Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas Read Free Book Online Page B

He’d dropped the half-­civilized veneer only once, when they’d been striding down a narrow path fl anked by towering rosebushes—­stunning in the summer, but deadly in the winter—­and the guards had been a turn behind, blind for the moment. Just enough time for Aedion to subtly trip Dorian into one of the thorny walls, still humming his lewd songs.
    A quick maneuver had kept Dorian from falling face-­ fi rst into the thorns, but his cloak had ripped, and his hand stung. Rather than give the general the satisfaction of seeing him hiss and inspect his cuts, Dorian had tucked his barking, freezing fi ngers into his pockets as the guards rounded the corner.
    Th ey spoke only when Aedion paused by a fountain and braced his scarred hands on his hips, assessing the garden beyond as though it were a battle fi eld. Aedion smirked at the six guards lurking behind, his eyes bright—­so bright, Dorian thought, and so strangely familiar as the general said, “A prince needs an escort in his own palace? I’m insulted they didn’t send more guards to protect you from me.”
    â€œYou think you could take six men?”
    Th e Wolf had let out a low chuckle and shrugged, the scarred hilt of the Sword of Orynth catching the near-­blinding sunlight. “I don’t think I should tell you, in case your father ever decides my usefulness is not worth my temperament.”
    Some of the guards behind them murmured, but Dorian said, “Probably not.”
    And that was it—­that was all Aedion said to him for the rest of the cold, miserable walk. Until the general gave him an edged smile and said, “Better get that looked at.” Th at was when Dorian realized his right hand was still bleeding. Aedion just turned away. “ Th anks for the walk, Prince,” the general said over his shoulder, and it felt more like a threat than anything.
    Aedion didn’t act without a reason. Perhaps the general had convinced his father to force this excursion. But for what purpose, Dorian ­couldn’t grasp. Unless Aedion merely wanted to get a feel for what sort of man Dorian had become and how well Dorian could play the game. He ­wouldn’t put it past the warrior to have done it just to assess a potential ally or threat—­Aedion, for all his arrogance, had a cunning mind. He probably viewed court life as another sort of battle fi eld.
    Dorian let Chaol’s hand-­selected guards lead him back into the wonderfully warm castle, then dismissed them with a nod. Chaol hadn’t come today, and he was grateful—­a ft er that conversation about his magic, a ft er Chaol refused to speak about Celaena, Dorian ­wasn’t sure what ­else was le ft for them to talk about. He didn’t believe for one moment that Chaol would willingly sanction the deaths of innocent men, no matter whether they ­were friends or enemies. Chaol had to know, then, that Celaena ­wouldn’t assassinate the Ashryver royals, for what­ever reasons of her own. But there was no point in bothering to talk to Chaol, not when his friend was keeping secrets, too.
    Dorian mulled over his friend’s puzzle-­box of words again as he walked into the healers’ catacombs, the smell of rosemary and mint wa ft ing past. It was a warren of supply and examination rooms, kept far from the prying eyes of the glass castle high above. Th ere was another ward high in the glass castle, for those who ­wouldn’t deign to make the trek down ­here, but this was where the best healers in Ri ft hold—­and Adarlan—­had honed and practiced their cra ft for a thousand years. Th e pale stones seemed to breathe the essence of centuries of drying herbs, giving the subterranean halls a pleasant, open feeling.
    Dorian found a small workroom where a young woman was hunched over a large oak table, a variety of glass jars, scales, mortars, and pestles before her, along