“For you to bring down the clock tower?” Chaol asked, folding up the map and tucking it into the inner pocket of his tunic.

“Maybe,” she said. He tried not to bristle. But there was something settled about her now—as if some invisible tension in her face had vanished. He tried not to look toward the door again.

“I haven’t heard from Ress or Brullo for a few days,” he said instead. “I’ll make contact soon.”

She nodded, pulling out a second map—this one of the labyrinthine network of the sewers—and weighted down the ends with whatever small blades she had on her. A good number of them, apparently.

“Arobynn learned that the missing prisoners were taken to Morath last night. Did you know?”

Another failure that fell on his shoulders—another disaster. “No.”

“They can’t have gotten far. You could gather a team and ambush the wagons.”

“I know I could.”

“Are you going to?”

He laid a hand on the map. “Did you bring me here to prove a point about my uselessness?”

She straightened. “I asked you to come because I thought it would be helpful for the both of us. We’re both—we’re both under a fair amount of pressure these days.”

Her turquoise-and-gold eyes were calm—unfazed.

Chaol said, “When do you make your move?”

“Soon.”

Again, not an answer. He said as evenly as he could, “Anything else I should know?”

“I’d start avoiding the sewers. It’s your death warrant if you don’t.”

“There are people trapped down there—we’ve found the nests, but no sign of the prisoners. I won’t abandon them.”

“That’s all well and good,” she said, and he clenched his teeth at the dismissal in her tone, “but there are worse things than Valg grunts patrolling the sewers, and I bet they won’t turn a blind eye to anyone in their territory. I would weigh the risks if I were you.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “So are you going to ambush the prison wagons?”

“Of course I am.” Even though the rebels’ numbers were down. So many of their people were either fleeing the city altogether or refusing to risk their necks in an increasingly futile battle.

Was that concern flickering in her eyes? But she said, “They use warded locks on the wagons. And the doors are reinforced with iron. Bring the right tools.”

He drew in a breath to snap at her about talking down to him, but—

She would know about the wagons; she’d spent weeks in one.

He couldn’t quite meet her stare as he straightened up to go.

“Tell Faliq that Prince Rowan says thank you for the clothes,” Aelin said.

What the hell was she talking about? Perhaps it was another jab.

So he made for the door, where Rowan stepped aside with a murmured farewell. Nesryn had told him she’d spent the evening with Aedion and Aelin, but he hadn’t realized they might be … friends. He hadn’t considered that Nesryn might wind up unable to resist the allure of Aelin Galathynius.

Though he supposed that Aelin was a queen. She did not falter. She did not do anything but plow ahead, burning bright.

Even if it meant killing Dorian.

They hadn’t spoken of it since the day of Aedion’s rescue. But it still hung between them. And when she went to free magic … Chaol would again have the proper precautions in place.

Because he did not think she would put her sword down the next time.

34

Aelin knew she had things to do—vital things, terrible things—but she could sacrifice one day.

Keeping to the shadows whenever possible, she spent the afternoon showing Rowan the city, from the elegant residential districts to the markets crammed with vendors selling goods for the summer solstice in two weeks.

There was no sign or scent of Lorcan, thank the gods. But the king’s men were posted at a few busy intersections, giving Aelin an opportunity to point them out to Rowan. He studied them with trained efficiency, his keen sense of smell enabling him to pick out which ones were still human and which were inhabited by lesser Valg demons. From the look on his face, she honestly felt a little bad for any guard that came across him, demon or human. A little, but not much. Especially given that their presence alone somewhat ruined her plans for a peaceful, quiet day.

She wanted to show Rowan the good parts of the city before dragging him into its underbelly.

So she took him to one of Nesryn’s family’s bakeries, where she went so far as to buy a few of those pear tarts. At the docks, Rowan even convinced her to try some pan-fried trout. She’d once sworn never to eat fish, and had cringed as the fork had neared her mouth, but—the damned thing was delicious. She ate her entire fish, then snuck bites of Rowan’s, to his snarling dismay.

Here—Rowan was here with her, in Rifthold. And there was so much more she wanted him to see, to learn about what her life had been like. She’d never wanted to share any of it before.

Even when she’d heard the crack of a whip after lunch as they cooled themselves by the water, she’d wanted him with her to witness it. He’d silently stood with a hand on her shoulder as they watched the cluster of chained slaves hauling cargo onto one of the ships. Watched—and could do nothing.

Soon, she promised herself. Putting an end to that was a high priority.

They meandered back through the market stalls, one after another, until the smell of roses and lilies wafted by, the river breeze sweeping petals of every shape and color past their feet as the flower girls shouted about their wares.

She turned to him. “If you were a gentleman, you’d buy me—”

Rowan’s face had gone blank, his eyes hollow as he stared at one of the flower girls in the center of the square, a basket of hothouse peonies on her thin arm. Young, pretty, dark-haired, and— Oh, gods.

She shouldn’t have brought him here. Lyria had sold flowers in the market; she’d been a poor flower girl before Prince Rowan had spotted her and instantly known she was his mate. A faerie tale—until she’d been slaughtered by enemy forces. Pregnant with Rowan’s child.

Aelin clenched and unclenched her fingers, any words lodged in her throat. Rowan was still staring at the girl, who smiled at a passing woman, aglow with some inner light.

“I didn’t deserve her,” Rowan said quietly.

Aelin swallowed hard. There were wounds in both of them that had yet to heal, but this one … Truth. As always, she could offer him one truth in exchange for another. “I didn’t deserve Sam.”

He looked at her at last.

She’d do anything to get rid of the agony in his eyes. Anything.

His gloved fingers brushed her own, then dropped back to his side.

She clenched her hand into a fist again. “Come. I want to show you something.”

Aelin scrounged up some dessert from the street vendors while Rowan waited in a shadowed alley. Now, sitting on one of the wooden rafters in the gilded dome of the darkened Royal Theater, Aelin munched on a lemon cookie and swung her legs in the open air below. The space was the same as she remembered it, but the silence, the darkness …

“This used to be my favorite place in the entire world,” she said, her words too loud in the emptiness. Sunlight poured in from the roof door they’d broken into, illuminating the rafters and the golden dome, gleaming faintly off the polished brass banisters and the bloodred curtains of the stage below. “Arobynn owns a private box, so I went any chance I could. The nights I didn’t feel like dressing up or being seen, or maybe the nights I had a job and only an hour free, I’d creep in here through that door and listen.”