Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(58)

The man rubbed his head. “Could be days or weeks or months. Could be never.”

“We begin training with our mounts this afternoon.”

“Not going to happen.” Manon raised her brows. “This one needs to be trained alone first. I’ll get our best trainers on it, and you can use another wyvern in the meantime to—”

“First of all, human,” Manon interrupted, “don’t give me orders.” Her iron teeth snapped out, and he flinched. “Second, I won’t be training with another wyvern. I’ll train with him.”

The man was pale as death as he said, “All your sentinels’ mounts will attack him. And the first flight will spook him so bad that he’ll fight back. So unless you want your soldiers and their mounts to tear each other apart, I suggest you train alone.” He trembled and added, “Milady.”

The wyvern was watching them. Waiting. “Can they understand us?”

“No. Some spoken commands and whistles, but no more than a dog.”

Manon didn’t believe that for one moment. It ­wasn’t that he was lying to her. He just didn’t know any better. Or maybe Abraxos was different.

She’d use every moment until the War Games to train him. When she and her Thirteen ­were crowned victors, she’d make each and every one of the witches who doubted her, her grandmother included, curse themselves for fools. Because she was Manon Blackbeak, and she’d never failed at anything. And there would be nothing better than watching Abraxos bite off Iskra’s head on the battlefield.

24

It was far too easy to lie to his men about the bruises and cuts on his face when Chaol returned to the castle—­an unfortunate incident with a drunk vagrant in Rifthold. Enduring the lies and the injuries was better than being carrion. Chaol’s bargain with Aedion and the rebels had been simple: information for information.

He’d promised more information about their queen, as well as about the king’s black rings, in exchange for what they knew regarding the king’s power. It had kept him alive that night, and every night afterward, when he’d waited for them to change their minds. But they never came for him, and to­night, he and Aedion waited until well past twelve before slipping into Celaena’s old rooms.

It was the first time he’d dared return to the tomb since that night with Celaena and Dorian, and the skull-­shaped bronze knocker, Mort, didn’t move or speak at all. Even though Chaol wore the Eye of Elena at his throat, the knocker remained frozen. Perhaps Mort only answered to those with Brannon Galathynius’s blood in their veins.

So he and Aedion combed through the tomb, the dusty halls, scouring every inch for signs of spies or ways to be discovered. When they ­were at last satisfied that no one could overhear them, Aedion said, “Tell me what I’m doing down ­here, Captain.”

The general had shown no awe or surprise as Chaol had led him into Elena and Gavin’s resting place, though his eyes had widened slightly at Damaris. But whether or not Aedion knew what it was, he’d said nothing. For all his brashness and arrogance, Chaol had a feeling the man had many, many secrets—­and was damn good at concealing them.

It was the other reason why he’d offered the bargain to Aedion and his companions: if the prince’s gifts ­were discovered, Dorian would need somewhere to hide, and someone to get him to safety if Chaol ­were incapacitated. Chaol said, “Are you prepared to share what­ever information you’ve gathered from your allies?”

Aedion gave him a lazy grin. “So long as you share yours.”

Chaol prayed to any god that would listen that he ­wasn’t making the wrong move as he pulled the Eye of Elena from his tunic. “Your Queen gave this necklace to me when she left for Wendlyn. It belonged to her ancestor—­who summoned her ­here, to give it to her.” Aedion’s eyes narrowed as he took in the amulet, the blue stone shimmering in the moonlight. “What I am about to tell you,” Chaol said, “changes everything.”

•

Dorian stood in the shadows of the stairwell, listening. Listening, and not quite wanting to accept that Chaol was in the tomb with Aedion Ashryver.

That had been the first shock. For the past week, he’d been creeping down ­here to hunt for answers after his explosion with Sorscha. Especially now that she had lied through her teeth and risked everything to keep his secret—­and to help him find a way to control it.

To­night he’d been horrified to find the secret door left slightly ajar. He shouldn’t have come, but he’d done it anyway, making up an easy list of lies to tell should he find an unfriendly face down ­here. Then he’d gotten close enough to hear the two male voices and almost fled . . . Almost, until he’d realized who was talking.

It was impossible, because they hated each other. Yet there they ­were, in Elena’s tomb. Allies. It was enough, too much. But then he’d heard it—­heard what Chaol said to the general, so quietly it was barely audible. “Your Queen gave this necklace to me when she left for Wendlyn.”

It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake, because . . . His chest had become too tight, too small.

You will always be my enemy. That’s what Celaena had screamed at Chaol the night Nehemia died. And she’d said—­said that she’d lost people ten years ago, but . . .