

“Oh, there’s no price. But I think I like the idea of you owing me a favor.” That dead smile returned. “I like that idea very much. Two months, boy.”

They did not bother with good-­byes.

•

Sorscha was called up to the Crown Prince’s chambers just as she was settling in to brew a calming tonic for an overworked kitchen girl. And though she tried not to seem too eager and pathetic, she found a way to very, very quickly dump the task on one of the lower-­level apprentices and make the trek to the prince’s tower.

She’d never been ­here, but she knew where it was—­all the healers did, just in case. The guards let her pass with hardly a nod, and by the time she’d ascended the spiral staircase, the door to his chambers was already open.

A mess. His rooms ­were a mess of books and papers and discarded weapons. And there, sitting at a table with hardly a foot of space cleared for him, was Dorian, looking rather embarrassed—­either at the mess, or at his split lip.

She managed to bow, even as that traitorous heat flooded her again, up her neck and across her face. “Your Highness summoned me?”

A cleared throat. “I—­well, I think you can see what needs repairing.”

Another injury to his hand. This one looked like it was from sparring, but the lip . . . getting that close to him would be an effort of will. Hand first, then. Let that distract her, anchor her.

She set down her basket of supplies and lost herself in the work of readying ointments and ban­dages. His scented soap caressed her nose, strong enough to suggest he’d just bathed. Which was a horrible thing to think about as she stood beside his chair, because she was a professional healer, and imagining her patients naked was not a—

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” the prince said, peering up at her.

“It’s not my place to ask—­and unless it’s relevant to the injury, it’s nothing I need to know.” It came out colder, harder than she meant. But it was true.

Efficiently, she patched up his hand. The silence didn’t bother her; she’d sometimes spent days in the catacombs without speaking to anyone. She’d been a quiet child before her parents had died, and after the massacre in the city square, she’d become even more so. It ­wasn’t until she’d come to the castle that she found friends—­found that she sometimes liked talking. Yet now, with him . . . well, it seemed that the prince didn’t like silence, because he looked up at her again and said, “Where are you from?”

Such a tricky question to answer, since the how and why of her journey to this castle ­were stained by the actions of his father. “Fenharrow,” she said, praying that would be the end of it.

“Where in Fenharrow?”

She almost cringed, but she had more self-­control than that after five years of tending gruesome injuries and knowing that one flicker of disgust or fear on her face could shatter a patient’s control. “A small village in the south. Most people have never heard of it.”