Heir of Fire (65 page)

“Once I get out of the city,” Murtaugh said, going to the ­horse he'd tied inside the ware­house, “I'll send riders to every contact, to Fenharrow and Melisande. Ren, you stay ­here. I'll take care of Suria.”

Aedion gripped the man's shoulder. “Get word to my Bane—­tell them to lie low until I return, but keep those supply lines with the rebels open at any cost.” He didn't let go until Murtaugh gave him a nod.

“Grandfather,” Ren said, helping the man into the saddle. “Let me go instead.”

“You stay ­here,” Aedion ordered, and Ren bristled.

Murtaugh murmured his agreement. “Gather what information you can, and then you'll come to me when I'm ready.”

Aedion didn't give Ren time to refuse as he hauled open the ware­house door for Murtaugh. Brisk night air poured in, bringing with it the ruckus from the city. Aelin—­Aelin had done this, caused this clamor of sound.
Th
e stallion pawed and hu
ff
ed, and Murtaugh might have galloped o
ff
had the captain not surged to grab his reins.

“Eyllwe,” Chaol breathed. “Send word to Eyllwe. Tell them to hold on—­tell them to prepare.” Perhaps it was the light, perhaps it was the cold, but Aedion could have sworn there ­were tears in the captain's eyes as he said, “Tell them it's time to
fi
ght back.”

•

Murtaugh Allsbrook and his riders spread the news like wild
fi
re. Down every road, over every river, to the north and south and west, through snow and rain and mist, their hooves churning up the dust of each kingdom.

And for every town they told, every tavern and secret meeting, more riders went out.

More and more, until there was not a road they had not covered, until there was not one soul who did not know that Aelin Galathynius was alive—­and willing to stand against Adarlan.

Across the White Fangs and the Ruhnns, all the way to the Western Wastes and the red-haired queen who ruled from a crumbling castle. To the Deserted Peninsula and the oasis-­fortress of the Silent Assassins. Hooves, hooves, hooves, echoing through the continent, sparking against cobblestones, all the way to Banjali and the riverfront palace of the King and Queen of Eyllwe, still in their midnight mourning clothes.

Hold on
, the riders told the world.

Hold on
.

•

Dorian's father was in a rage the likes of which he'd not seen before. Two ministers had been executed this morning, for no worse crime than attempting to calm the king.

A day a
ft
er the news arrived of what Aelin had done in Wendlyn, his father was still livid, still demanding answers.

Dorian might have found it funny—­so typically Celaena to make such a
fl
amboyant return—­had he not been utterly petri
fi
ed. She had drawn a line in the sand. Worse than that, she'd defeated one of the king's deadliest generals.

No one had done that and lived. Ever.

Somewhere in Wendlyn, his friend was changing the world. She was ful
fi
lling the promise she'd made him. She had not forgotten him, or any of them still ­here.

And perhaps when they
fi
gured out a way to destroy that tower and free magic from his father's yoke, she would know her friends had not forgotten her, either.
Th
at
he
had not forgotten her.

So Dorian let his father rage. He sat in on those meetings and shut down his revulsion and horror when his father sent a third minister to the butchering block. For Sorscha, for the promise of keeping her safe, of someday, perhaps, not having to hide what and who he was, he kept on his well-­worn mask, o
ff
ered banal suggestions about what to do regarding Aelin, and pretended. One last time.

When Celaena got back, when she returned as she'd sworn she would . . .

Th
en they would set about changing the world together.

59

It took a week for Celaena and Rowan to reach Doranelle.
Th
ey traveled over the rough, miserable mountains where Maeve's wild wolves monitored them day and night, then down into the lush valley through forests and
fi
elds, the air heavy with spices and magic.

Th
e temperature grew warmer the farther south they traveled, but breezes kept it from being too unpleasant. A
ft
er a while, they began spotting pretty stone villages in the distance, but Rowan kept them away, hidden, until they crested a rocky hill and Doranelle spread before them.

It took her breath away. Even Orynth could not compare to this.

Th
ey had called it the City of Rivers for a reason.
Th
e pale-­stoned city was built on a massive island smack in the center of several of them, the waters raging as the tributaries from the surrounding hills and mountains blended. On the island's north end, the rivers toppled over the mouth of a mighty waterfall, its basin so huge that the mist
fl
oated into the clear day, setting the domed buildings, pearlescent spires, and blue roo
ft
ops shining.
Th
ere ­were no boats moored to the city edges, though there ­were two elegant stone bridges spanning the river—­heavily guarded. Fae moved across the bridges, and carts loaded with everything from vegetables to hay to wine. Somewhere, there had to be
fi
elds and farms and towns to supply them.
Th
ough she'd bet Maeve had a stronghold of goods stocked up.

“I assume you normally
fl
y right in and don't deign to use the bridges,” she said to Rowan, who was frowning at the city, not looking very much like a warrior about to return home. He nodded distantly. He'd fallen silent in the past day—­not rude, but quiet and vague, as if he ­were rebuilding the wall between them.
Th
is morning, she'd awoken in their hilltop camp to
fi
nd him staring at the sunrise, looking for all the world as if he'd been having a conversation with it. She hadn't had the nerve to ask if he'd been praying to Mala Fire-­Bringer, or what he would even ask of the Sun Goddess. But there had been a strangely familiar warmth wrapped around the camp, and she could have sworn that she felt her magic leap in joyous response. She didn't let herself think about it.

Because for the past day, she, too, had been lost in herself, busy gathering her strength and clarity. She hadn't been able to talk much, and even now, focusing on the present required an im­mense e
ff
ort. “Well,” she said, taking an exaggerated breath and patting Goldryn's hilt, “let's go see our beloved aunt. I'd hate to keep her waiting.”

•

It took them until nightfall to reach the bridge, and Celaena was glad: there ­were fewer Fae to witness their arrival, even though the winding, elegant streets ­were now full of musicians and dancing and vendors selling hot food and drinks.
Th
ere had been plenty of that in Adarlan, but ­here there was no empire weighing on them, no darkness or cold or despair. Maeve had not sent aid ten years ago—­and while the Fae danced and drank mulled cider, Celaena's people had been butchered and burned. She knew it ­wasn't their fault, but as she headed across the city, toward the northern edge by the waterfall, she ­couldn't bring herself to smile at the merriment.

She reminded herself that
she
had danced and drunk and done what­ever she pleased while her own people had su
ff
ered for ten years, too. She was in no position to resent the Fae, or anyone except the queen who ruled over this city.

None of the guards stopped them, though she did note shadows trailing them from the roo
ft
ops and alleys, a few birds of prey circling above. Rowan didn't acknowledge them, though she caught his teeth glinting in the golden lamplight. Apparently, the escort ­wasn't making the prince too happy, either. How many of them did he know personally? How many had he fought beside, or ventured with to unmapped lands?

Th
ey saw no sign of his friends, and he made no comment about whether or not he expected to see them. Even though his gaze was straight ahead, she knew he was aware of every sentry watching them, every breath issued nearby.

She didn't have the space le
ft
in her for doubt or fear. As they walked, she played with the ring tucked into her pocket, turning it over and over as she reminded herself of her plan and of what she needed to accomplish before she le
ft
this city. She was as much a queen as Maeve. She was the sovereign of a strong people and a mighty kingdom.

She was the heir of ash and
fi
re, and she would bow to no one.

•

Th
ey ­were escorted through a shining palace of pale stone and sky-­blue gossamer curtains, the
fl
oors a mosaic of delicate tiles depicting various scenes, from dancing maidens to pastorals to the night sky.
Th
roughout the building, the river itself ran in tiny streams, sometimes gathering in pools freckled with night-­blooming lilies. Jasmine wove around the massive columns, and lights of colored glass hung from the arched ceilings. Enough of the palace was open to the elements to suggest that the weather ­here was always this mild. Music played from distant rooms, but it was faint and placid compared to the riot of sound and color in the city outside the mammoth marble palace walls.

Sentries ­were everywhere.
Th
ey lurked just out of sight, but in her Fae body she could smell them, the steel and the crisp scent of what­ever soap they must use in the barracks. Not too di
ff
erent from the glass castle. But Maeve's stronghold had been built from stone—­so much stone, everywhere, all of it pale and carved and polished and gleaming. She knew Rowan had private quarters in this palace, and that the Whitethorn family had various residences in Doranelle, but they saw nothing of his kin. He'd told her on their journey that there ­were several other princes in his family, with his father's brother ruling over them. Fortunately for Rowan, his uncle had three sons, keeping him free of responsibility, though they certainly tried to use Rowan's position with Maeve to their advantage. As scheming and sycophantic as any royal family in Adarlan, she supposed.

A
ft
er an eternity of walking in silence, Rowan led her onto a wide veranda overhanging the river. He was tense enough to suggest he was scenting and hearing things she ­couldn't, but he o
ff
ered no warning.
Th
e waterfall beyond the palace roared, though not loud enough to drown out conversation.

Across the veranda sat Maeve on her throne of stone.

Sprawled on either side of the throne ­were the twin wolves, one black and one white, monitoring their approach with cunning golden eyes.
Th
ere was no one ­else—­no smell of Rowan's other friends lurking nearby as they crossed the tiled
fl
oor. She wished Rowan had let her freshen up in his suite, but . . . she supposed that ­wasn't what this meeting was about, anyway.

Rowan kept pace with her as she stalked to the small dais before the carved railing, and when they stopped, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Majesty,” he murmured.

Her aunt did not even glance at Rowan or bid him to rise. She le
ft
her nephew kneeling as she turned her violet, starry eyes to Celaena and gave her that spider's smile.

“It would seem that you have accomplished your task, Aelin Galathynius.”

Another test—­using her name to elicit a reaction.

She smiled right back at Maeve. “Indeed.”

Rowan kept his head down, eyes on the
fl
oor. Maeve could make him kneel there for a hundred years if she wished.
Th
e wolves beside the throne didn't move an inch.

Maeve deigned a glance at Rowan and then gave Celaena that little smile again. “I will admit that I am surprised that you managed to gain his approval so swi
ft
ly. So,” Maeve said, lounging in her throne, “show me, then. A demonstration of what you have learned these months.”

Celaena clenched the ring in her pocket, not lowering her chin one millimeter. “I would prefer to
fi
rst retrieve the knowledge you're keeping to yourself.”

A feminine click of the tongue. “You don't trust my word?”

“You ­can't believe I'd give you everything you want with no proof you can deliver your side of the bargain.”

Rowan's shoulders tensed, but his head remained down.

Maeve's eyes narrowed slightly. “
Th
e Wyrdkeys.”

“How they can be destroyed, where they are, and what ­else you know of them.”

“
Th
ey cannot be destroyed.
Th
ey can only be put back in the gate.”

Celaena's stomach twisted. She'd known that already, but hearing the con
fi
rmation was hard, somehow. “How can they be put back in the gate?”

“Don't you think they would already have been restored to their home if anyone knew?”

“You said you knew about them.”

An adder's smile. “I
do
know about them. I know they can be used to create, to destroy, to open portals. But I do not know how to put them back. I never learned how, and then they ­were taken by Brannon across the sea and I never saw them again.”

“What did they look like? What did they
feel
like?”

Maeve cupped her palm and looked at it, as if she could see the keys lying there. “Black and glittering, no more than slivers of stone. But they ­were not stone—­they ­were like nothing on this earth, in any realm. It was like holding the living
fl
esh of a god, like containing the breath of every being in every realm all at once. It was madness and joy and terror and despair and eternity.”