Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

Dorian got past the guard’s defense in an easy maneuver, though when the young man raised his hands in defeat, the prince had to wonder if he’d let him win. The thought sent a growl rippling through him. He was about to demand another match when someone sauntered over to them. “Mind if I join?”

Dorian stared at Roland, whose rapier looked like it had hardly ever been used. The guard took one look at Dorian’s face, bowed, and found someplace else to be. Dorian watched his cousin, the black ring on Roland’s finger. “I don’t think you want to dance with me today, cousin.”

“Ah,” Roland said, frowning. “About yesterday … I’m sorry for that. Had I known the labor camps were such a sensitive matter for you, I never would have broached the subject or worked with Councilor Mullison. I called off the vote after you left. Mullison was furious.”

Dorian raised his brows. “Oh?”

Roland shrugged. “You were right. I don’t know anything about what it’s like in those camps. I only took up the cause because Perrington suggested that I work with Mullison, who stood to gain a lot from the expansion because of his ties to the iron industry.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

Roland gave him a winning smile. “We are family, after all.”

Family. Dorian had never really considered himself to be in an actual family. And certainly not now. If anyone found out about what had happened in that hallway yesterday, about the magic he might have, his father would kill him. He had a second son, after all. Families weren’t exactly supposed to think like that, were they?

Dorian had gone looking for Nehemia last night out of desperation, but in the light of morning, he was grateful he hadn’t seen her. If the princess had that sort of information about him, she could use it to her advantage—blackmail him all she wanted.

And Roland … Dorian began walking away. “Why don’t you save your maneuvering for someone who cares?”

Roland kept pace beside him. “Ah, but who else is more worthy than my own cousin? What greater challenge than winning you over to my schemes?” Dorian shot him a warning glare and found the young man grinning. “If only you’d seen the chaos that erupted after you left,” Roland went on. “As long as I live, I’ll never forget the look on your father’s face when you growled at them all.” Roland laughed, and, despite himself, Dorian found a smile tugging on his lips. “I thought the old bastard would combust right there.”

Dorian shook his head. “He’s hanged men for calling him such names, you know.”

“Yes, but when you’re as handsome as I am, dear cousin, you’d be surprised by how much more you can get away with.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but considered his cousin for a few moments. Roland might be close with Perrington and his father, but … perhaps he’d just been pulled into Perrington’s schemes and needed someone to steer him right. And if his father and the other councilmen thought that they could use Roland to win support for their dark dealings, well, then it was time for Dorian to play the game, too. He could turn his father’s pawn against him. Between the two of them, surely they could sway enough of the council to oppose more unsavory proposals.

“You really called off the vote?”

Roland waved a hand. “I think you’re right that we’re pushing our luck with the other kingdoms. If we want to keep control, we need to find a balance. Shoving them into slavery won’t help; it might just turn more people toward rebellion.”

Dorian nodded slowly, and paused. “I have somewhere to be,” he lied, sheathing his sword, “but perhaps I’ll see you in the hall for dinner.”

Roland gave him an easy smile. “I’ll try to muster up a few lovely ladies to keep us company.”

Dorian waited until Roland was around the corner before heading outside, where the chaos of the courtyard sucked him up. The carnival his mother had commissioned for Hollin—her belated Yulemas present to him—had finally arrived.

It was not a massive carnival; only a few black tents, a dozen cage wagons, and five covered wagons had been set up in the open courtyard. The whole thing felt rather somber, despite the fiddler sawing away and the merry shouts of the workers scrambling to finish setting up the tents in time to surprise Hollin that evening.

People hardly looked Dorian’s way as he meandered through the throng. Then again, he was dressed in sweaty, old clothes and had his cloak wrapped tightly around him. Only the guards—highly trained and aware of everything—noticed him, but they understood his need for anonymity without being told.

A stunningly beautiful woman walked out of one of the tents—blond, slender, tall, and dressed in fine riding clothes. A mountain-sized man also emerged, carrying long poles of iron that Dorian doubted most men could even lift.

Dorian passed by one of the large covered wagons, pausing at the words written in white paint on its side:


THE CARNIVAL OF MIRRORS!

SEE ILLUSIONS AND REALITY COLLIDE!

He frowned. Had his mother even put a moment’s consideration into the gift, into how it might appear, the message it would send? Carnivals, with their illusions and tricks, always pushed the limit of outright treason. Dorian snorted. Perhaps he belonged in one of these cages.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Dorian whirled to find Chaol smiling at him. “I thought I’d find you here.” He wasn’t surprised in the least that Chaol had recognized him.