Heir of Fire (7 page)

But that didn't stop her from loving him, as she still did, invisible and secret, ever since she'd
fi
rst laid eyes on him six years ago.

7

Nothing ­else approached Celaena and Rowan a
ft
er that
fi
rst night. He certainly didn't say anything to her about it, or o
ff
er his cloak or any sort of protection against the chill. She slept curled on her side, turning every other minute from some root or pebble digging into her back or jolting awake at the screech of an owl—­or something worse.

By the time the light had turned gray and mist dri
ft
ed through the trees, Celaena felt more exhausted than she'd been the night before. A
ft
er a silent breakfast of bread, cheese, and apples, she was nearly dozing atop her mare as they resumed their ­ride up the forested foothill road.

Th
ey passed few people—­mostly humans leading wagons down to some market, all of whom glanced at Rowan and gave them the right of way. Some even muttered prayers for mercy.

She'd long heard the Fae existed peacefully with the humans in Wendlyn, so perhaps the terror they encountered was due to Rowan himself.
Th
e tattoo didn't help. She had debated asking him what the words meant, but that would involve talking. And talking meant building some sort of . . . relationship. She'd had enough of friends. Enough of them dying, too.

So she'd kept her mouth shut the entire day they rode through the woods up into the Cambrian Mountains.
Th
e forest turned lusher and denser, and the higher they rode, the mistier it became, great veils of fog dri
ft
ing past to caress her face, her neck, her spine.

Another cold, miserable night camped o
ff
the road later and they ­were riding again before dawn. By then, the mist had seeped into her clothes and skin, and settled right along her bones.

On the third eve­ning, she'd given up hoping for a
fi
re. She'd even embraced the chill and the insu
ff
erable roots and the hunger whose edge she ­couldn't dull no matter how much bread and cheese she ate.
Th
e aches and pains ­were soothing somehow.

Not comforting, but . . . distracting. Welcome. Deserved.

She didn't want to know what that meant about her. She ­couldn't let herself look that far inward. She'd come close, that day she'd seen Prince Galan. And it had been enough.

Th
ey veered from the path in the dwindling a
ft
ernoon hours, cutting across mossy earth that cushioned each step. She hadn't seen a town in days, and the granite boulders ­were now carved with whorls and patterns. She supposed they ­were markers—­a warning to humans to stay the hell away.

Th
ey had to be another week from Doranelle, but Rowan was heading along the mountains, not over them, climbing higher still, the ascent broken by occasional plateaus and
fi
elds of wild
fl
owers. She hadn't seen a lookout, so she had no sense of where they ­were, or how high. Just the endless forest, and the endless climb, and the endless mist.

She smelled smoke before she saw the lights. Not camp
fi
res, but lights from a building rising up out of the trees, hugging the spine of the mountain slope.
Th
e stones ­were dark and ancient—­hewn from something other than the abundant granite. Her eyes strained, but she didn't fail to note the ring of towering rocks woven between the trees, surrounding the entirety of the fortress. It was hard
not
to notice them when they rode between two megaliths that curved toward each other like the horns of a great beast, and a zinging current snapped against her skin.

Wards—magic wards. Her stomach turned. If they didn't keep out enemies, they certainly served as an alarm. Which meant the three
fi
gures patrolling each of the three towers, the six on the outer retaining wall, and the three at the wooden gates would now know they ­were approaching. Men and women in light leather armor and bearing swords, daggers, and bows monitored their approach.

“I think I'd rather stay in the woods,” she said, her
fi
rst words in days. Rowan ignored her.

He didn't even li
ft
an arm in greeting to the sentries. He must be familiar with this place if he didn't stoop to hellos. As they drew closer to the ancient fortress—­which was little more than a few watchtowers woven together by a large connecting building, splattered with lichen and moss—­she did the calculations. It had to be some border outpost, a halfway point between the mortal realm and Doranelle. Perhaps she'd
fi
nally have a warm place to sleep, even if just for the night.

Th
e guards saluted Rowan, who didn't spare them a passing glance.
Th
ey all wore hoods, masking any signs of their heritage. ­Were they Fae? Rowan might not have spoken to her for most of their journey—­he'd shown as much interest in her as he would in a pile of shit on the road—­but if she ­were staying with the Fae . . . others might have questions.

She took in every detail, every exit, every weakness as they entered the large courtyard beyond the wall, two rather mortal-­looking stable hands rushing to help them dismount. It was so still. As if everything, even the stones, was holding its breath. As if it had been waiting.
Th
e sensation only worsened when Rowan wordlessly led her into the dim interior of the main building, up a narrow set of stone stairs, and into what looked to be a small o
ffi
ce.

It ­wasn't the carved oak furniture, or the faded green drapes, or the warmth of the
fi
re that made her stop dead. It was the dark-­haired woman seated behind the desk. Maeve, Queen of the Fae.

Her aunt.

And then came the words she had been dreading for ten years.

“Hello, Aelin Galathynius.”

8

Celaena backed away, knowing exactly how many steps it would take to get into the hall, but slammed into a hard, unyielding body just as the door shut behind them. Her hands ­were shaking so badly she didn't bother going for her weapons—­or Rowan's. He'd cut her down the instant Maeve gave the order.

Th
e blood rushed from Celaena's head. She forced herself to take a breath. And another.
Th
en she said in a too-­quiet voice, “Aelin Galathynius is
dead
.” Just speaking her name aloud—­the damned name she had dreaded and hated and tried to forget . . .

Maeve smiled, revealing sharp little canines. “Let us not bother with lies.”

It ­wasn't a lie.
Th
at girl, that princess had died in a river a de­cade ago. Celaena was no more Aelin Galathynius than she was any other person.

Th
e room was too hot—­too small, Rowan a brooding force of nature behind her.

She was not to have time to gather herself, to make up excuses and half truths, as she should have been doing these past few days instead of free-­falling into silence and the misty cold. She was to face the Queen of the Fae as Maeve wanted to be faced. And in some fortress that seemed far, far beneath the raven-­haired beauty watching her with black, depthless eyes.

Gods.
Gods.

Maeve was fearsome in her perfection, utterly still, eternal and calm and radiating ancient grace.
Th
e dark sister to the fair-­haired Mab.

Celaena had been fooling herself into thinking this would be easy. She was still pressed against Rowan as though he were a wall. An impenetrable wall, as old as the ward-­stones surrounding the fortress. Rowan stepped away from her with his powerful, predatory ease and leaned against the door. She ­wasn't getting out until Maeve allowed her.

Th
e Queen of the Fae remained silent, her long
fi
ngers moon-­white and folded in the lap of her violet gown, a white barn owl perched on the back of her chair. She didn't bother with a crown, and Celaena supposed she didn't need one. Every creature on earth would know who she was—­what she was—­even if they ­were blind and deaf. Maeve, the face of a thousand legends . . . and nightmares. Epics and poems and songs had been written about her, so many that some even believed she was just a myth. But ­here was the dream—­the nightmare—­made
fl
esh.

Th
is could work to your advantage. You can get the answers you need right ­here, right now. Go back to Adarlan in a matter of days. Just—­breathe.

Breathing, as it turned out, was rather hard when the queen who had been known to drive men to madness for amusement was observing every
fl
icker of her throat.
Th
at owl perched on Maeve's chair—
Fae or true beast?
—­was watching her, too. Its talons ­were curled around the back of the chair, digging into the wood.

It was somewhat absurd, though—­Maeve holding court in this half-­rotted o
ffi
ce, at a desk stained with the Wyrd knew what. Gods, the fact that Maeve was seated at a
desk
. She should be in some ethereal glen, surrounded by bobbing will-­o'-­the-­wisps and maidens dancing to lutes and harps, reading the wheeling stars like they ­were poetry. Not ­here.

Celaena bowed low. She supposed she should have gotten on her knees, but—­she already smelled awful, and her face was likely still torn and bruised from her brawling in Varese. As Celaena ­rose, Maeve remained smiling faintly. A spider with a
fl
y in its web.

“I suppose that with a proper bath, you'll look a good deal like your mother.”

No exchanging pleasantries, then. Maeve was going right for the throat. She could handle it. She could ignore the pain and terror to get what she wanted. So Celaena smiled just as faintly and said, “Had I known who I would be meeting, I might have begged my escort for time to freshen up.”

She didn't feel bad for one heartbeat about throwing Rowan to the lions.

Maeve's obsidian eyes
fl
icked to Rowan, who still leaned against the door. She could have sworn there was approval in the Fae Queen's smile. As if the grueling travel were a part of this plan, too. But why? Why get her o
ff
-­kilter?

“I'm afraid I must bear the blame for the pressing pace,” Maeve said. “
Th
ough I suppose he could have bothered to at least
fi
nd you a pool to bathe in along the way.”
Th
e Queen of Faedom li
ft
ed an elegant hand, gesturing to the warrior. “Prince Rowan—”

Prince
. She swallowed the urge to turn to him.

“—is from my sister Mora's bloodline. He is my nephew of sorts, and a member of my ­house­hold. An extremely distant relation of yours; there is some ancient ancestry linking you.”

Another move to get her on uneven footing. “You don't say.”

Perhaps that ­wasn't the best reply. She should probably be on the
fl
oor, groveling for answers. And she had a feeling she'd likely get to that point very, very soon. But . . .

“You must be wondering why it is I asked Prince Rowan to bring you ­here,” Maeve mused.

For Nehemia, she'd play this game. Celaena bit her tongue hard enough to keep her gods-­damned smart-­ass mouth shut.

Maeve placed her white hands on the desk. “I have been waiting a long, long while to meet you. And as I do not leave these lands, I could not see you. Not with my eyes, at least.”
Th
e queen's long nails gleamed in the light.

Th
ere ­were legends whispered over
fi
res about the other skin Maeve wore. No one had lived to tell anything beyond
shadows and claws and a darkness to devour your soul.

“
Th
ey broke my laws, you know. Your parents disobeyed my commands when they eloped.
Th
e bloodlines ­were too volatile to be mixed, but your mother promised to let me see you a
ft
er you ­were born.” Maeve cocked her head, eerily similar to the owl behind her. “It would seem that in the eight years a
ft
er your birth, she was always too busy to uphold her vow.”

If her mother had broken a promise . . . if her mother had kept her from Maeve, it had been for a damn good reason. A reason that tickled at the edges of Celaena's mind, a blur of memory.

“But now you are ­here,” Maeve said, seeming to come closer without moving. “And a grown woman. My eyes across the sea have brought me such strange, horrible stories of you. From your scars and steel, I wonder whether they are indeed true. Like the tale I heard over a year ago, that an assassin with Ashryver eyes was spotted by the horned Lord of the North in a wagon bound for—”

“Enough.”
Celaena glanced at Rowan, who was listening intently, as if this was the
fi
rst he was hearing of it. She didn't want him knowing about Endovier—­didn't want that pity. “I know my own history.” She
fl
ashed Rowan a glare that told him to mind his own business. He merely looked away, bored again. Typical immortal arrogance. Celaena faced Maeve, tucking her hands into her pockets. “I'm an assassin, yes.”

A snort from behind, but she didn't dare take her eyes o
ff
Maeve.

“And your other talents?” Maeve's nostrils
fl
ared—­scenting. “What has become of them?”

“Like everyone ­else on my continent, I ­haven't been able to access them.”

Maeve's eyes twinkled, and Celaena knew—­knew that Maeve could smell the half truth. “You are not on your continent anymore,” Maeve purred.