Page 244 of Kingdom of Ash

No. Elena would have told her, or Brannon, if such a thing had existed.

Aelin ran a hand over the dry, ancient page, the symbols blurring. “It’s worth a look, isn’t it?”

Rowan indeed resumed his careful browsing and decoding. He’d sit here for hours, she knew. And if they found nothing, she knew he’d sit here and reread them all just to be sure.

A way out—an alternate path. For her, for Dorian. For whichever of them would pay the price to forge the Lock and seal the gate. A desperate, foolish hope.

The hours passed, the stacks of books dwindling. Fenrys joined them after a time, unusually solemn as they searched and searched. And found nothing.

When there were no books left in the trunk, when Borte was nodding off and Rowan was pacing through the tent, Aelin did them all a favor and ordered them to return to the keep.

It had been worth a look, she told herself. Even if the leaden weight in her gut said otherwise.

Chaol found his father where he’d left him, seething in his study.

“You cannot give a single acre of this territory to the wild men,” his father hissed as Chaol wheeled into the room and shut the door.

Chaol crossed his arms, not bothering to look placating. “I can, and I will.”

His father shot to his feet and braced his hands on his desk. “You would spit on the lives of all the men of Anielle who fought and died to keep this territory from their filthy hands?”

“If offering them a small piece of land will mean that future generations of Anielle men and women won’t have to fight or die, then I’d think our ancestors would be pleased.”

“They are beasts, barely fit to be their own masters.”

Chaol sighed, slumping back in his chair. A lifetime of this—that’s what Dorian had laid upon him. As Hand, he’d have to deal with lordsand rulers just like his father. If they survived. If Dorian survived, too. The thought was enough for Chaol to say, “Everyone in this war is making sacrifices. Most far, far greater than a few miles of land. Be grateful that’s all we’re asking of you.”

The man sneered. “And what if I was to bargain with you?”

Chaol rolled his eyes, reaching to turn his chair back toward the door.

His father lifted a piece of paper. “Don’t you wish to know what your brother wrote to me?”

“Not enough to stop this alliance,” Chaol said, pivoting his chair away.

His father unfolded the letter anyway, and read, “I hope Anielle burns to the ground. And you with it.” A small, hateful smile. “That’s all your brother said. My heir—that’s how he feels about this place. If he will not protect Anielle, then what shall become of it without you?”

Another approach, to guilt him into relenting. Chaol said, “I’d wager that Terrin’s regard for Anielle is tied to his feelings for you.”

The aging lord lowered himself into his seat once more. “I wish you to know what Anielle will face, should you fail to protect it. I am willing to bargain, boy.” He chuckled. “Though I know how well you hold up your end of things.”

Chaol took the blow. “I am a rich man, and need nothing you could offer me.”

“Nothing?” His father pointed to a trunk by the window. “What about something more priceless than gold?”

When Chaol didn’t speak, his father strode for the trunk, unlocked it with a key from his pocket, and flipped back the heavy lid. Wheeling closer, Chaol peered at its contents.

Letters. The entire trunk was filled with letters bearing his name in an elegant script.

“She discovered the trunk. Right before we got word of Morath marching on us,” his father said, his smile mocking and cold. “I shouldhave burned them, of course, but something prompted me to save them instead. For this exact moment, I think.”

The trunk was piled thick with letters. All written by his mother. To him. “How long,” he said too quietly.

“From the day you left.” His father’s sneer lingered.

Years. Years of letters, from a mother he had not heard from, had believed hadn’t wanted to speak to him, had yielded to his father’s wishes.

“You let her believe I didn’t write back,” Chaol said, surprised to find his voice still calm. “You never sent them, and let her believe I didn’t write back.”

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