Throne of Glass: short stories and exclusives

The Captain and the Prince

This short scene takes place prior to the events of Throne of Glass.

.      .      .

Dorian Havilliard stood at the window of his tower bedroom, leaning out as far as he dared to catch just a breath of wind on his face. In the distance, the emerald roofs of Rifthold sizzled in the late summer sun, and beyond them, the foothills rolled toward the storm clouds gathering on the western horizon. The rain would be a relief. It had been three weeks of stifling heat, two weeks without a whisper of wind off the Avery, and the reek from the rotting city had now reached even the highest spires of the glass castle. The stench of baking filth was so bad that most of his father's court had left—either for the sea or for the north. Or both. The heat made the endless string of council meetings and state dinners unbearable, even when encircled by servants fanning them with palm fronds imported from Eyllwe. And if the miserable heat wasn't enough, the topic of those meetings made Dorian's temper fray.

Wiping the sweat from his brow on the back of a hand, Dorian shoved up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows and faced the Captain of the Guard. Chaol, who had been reading some document or report or other on the couch by the unlit fireplace, looked up. "Well?"

"I'm still thinking about it," Dorian said, going to the oak table that once had been intended for dining but was now covered in ever-growing stacks of books and papers.

"Your father wanted your decision yesterday."

No hint of aggression or condescension—just worry. Chaol was always worrying. Even if he rarely showed it. No, even in the heat, Chaol was still wearing his black uniform, still looking crisp and alert and ready to face any threat.

"This . . . contest"—Dorian spat the word—"is absurd. A waste of gold, a waste of time, a waste of men's lives." He reached for the pitcher of water wedged between two piles of books and poured himself and Chaol each a glass. "I don't even understand why he needs a so-called Champion when he has you and your men. Plus the gods know how many shady people work for him."

Chaol set down the papers as Dorian handed him the glass, but frowned. "The other councilmen have already selected their Champions. Whether you want to or not, your father's competition will happen." Chaol drummed his fingers on the worn fabric of the back of the couch. "If you refuse to play, it will make a statement" A flash of bronze eyes. "And I don't think it's the kind of statement you want to make right now."

Chaol knew—had always known—about Dorian's tumultuous relationship with his father. Dorian had never been outright rebellious, perhaps because Chaol was usually there to subtly interfere, to keep Dorian from saying or doing something he'd later regret. But each year, each month, each gods-damned day, it was getting harder and harder to submit.

He didn't know why, exactly. He'd never seen one of those far-off battlefields where his father's armies still fought to quell any rebel uprisings, had never seen the labor camps at Calculla or Endovier, had never even been in one of his Father's interrogation chambers, hidden away in Rifthold. Dorian didn't support the rebels, didn't want to be a part of anyone's rebellion, but . . . Perhaps it was just that he was as much a slave to the crown as the rest of the continent.

Dorian took a long sip of his water. It was already warm.

"If I'm going to be press ganged into this competition," Dorian mused, more to himself than to his friend, "then I want to win."

Chaol nodded as if he'd been expecting it. Which wasn't surprising at all. Nor were the captain's next words. "I have a list of possible Champions we could approach." Dorian finished his water. "Who?"