Not to mention all those cuts and scrapes and sprains gave him an excuse to go to the healers’ catacombs. Sorscha, it seemed, had caught on to his training schedule, and her door was always open when he arrived.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what she’d said in his room, or wondering why someone who had lost everything would dedicate her life to helping the family of the man who had taken it all away. And when she’d said Because I had nowhere else to go . . . for a second, it hadn’t been Sorscha but Celaena, broken with grief and loss and rage, coming to his room because there was no one else to turn to. He’d never known what that was like, that loss, but Sorscha’s kindness to him—which he’d repaid so foully until now—hit him like a stone to the head.
Dorian entered her workroom, and Sorscha looked up from the table and smiled, broadly and prettily and . . . well, wasn’t that exactly the reason he found excuses to come here every day.
He held up his wrist, already stiff and throbbing. “Landed on it badly,” he said by way of greeting. She came around the table, giving him enough time to admire the long lines of her figure in her simple gown. She moved like water, he thought, and often caught himself marveling at the way she used her hands.
“There’s not much I can do for that,” she said after examining his wrist. “But I have a tonic for the pain—only to subdue it, and I can put your arm in a sling if—”
“Gods, no. No sling. I’ll never hear the end of it from the guards.”
Her eyes twinkled, just a bit—in that way they did when she was amused and tried hard not to be.
But if there was no sling, then he had no excuse to be here, and even though he had an inane council meeting in an hour and still needed to bathe . . . He stood. “What are you working on?”
She took a careful step back from him. She always did that, to keep the wall up. “Well, I have a few tonics and salves to make for some of the servants and guards today—to replenish their stocks.” He knew he shouldn’t, but he moved to peer over her narrow shoulder at the worktable, at the bowls and vials and beakers. She made a small noise in her throat, and he swallowed his smile as he leaned a bit closer. “This is normally a task for apprentices, but they were so busy today that I offered to take some of their workload.” She usually talked like this when she was nervous. Which, Dorian had noticed with some satisfaction, was when he came near. And not in a bad way—if he’d sensed that she was truly uncomfortable, he’d have kept his distance. This was more . . . flustered. He liked flustered.
“But,” she went on, trying to sidestep away, “I’ll make your tonic right now, Your Highness.”
He gave her the space she needed as she hurried about the table with graceful efficiency, measuring powders and crushing dried leaves, so steady and self-assured . . . He realized he’d been staring when she spoke again. “Your . . . friend. The King’s Champion. Is she well?”
Her mission to Wendlyn was fairly secret, but he could get around that. “She’s off on my father’s errand for the next few months. I certainly hope she’s well, though I have no doubt she can care for herself.”
“And her hound—she’s well?”
“Fleetfoot? Oh, she’s fine. Her leg’s healed beautifully.” The hound now slept in his bed, of course, and bullied him for scraps and treats to no end, but . . . it was nice to have some piece of his friend while she was gone. “Thanks to you.”
A nod, and silence fell as she measured and then poured some green-looking liquid. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to drink that.
“They said . . .” Sorscha kept her spectacular eyes down. “They said there was some wild animal roaming the halls a few months ago—that’s what killed all those people before Yulemas. I never heard whether they caught it, but then . . . your friend’s dog looked like she’d been attacked.”
Dorian willed himself to keep still. She’d truly put some things together, then. And hadn’t told anyone. “Ask it, Sorscha.”
Her throat bobbed, and her hands shook a little—enough that he wanted to reach out and cover them. But he couldn’t move, not until she spoke. “What was it?” she breathed.
“Do you want the answer that will keep you asleep at night, or the one that might ensure you never sleep again?” She lifted her gaze to him, and he knew she wanted the truth. So he loosed a breath and said, “It was two different . . . creatures. My father’s Champion dealt with the first. She didn’t even tell the captain and me until we faced the second.” He could still hear that creature’s roar in the tunnel, still see it squaring off against Chaol. Still had nightmares about it. “The rest is a bit of a mystery.” It wasn’t a lie. There was still so much he didn’t know. And didn’t want to learn.
“Would His Majesty punish you for it?” A quiet, dangerous question.
“Yes.” His blood chilled at the thought. Because if he knew, if his father learned Celaena had somehow opened a portal . . . Dorian couldn’t stop the ice spreading through him.
Sorscha rubbed her arms and glanced at the fire. It was still burning high, but . . . Shit. He had to go. Now. Sorscha said, “He’d kill her, wouldn’t he? That’s why you said nothing.”
Dorian slowly started backing out, fighting against the panicked, wild thing inside of him. He couldn’t stop the rising ice, didn’t even know where it was coming from, but he kept seeing that creature in the tunnels, kept hearing Fleetfoot’s pained bark, seeing Chaol choose to sacrifice himself so they could get away—
Sorscha stroked the length of her dark braid. “And—and he’d probably kill the captain, too.”
His magic erupted.
•
After Sorscha had been forced to wait in the cramped office for twenty minutes, Amithy finally paraded in, her tight bun making her harsh face even more severe. “Sorscha,” she said, sitting down at her desk and frowning. “What am I to do with you? What example does this set for the apprentices?”
Sorscha kept her head down. She knew she’d been kept waiting in order to make her fret over what she’d done: accidentally knocking over her entire worktable and destroying not only countless hours and days of work, but also a good number of expensive tools and containers. “I slipped—I spilled some oil and forgot to wipe it up.”