Tower of Dawn

by Sarah J. Maas

  And yet it was Aelin, godless and irreverent, who had honored him. More than he’d honored Nesryn.

  Aelin’s chin dipped as if to say yes.

  And Rowan … The prince had let her return to Adarlan. To make right by her kingdom, but to also decide for herself what she wanted. Who she wanted. And if Aelin had chosen Chaol instead … He knew, deep down, Rowan would have backed off. If it had made Aelin happy, Rowan would have walked away without ever telling her what he felt.

  Shame pressed on him, sickening and oily.

  He had called her a monster. For her power, her actions, and yet …

  He did not blame her.

  He understood.

  That perhaps she had promised things, but … she had changed. The path had changed.

  He understood.

  He’d promised Nesryn—or had implied it. And when he had changed, when the path had altered; when Yrene appeared down it …

  He understood.

  Aelin smiled softly at him as she and Rowan rippled into a sunbeam and vanished.

  Leaving a red marble floor, blood pooling across it.

  A head bumping vulgarly over smooth tile.

  A prince screaming in agony, in rage and despair.

  I love you.

  Go.

  That—if there had been a cleaving, it was that moment.

  When he turned and ran. And he left his friend, his brother, in that chamber.

  When he ran from that fight, that death.

  Dorian had forgiven him. Did not hold it against him.

  Yet he had still run. Still left.

  Everything he had planned, worked to save, all came crumbling down.

  Dorian stood before him, hands in his pockets, a faint smile on his face.

  He did not deserve to serve such a man. Such a king.

  The darkness pushed in further. Revealing that bloody council room. Revealing the prince and king he’d served. Revealing what they had done. To his men.

  In that chamber beneath the castle.

  How Dorian had smiled. Smiled while Ress had screamed, while Brullo had spat in his face.

  His fault—all of it. Every moment of pain, those deaths …

  It showed him Dorian’s hands as they wielded those instruments beneath the castle. As blood spurted and bone sundered. Unfaltering, clean hands. And that smile.

  He knew. He had known, had guessed. Nothing would ever make it right. For his men; for Dorian, left to live with it.

  For Dorian, whom he’d abandoned in that castle.

  That moment, over and over, the darkness showed him.

  As Dorian held his ground. As he revealed his magic, as good as a death sentence, and bought him time to run.

  He had been so afraid—so afraid of magic, of loss, of everything. And that fear … it had driven him to it anyway. It had hurried him down this path. He had clung so hard, had fought against it, and it had cost him everything. Too late. He’d been too late to see clearly.

  And when the worst had happened; when he saw that collar; when he saw his men swinging from the gates, their broken bodies picked over by crows …

  It had cracked him through to his foundation. To this hollow pit beneath the mountain he’d been.

  He had fallen apart. Had let himself lose sight of it.

  And he had found some glimmer of peace in Rifthold, even after the injury, and yet …

  It was like applying a patch over a knife wound to the gut.

  He had not healed. Unmoored and raging, he had not wanted to heal.

  Not really. His body, yes, but even that …

  Some part of him had whispered it was deserved.

  And the soul-wound … He had been content to let it fester.

  Failure and liar and oath-breaker.

  The darkness swarmed, a wind stirring it.

  He could stay here forever. In the ageless dark.

  Yes, the darkness whispered.

  He could remain, and rage and hate and curl into nothing but shadow.

  But Dorian remained before him, still smiling faintly. Waiting.

  Waiting.

  For—him.

  He had made one promise. He had not broken it yet.

  To save them.

  His friend, his kingdom.

  He still had that.

  Even here at the bottom of this dark hell, he still had that.

  And the road that he had traveled so far … No, he would not look back.

  What if we go on, only to more pain and despair?

  Aelin had smiled at his question, posed on that rooftop in Rifthold. As if she had understood, long before he did, that he would find this pit. And learn the answer for himself.

  Then it is not the end.

  This …

  This was not the end. This crack in him, this bottom, was not the end.

  He had one promise left.

  To that he would still hold.

  It is not the end.

  He smiled at Dorian, whose sapphire eyes shone with joy—with love.

  “I’m coming home,” he whispered to his brother, his king.

  Dorian only bowed his head and vanished into the darkness.

  Leaving Yrene standing behind him.

  She was glowing with white light, bright as a newborn star.

  Yrene said quietly, “The darkness belongs to you. To shape as you will. To give it power or render it harmless.”

  “Was it ever the Valg’s to begin with?” His words echoed into nothing.

  “Yes. But it is yours to keep now. This place, this final kernel of it.”

  It would remain in him, a scar and a reminder. “Will it grow again?”

  “Only if you let it. Only if you do not fill it with better things. Only if you do not forgive.” He knew she didn’t just mean others. “But if you are kind to yourself, if you—if you love yourself …” Yrene’s mouth trembled. “If you love yourself as much as I love you …”

  Something began to pound in his chest. A drumbeat that had gone silent down here.

  Yrene held a hand toward him, her iridescence rippling into the darkness.

  It is not the end.

  “Will it hurt?” he asked hoarsely. “The way back—the way out?”

  The path back to life, to himself.

  “Yes,” Yrene whispered. “But just this one last time. The darkness does not want to lose you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say the same.”

  Yrene’s smile was brighter than the glow rippling off her body. A star. She was a fallen star.

  She extended her hand again. A silent promise—of what waited on the other side of the dark.

  He still had much to do. Oaths to keep.

  And looking at her, at that smile …

  Life. He had life to savor, to fight for.

  And the breaking that had started and ended here … Yes, it belonged to him. He was allowed to break, so that this forging might begin.

  So that he might begin again.

  He owed it to his king, his country.

  And he owed it to himself.

  Yrene nodded as if to say yes.

  So Chaol stood.

  He surveyed the darkness, this piece of him. He did not balk at it.

  And smiling at Yrene, he took her hand.

  CHAPTER

  56

  It was agony and despair and fear. It was joy and laughter and rest.

  It was life, all of it, and as that darkness lunged for Chaol and Yrene, he did not fear it.

  He only looked toward the dark and smiled.

  Not broken.

  Made anew.

  And when the darkness beheld him …

  Chaol slid a hand against its cheek. Kissed its brow.

  It loosened its grip and tumbled back into that pit. Curled up on that rocky floor and quietly, carefully, watched him.

  He had the sense of rising up, of being sucked through a too-thin door. Yrene grasped him, hauling him along with her.

  She did not let go. D
id not falter. She speared them upward, a star racing into the night.

  White light slammed into them—

  No. Daylight.

  He squeezed his eyes shut against the brightness.

  The first thing he felt was nothing.

  No pain. No numbness. No ache or exhaustion.

  Gone.

  His legs were … He moved one. It flowed and shifted without a flicker of pain or tension.

  Smooth as butter.

  He looked to the right, to where Yrene always sat.

  She was simply smiling down at him.

  “How,” he rasped.

  Joy lit her stunning eyes. “My theory … I’ll explain later.”

  “Is the mark—”

  Her mouth tightened. “It is smaller, but … still there.” She poked a point on his spine. “Though I do not feel anything when I touch it. Nothing at all.”

  A reminder. As if some god wanted him to remember this, remember what had occurred.

  He sat up, marveling at the ease, the lack of stiffness. “You healed me.”

  “I think we both get considerable credit this time.” Her lips were too pale, skin wan.

  Chaol brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “Are you feeling well?”

  “I’m—tired. But fine. Are you feeling well?”

  He scooped Yrene into his lap and buried his head in her neck. “Yes,” he breathed. “A thousand times, yes.”

  His chest … there was a lightness to it. To his shoulders.

  She batted him away. “You still need to be careful. This newly healed, you could still injure yourself. Give your body time to rest—to let the healing set.”

  He lifted a brow. “What, exactly, does resting entail?”

  Yrene’s smile turned wicked. “Some things that only special patients get to learn.”

  His skin tightened over his bones, but Yrene slid off his lap. “You might want to bathe.”

  He blinked, looking at himself. At the bed. And cringed.

  That was vomit. On the sheets, on his left arm.

  “When—”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The setting sun was indeed gilding the garden, cramming the room with long shadows.

  Hours. All day, they’d been in here.

  Chaol moved off the bed, marveling at how he slid through the world like a blade through silk.

  He felt her watching him as he strode for the bathing room. “Hot water is safe now?” he called over his shoulder, stripping off his undershorts and stepping into the deliciously warm bath.

  “Yes,” she called back. “You’re not full of strained muscles.”

  He dunked under the water, scrubbing himself off. Every movement … holy gods.

  When he broke from the surface, wiping the water from his face, she was standing in the arched doorway.

  He went still at the smokiness in her eyes.

  Slowly, Yrene undid the laces down the front of that pale purple gown. Let it ripple to the floor, along with her undergarments.

  His mouth turned dry as she kept her eyes upon him, hips swishing with every step she took to the pool. To the stairs.

  Yrene stepped into the water, and his blood roared in his ears.

  Chaol was upon her before she’d hit the last step.

  They missed dinner. And dessert.

  And midnight kahve.

  Kadja snuck in during the bath to change the sheets. Yrene couldn’t bring herself to be mortified at what the servant had likely heard. They certainly hadn’t been quiet in the water.

  And certainly weren’t quiet during the hours following.

  Yrene was limp with exhaustion when they peeled apart, sweaty enough that another trip to the bath was imminent. Chaol’s chest rose and fell in mighty gulps.

  In the desert, he’d been unbelievable. But now, healed—beyond the spine, the legs; healed in that dark, rotting place within his soul …

  He pressed a kiss to her sweat-sticky brow, his lips catching in the stray curls that had appeared thanks to the bath. His other hand drew circles on her lower back.

  “You said something—down in that pit,” he murmured.

  Yrene was too tired to form words beyond a low “Mmm.”

  “You said that you love me.”

  Well, that woke her up.

  Her stomach clenched. “Don’t feel obligated to—”

  Chaol silenced her with that steady, unruffled look. “Is it true?”

  She traced the scar down his cheek. She had not seen much of the beginning, had only broken into his memories in time to see that beautiful, dark-haired man—Dorian—smiling at him. But she had sensed it, known who had given him that recent scar.

  “Yes.” And though her voice was soft, she meant it with every inch of her soul.

  The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Then it is a good thing, Yrene Towers, that I love you as well.”

  Her chest tightened; she became too full for her body, for what coursed through her.

  “From the moment you walked into the sitting room that first day,” Chaol said. “I think I knew, even then.”

  “I was a stranger.”

  “You looked at me without an ounce of pity. You saw me. Not the chair or the injury. You saw me. It was the first time I’d felt … seen. Felt awake, in a long time.”

  She kissed his chest, right over his heart. “How could I resist these muscles?”

  His laugh rumbled into her mouth, her bones. “The consummate professional.”

  Yrene smiled onto his skin. “The healers will never let me hear the end of this. Hafiza is already beside herself with glee.”

  But she stiffened, considering the road ahead. The choices.

  Chaol said after a moment, “When Nesryn returns, I plan to make it clear. Though I think she knew before I did.”

  Yrene nodded, trying to fight off the shakiness that crept over her.

  “And beyond that … The choice is yours, Yrene. When you leave. How you leave. If you truly want to leave at all.”

  She braced herself.

  “But if you’ll have me … there will be a place for you on my ship. At my side.”

  She let out a dainty hum and traced a circle around his nipple. “What sort of place?”

  Chaol stretched out like a cat, tucking his arms behind his head as he drawled, “The usual options: scullery maid, cook, dishwasher—”

  She poked his ribs, and he laughed. It was a beautiful sound, rich and deep.

  But his brown eyes softened as he cupped her face. “What place would you like, Yrene?”

  Her heart thundered at the question, the timbre of his voice. But she smirked and said, “Whichever one gives me the right to yell at you if you push yourself too hard.” She drew her hand along his legs, his back. Careful—he’d have to be so, so careful for a while.

  A corner of Chaol’s mouth kicked up, and he hauled her over him. “I think I know of just the position.”

  CHAPTER

  57

  The Eridun aerie was madness when they returned.

  Falkan was alive—barely—and had caused such panic upon the ruks’ arrival at Altun that Houlun had to leap in front of the limp spider to keep the other ruks from shredding him apart.

  Sartaq had managed to stand long enough to embrace Kadara, order a healer to come for her immediately, then wrap his arms around Borte, who was spattered in black blood and grinning from ear to ear. Then Sartaq clasped arms with Yeran, whom Borte pointedly ignored, which Nesryn supposed was an improvement from outright hostility.

  “How?” Sartaq asked Borte while Nesryn hovered near the unconscious form of Falkan, still not trusting the ruks to control themselves.

  Yeran, his company of Berlad ruks having returned to their own aerie, stepped away from his awaiting mount and answered instead, “Borte came to get me. Said she was going on a stupidly dangerous mission and I could either let her die alone or come along.”

  Sartaq rasped a laugh. “You were forbidden,” he told Bor
te, glancing toward where Houlun knelt at Falkan’s side, the hearth-mother indeed looking torn between relief and outright rage.

  Borte sniffed. “By my hearth-mother here. As I am currently betrothed to a captain of the Berlad”—emphasis on currently, to Yeran’s chagrin, it seemed—“I also can claim partial loyalty to the hearth-mother there. Who had no qualms about letting me spend some quality time with my betrothed.”

  “We will have words, she and I,” Houlun seethed as she rose to her feet and strode past, ordering several people to bring Falkan farther into the hall. Wincing at the spider’s weight, they gingerly obeyed.

  Borte shrugged, turning to follow Houlun to where the shifter would be patched up as best they could manage in that spider’s body. “At least his hearth-mother’s sense of quality time is in line with my own,” she said, and walked off.

  Yet as she left, Nesryn could have sworn Borte gave Yeran a secret, small smile.

  Yeran stared after her for a long moment, then turned to them. Gave them a crooked grin. “She promised to set a date. That’s how she got my hearth-mother to approve.” He winked at Sartaq. “Too bad I didn’t tell her that I don’t approve of the date at all.”

  And with that, he strode after Borte, jogging a few steps to catch up. She whirled on him, sharp words already snapping from her lips, but allowed him to follow her into the hall.

  When Nesryn faced Sartaq, it was in time to see him sway.

  She lunged, her aching body protesting as she caught the prince around the middle. Someone shouted for a healer, but Sartaq got his legs beneath him, even as he kept his arms about her.

  Nesryn found herself disinclined to remove her own arms from his waist.

  Sartaq stared down at her, that soft, sweet smile on his mouth again. “You saved me.”

  “It seemed a sorry end for the tales of the Winged Prince,” she replied, frowning at the gash in his leg. “You should be sitting—”

  Across the hall, light flashed, people cried out … and then the spider was gone. Replaced by a man, covered in slashing cuts and blood.

  When Nesryn looked back, Sartaq’s gaze was on her face.

  Her throat closed up, her mouth pressing into a trembling line as she realized that they were here. They were here, and alive, and she had never known such true terror and despair as she had in those moments when he had been hauled away.