“You’re a fool for going.” She began walking again. Staying in one spot, however deserted, wasn’t wise.
Chaol fell into step beside her. “I didn’t see any other assassins offering their services.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. She curled her fingers, then straightened them one by one. “The price won’t be gold or favors. The price will be the last thing you see coming. Likely the death or suffering of the people you care about.”
“You think I didn’t know that?”
“So you want to have Arobynn kill the king, and what? Put Dorian on the throne? With a Valg demon inside him?”
“I didn’t know that until now. But it changes nothing.”
“It changes everything. Even if you get that collar off, there’s no guarantee the Valg hasn’t taken root inside him. You might replace one monster with another.”
“Why don’t you say whatever it is you’re getting at, Aelin?” He hissed her name barely loud enough for her to hear.
“Can you kill the king? When it comes down to it, could you kill your king?”
“Dorian is my king.”
It was an effort not to flinch. “Semantics.”
“He killed Sorscha.”
“He killed millions before her.” Perhaps a challenge, perhaps another question.
His eyes flared. “I need to go. I’m meeting Brullo in an hour.”
“I’ll come with you,” she said, glancing toward the glass castle towering over the northeastern quarter of the city. Perhaps she’d learn a bit more about what the Weapons Master knew about Dorian. And how she might be able to put down her friend. Her blood turned icy, sluggish.
“No, you won’t,” Chaol said. Her head snapped toward him. “If you’re there, I have to answer too many questions. I won’t jeopardize Dorian to satisfy your curiosity.”
He kept walking straight, but she turned the corner with a tight shrug. “Do what you want.”
Noticing she was heading away, he halted. “And what are you going to be doing?”
Too much suspicion in that voice. She paused her steps and arched an eyebrow. “Many things. Wicked things.”
“If you give us away, Dorian will—”
She cut him off with a snort. “You refused to share your information, Captain. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to withhold mine.” She made to walk down the street, toward her old apartment.
“Not captain,” he said.
She looked over her shoulder and studied him again. “What happened to your sword?”
His eyes were hollow. “I lost it.”
Ah. “So is it Lord Chaol, then?”
“Just Chaol.”
For a heartbeat, she pitied him, and part of her wished she could say it more kindly, more compassionately. “There’s no getting Dorian out. There’s no saving him.”
“Like hell there isn’t.”
“You’d be better off considering other contenders to put on the throne—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” His eyes were wide, his breathing uneven.