He hadn’t dared ask her. They hadn’t dared
speak of it. Just as he had not yet spoken of
his father, his name. Not yet.
“To the Wastes,” she said at last. “To see
what might be done.”
Dorian swallowed. He’d heard the witches,
both Ironteeth and Crochans, talking about it.
Had felt their growing nerves—and
excitement. “And after?”
“There will be no after.”
He smiled slightly at her, a secret, knowing
smile. “Won’t there be?”
Manon asked, “What is it that you want?”
You, he almost said. All of you.
But Dorian said, “A small faction of the
rukhin are remaining in Adarlan to train the
wyvern hatchlings. I want them to be my new
aerial legion. And I would like you, and the
other Ironteeth, to help them.”
Chaol coughed, and gave him a look as if
lily
(lily)
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