Heir of Fire (47 page)

Chaol had nothing to say a
ft
er that and quickly le
ft
the apartment. He hardly slept that night, hardly did anything but stare at his sword, discarded on his desk. When the sun ­rose, he went to the king and told him of his plans to return to Anielle.

41

Th
e next two weeks fell into a pattern—­enough that Celaena started to
fi
nd comfort in it.
Th
ere ­were no unexpected stumbles or turns or pitfalls, no deaths or betrayals or nightmares made
fl
esh. In the mornings and eve­nings, she played scullery maid. Late morning until dinner she spent with Rowan, slowly, painfully exploring the well of magic inside her—­a well that, to her horror, had no bottom in sight.

Th
e small things—­lighting candles, putting out hearth
fi
res, weaving a ribbon of
fl
ame through her
fi
ngers—­were still the hardest. But Rowan pushed, dragging her from ruin to ruin, the only safe places for her to lose control. At least he brought food with him now, as she was constantly starving and could hardly go an hour without eating something. Magic gobbled up energy, and she was eating double or triple what she used to.

Sometimes they would talk. Well, she would make him talk, because a
ft
er telling him about Aedion and her own sel
fi
sh wish for freedom, she decided that talking was . . . good. Even if she ­wasn't able to open up about some things, she liked hearing Rowan speak. She managed to get him to tell her about his various campaigns and adventures, each more brutal and harrowing than the next.
Th
ere was a ­whole giant world to the south and east of Wendlyn, kingdoms and empires she'd heard of in passing but had never known much about. Rowan was a true warrior, who had walked on and o
ff
of killing
fi
elds, led men through hell, sailed on raging seas and seen distant, strange shores.

Th
ough she envied his long life—­and the gi
ft
of seeing the world that went along with it—­she could still feel the undercurrent of rage and grief beneath each tale, the loss of his mate that haunted him no matter how far he rode or sailed or
fl
ew. He spoke very little of his friends, who sometimes accompanied him on his journeys. She did not envy him the battles he had fought, the wars in far-­o
ff
lands, or the bloody years spent laying siege to cities of sand and stone.

She did not tell him that, of course. She only listened as he narrated while instructing her. And as she listened, she began to hate Maeve—­truly hate her aunt in her core.
Th
at rage drove her to request legends about her aunt from Emrys every night. Rowan never reprimanded her when she asked for those stories, never showed any alarm.

It came as some surprise when Emrys announced one day that Beltane was two days o
ff
and they would begin preparations for their feasting and dancing and celebrating. Already Beltane, and according to Rowan, she was still far from ready to go to Doranelle, despite mastering the shi
ft
. Spring would now be in full bloom on her own continent. Maypoles would be raised, hawthorn bushes decorated—­that was about as much as the king would allow.
Th
ere would be no small gi
ft
s le
ft
at crossroads for the Little Folk.
Th
e king permitted the bare bones only, with the focus squarely on the gods and planting for the harvest. Not a hint or whisper of magic.

Bon
fi
res would be ignited and a few brave souls would jump across for luck, to ward o
ff
evil, to ensure a good crop—­whatever they hoped would come of it. As a child, she had run rampant through the
fi
eld before the gates of Orynth, the thousand bon
fi
res burning like the lights of the invading army that would too soon be encamped around the white city. It was
her
night, her mother had said—­a night when a
fi
re-­bearing girl had nothing to fear, no powers to hide.
Aelin Fireheart
, people had whispered as she bounded past, embers streaming from her like ribbons, Aedion and a few of her more lethal court members trailing as indulgent guards.
Aelin of the Wild
fi
re
.

A
ft
er days of helping Emrys with the food (and devouring it when the cook ­wasn't looking), she was hoping for a chance to relax on Bel­tane, but Rowan hauled her to a
fi
eld atop the mountain plateau. Celaena bit into an apple she'd pulled from her pocket and raised her brows at Rowan, who was standing in front of a massive pile of wood for the bon
fi
re,
fl
anked by two small unlit
fi
res on either side.

Around them, some of the demi-­Fae ­were still hauling in more wood and kindling, others setting up tables to serve the food that Emrys had been laboring over without rest.

Dozens of other demi-­Fae had arrived from their various outposts, with little fanfare and much embracing and good-­natured teasing. Between helping Emrys and training with Rowan, Celaena hardly had time to inspect them—­though a wretched part of her was somewhat pleased by the few admiring glances she caught being thrown in her direction by the visiting males.

She didn't fail to notice how quickly they looked away when they beheld Rowan at her side.
Th
ough she
did
catch a few females looking at him with far warmer interest. She wanted to claw their faces o
ff
for it.

She munched on the apple as she studied him now, in his usual pale-gray tunic and wide belt, hood thrown back and leather vambraces gleaming in the late a
ft
ernoon sunlight. Gods, she had no interest in him like that, and she was certain he had no inclination to take her to his bed, either. Maybe it was just from spending so much time in her Fae body that she felt . . . territorial. Territorial and grumpy and mean. Last night, she had
growled
at a female in the kitchen who would
not
 stop staring at him and had actually taken a step toward him as if to say hello.

Celaena shook her head to clear away the instincts that ­were starting to make her see
fi
re at all hours of the day. “I assume you brought me ­here so I could practice?” She chucked the apple core across the
fi
eld and rubbed at her shoulder. She'd been feverish the night before thanks to Rowan making her practice all a
ft
ernoon, and had awoken exhausted this morning.

“Ignite them, and keep the
fi
res controlled and even all night.”

“All three.” Not a question.

“Keep the end ones low for the jumpers.
Th
e middle one should be scorching the clouds.”

She wished she hadn't eaten the apple. “
Th
is could easily turn lethal.”

He li
ft
ed a hand and wind stirred around her. “I'll be ­here,” he said simply, eyes shining with an arrogance he'd more than earned in his centuries of living.

“And if I somehow still manage to turn someone into a living torch?”

“
Th
en it's a good thing the healers are also ­here to celebrate.”

She gave him a dirty look and rolled her shoulders. “When do you want to start?”

Her stomach clenched as he said, “Now.”

•

She was burning, but remaining steady, even as the sun set and the 
fi
eld became packed with revelers. Musicians took up places by the forest edge and the world
fi
lled with their violins and
fi
ddles and
fl
utes and drums, such beautiful, ancient music that her
fl
ames moved with it, turning into rubies and citrines and tigereyes and deepest sapphires. Her magic didn't manifest in only blue wild
fi
re anymore; it had been slowly changing, growing, these past few weeks. No one really noticed her, standing on the outskirts of the
fi
re's light, though a few marveled at the
fl
ames that burned but did not consume the wood.

Sweat ran down every part of her—­mostly thanks to the terror of people jumping over the lower-­burning bon
fi
res. Yet Rowan remained beside her, murmuring as if she were a ner­vous ­horse. She wanted to tell him to go away, to maybe indulge one of those doe-­eyed females who kept silently inviting him to dance. But she focused on the
fl
ames and on maintaining that shred of control, even though her blood was starting to boil. A knot tightened in her lower back, and she shi
ft
ed. Gods, she was soaked—­every damn crevice was damp.

“Easy,” Rowan said as the
fl
ames danced a little higher.

“I know,” she gritted out.
Th
e music was already so inviting, the dancing around the
fi
re so joyous, the food on the tables smelling so delicious . . . and ­here she was, far from it all, just burning. Her stomach grumbled. “When can I stop?” She shi
ft
ed on her feet again, and the largest bon
fi
re twisted, the
fl
ame slithering with her body. No one noticed.

“When I say so,” he said. She knew he was using the people around them, her fear for their safety, to get her to master her control, but . . .

“I'm sweating to death, I'm starving, and I want a break.”

“Resorting to whining?” But a cool breeze licked up her neck, and she closed her eyes, moaning. She could feel him watching her, and a
ft
er a moment he said, “Just a little while longer.”

She almost sagged with relief, but opened her eyes to focus. She could hold out for a bit, then go eat and eat and eat. Maybe dance. She hadn't danced in so long. Maybe she would try it out, ­here in the shadows. See if her body could
fi
nd room for joy, even though it was currently so hot and aching that she would bet good money that the moment she stopped, she would fall asleep.

But the music was entrancing, the dancers mere shadows swirling around. Unlike in Adarlan, there ­were no guards monitoring the festivities, no villagers lurking to see who might cross the line into treason and earn a pretty coin for whoever they turned in.
Th
ere was just the music and the dancing and the food and the
fi
re—­her
fi
re.

She tapped a foot, bobbing her head, eyes on the three smokeless
fi
res and the silhouettes dancing around them. She
did
want to dance. Not from joy, but because she felt her
fi
re and the music meld and pulse against her bones.
Th
e music was a tapestry woven of light and dark and color, building delicate links in a chain that latched on to her heart and spread out into the world, binding her to it, connecting everything.

She understood then.
Th
e Wyrdmarks ­were—­were a way of harnessing those threads, of weaving and binding the essence of things. Magic could do the same, and from her power, from her imagination and will and core, she could create and shape.

“Easy,” Rowan said, then added with a hint of surprise, “Music.
Th
at day on the ice, you ­were humming.” She registered another cool wind on her neck, but her skin was already pulsing in time with the drums. “Let the music steady you.”

Gods, to be free like this . . .
Th
e
fl
ames roiled and undulated with the melody.

“Easy.”
She could barely hear him above the wave of sound
fi
lling her up, making her feel each tether binding her to the earth, each in
fi
nite thread. For a breath she wished for a shape-­shi
ft
er's heart so she could shed her skin and weave herself into something ­else, the music or the wind, and blow across the world. Her eyes ­were stinging, almost blurry from staring so long at the
fl
ames, and a muscle in her back twinged.

“Steady.” She didn't know what he was talking about—­the
fl
ames ­were calm, lovely. What would happen if she walked through them?
Th
e pulsing in her head seemed to say
do it, do it, do it
.

“
Th
at's enough for now.” Rowan grabbed her arm, but hissed and let go. “
Th
at is
enough
.”

Slowly, too slowly, she looked at him. His eyes ­were wide, the light of the
fi
re making them almost blaze. Fire—
her
fi
re. She returned to the
fl
ame, submitted to it.
Th
e music and the dancing continued, bright and merry.

“Look at me,” Rowan said, but didn't touch her.
“Look at me.”

She could hardly hear him, as if she ­were underwater.
Th
ere was a pounding in her now—­edged with pain. It was a knife that sliced into her mind and her body with each pulse. She ­couldn't look at him—­didn't dare take her attention from the
fi
re.

“Let the
fi
res burn on their own,” Rowan ordered. She could have sworn she heard something like fear in his voice. It was an e
ff
ort of will, and pain spiked down the tendons in her neck, but she looked at him. His nostrils
fl
ared. “Aelin, stop right now.”

She tried to speak, but her throat was raw, burning. She ­couldn't move her body.