Chaol had been barely able to concentrate for the past few days thanks to the meeting he was moments away from having. It had taken longer than he had anticipated before Ren and Murtaugh were finally ready to meet him—their first encounter since that night in the slums. Chaol had to wait for his next night off, Aedion had to find a secure location, and then they had to coordinate with the two lords from Terrasen. He and the general had left the castle separately, and Chaol had hated himself when he lied to his men about where he was going—hated that they wished him fun, hated that they trusted him, the man who was meeting with their mortal enemies.
Chaol shoved those thoughts aside as he approached the dim alley a few blocks from the decrepit boarding house where they were to meet. Under his heavy-hooded cloak he was armed more heavily than he usually bothered. Every breath he took felt too shallow. A two-note whistle sounded down the alley, and he echoed it. Aedion stalked through the low-lying mist coming off the Avery, his face concealed in the cowl of his own cloak.
He wasn’t wearing the Sword of Orynth. Instead, an assortment of blades and fighting knives were strapped to the general—a man able to walk into hell itself and come out grinning.
“Where are the others?” Chaol said softly. The slums were quiet tonight—too quiet for his liking. Dressed as he was, few would dare approach him, but the walk through the crooked and dark streets had been harrowing. Such poverty and despair—and desperation. It made people dangerous, willing to risk anything to scratch out another day of living.
Aedion leaned against the crumbling brick wall behind them. “Don’t get your undergarments in a twist. They’ll be here soon.”
“I’ve waited long enough for this information.”
“What’s the rush?” Aedion drawled, scanning the alley.
“I’m leaving Rifthold in a few weeks to return to Anielle.” Aedion didn’t look directly at him, but he could feel the general staring at him from beneath his dark hood.
“So get out of it—tell them you’re busy.”
“I made a promise,” Chaol said. “I’ve already bargained for time, but I want to have . . . done something for the prince before I leave.”
The general turned to him then. “I’d heard you were estranged from your father; why the sudden change?”
It would have been easier to lie, but Chaol said, “My father is a powerful man—he has the ear of many influential members at court and is on the king’s council.”
Aedion let out a low laugh. “I’ve butted heads with him in more than a few war councils.”
That Chaol would have paid good money to see, but he wasn’t smiling as he said, “It was the only way I could get her sent to Wendlyn.” He quickly explained the bargain he’d made, and when he was finished, Aedion loosed a long breath.
“Damn,” the general said, then shook his head. “I didn’t think that kind of honor still existed in Adarlan.”
He supposed it was a compliment—and a high one, coming from Aedion. “And what of your father?” Chaol said, if only to shift conversation away from the hole in his chest. “I know your mother was kin to—to her, but what of your father’s line?”
“My mother never admitted who my father was, even when she was wasting away on her sickbed,” Aedion said flatly. “I don’t know if it was from shame, or because she couldn’t even remember, or to protect me somehow. Once I was brought over here, I didn’t really care. But I’d rather have no father than your father.”
Chaol chuckled and might have asked another question had boots not scraped on stone at the other end of the alley, followed by a rasping breath.
That fast, Aedion had palmed two fighting knives, and Chaol drew his own sword—a bland, nondescript blade he’d swiped from the barracks—as a man staggered into view.
He had an arm wrapped around his middle, the other bracing himself against the brick wall of an abandoned building. Aedion was instantly moving, knives sheathed again. It wasn’t until Chaol heard him say, “Ren?” that he also hurried toward the young man.
In the moonlight, the blood on Ren’s tunic was a shining, deep stain.
“Where is Murtaugh?” Aedion demanded, slinging an arm under Ren’s shoulders.
“Safe.” Ren panted, his face dealthy pale. Chaol scanned either end of the alley. “We were—followed. So we tried losing them.” He heard, more than saw, Ren’s wince. “They cornered me.”
“How many?” Aedion said softly, though Chaol could almost feel the violence simmering off the general.
“Eight,” Ren said, and hissed in pain. “Killed two, then got free. They’re following me.”
Leaving six. If they were unharmed, they were probably close behind. Chaol examined the stones beyond Ren. The wound to his abdomen couldn’t be deep, if he’d managed to keep the blood flow from leaving a trail. But it still had to be agonizing—potentially fatal, if it had pierced the wrong spot.
Aedion went rigid, hearing something that Chaol couldn’t. He quietly, gently passed the sagging Ren into Chaol’s arms. “There are three barrels ten paces away,” the general said with lethal calm as he faced the alley entrance. “Hide behind them and keep your mouths shut.”
That was all Chaol needed to hear as he took Ren’s weight and hauled him to the large barrels, then eased him onto the ground. Ren stifled a groan of pain, but kept still. There was a small crack between two of the barrels where Chaol could see the alley, and the six men who stalked into it almost shoulder-to-shoulder. He couldn’t make out much more than dark tunics and cloaks.
The men paused when they beheld Aedion standing before them, still hooded. The general drew his fighting knives and purred, “None of you are leaving this alley alive.”
•
They didn’t.
Chaol marveled at Aedion’s skill—the speed and swiftness and utter confidence that made it like watching a brutal, unforgiving dance.
It was over before it really started. The six assailants seemed at ease with weapons, but against a man with Fae blood surging in his veins, they were useless.
No wonder Aedion had risen to such high ranking so quickly. He’d never seen another man fight like that. Only—only Celaena had come close. He couldn’t tell which of them would win if they were ever matched against each other, but together . . . Chaol’s heart went cold at the thought. Six men dead in a matter of moments—six.
Aedion wasn’t smiling as he came back over to Chaol and dropped a scrap of fabric on the ground before them. Even Ren, panting through clenched teeth, looked.
It was a black, heavy material—and emblazoned on it in dark thread, nearly invisible save for the glint of the moonlight, was a wyvern. The royal sigil.
“I don’t know these men,” Chaol said, more to himself than to protest his innocence. “I’ve never seen that uniform.”
“From the sound of it,” Aedion said, that rage still simmering in his voice as he cocked his head toward noises that Chaol could not hear with his human ears, “there are more of them out there, and they’re combing the slums door-to-door for Ren. We need a place to hide.”
Ren held on to consciousness long enough to say, “I know where.”