Heir of Fire (8 page)

Run
. Every instinct roared with the word. She had a feeling that the Eye of Elena would have been no use, but she wished she had it anyway. Wished the dead queen ­were ­here, for that matter. Rowan was still at the door—­but if she was fast, if she outsmarted him . . .

A
fl
ash of memory blinded her, bright and uncontrollable, unleashed by the instinct begging her to
fl
ee. Her mother had rarely let Fae into their home, even with her heritage. A few trusted ones ­were allowed to live with them, but any Fae visitors had been closely monitored, and for the duration of their stay, Celaena had been sequestered in the family's private chambers. She'd always thought it was overprotective, but now . . . “Show me,” Maeve whispered with a spider's smile.
Run. Run
.

She could still feel the burn of blue wild
fi
re exploding out of her in that demon realm, still see Chaol's face as she lost control of it. One wrong move, one wrong
breath
, and she could have killed him and Fleetfoot.

Th
e owl rustled its wings, the wood groaning beneath its talons, and the darkness in Maeve's eyes spread, reaching.
Th
ere was a faint pulse in the air, a throbbing against her blood. A tapping, then a razor-­sharp slicing against her mind—­as if Maeve were trying to cleave open her skull and peer inside. Pushing, testing, tasting—

Fighting to keep her breathing steady, Celaena positioned her hands within easy reach of her blades as she pushed back against the claws in her mind. Maeve let out a low laugh, and the pressure in her head ceased.

“Your mother hid you from me for years,” Maeve said. “She and your father always had a remarkable talent for knowing when my eyes ­were searching for you. Such a rare gi
ft
—­the ability to summon and manipulate
fl
ame. So few exist who possess more than an ember of it; fewer still who can master its wildness. And yet your mother wanted you to sti
fl
e your power—­though she knew that I only wanted you to submit to it.”

Celaena's breath burned her throat. Another
fl
icker of memory—­of lessons not about starting
fi
res but putting them out.

Maeve went on, “Look at how well that turned out for them.”

Celaena's blood froze. Every self-­preserving instinct went right out of her head. “And where ­were
you
ten years ago?” She spoke so low, from so deep in her shredded soul, that the words ­were barely more than a growl.

Maeve angled her head slightly. “I do not take kindly to being lied to.”

Th
e snarl on Celaena's face faltered. Dropped right into her gut. Aid had never come for Terrasen from the Fae. From Wendlyn. And it was all because . . . because . . .

“I do not have more time to spare you,” Maeve said. “So let me be brief: my eyes have told me that you have questions. Questions that no mortal has the right to ask—­about the keys.”

Legend said Maeve could commune with the spirit world—­had Elena, or Nehemia, told her? Celaena opened her mouth, but Maeve held up a hand. “I will give you those answers. You may come to me in Doranelle to receive them.”

“Why not—”

A growl from Rowan at the interruption.

“Because they are answers that require time,” Maeve said, then slowly added, as if she savored every word, “and answers you have not yet earned.”

“Tell me what I can do to earn them and I will do it.” Fool. A damned fool's response.

“A dangerous thing to o
ff
er without hearing the price.”

“You want me to show you my magic? I'll show it to you. But not ­here—­not—”

“I have no interest in seeing you drop your magic at my feet like a sack of grain. I want to see what you can
do
with it, Aelin Galathynius—which currently seems like not very much at all.” Celaena's stomach tightened at that cursed name. “I want to see what you will become under the right circumstances.”

“I don't—”

“I do not permit mortals or half-­breeds into Doranelle. For a half-­breed to enter my realm, she must prove herself both gi
ft
ed and worthy. Mistward, this fortress”—­she waved a hand to encompass the room—“is one of several proving grounds. And a place where those who do not pass the test can spend their days.”

Beneath the growing fear, a
fl
icker of disgust went through her.
Half-­breed
—Maeve said it with such disdain. “And what manner of test might I expect before I am deemed worthy?”

Maeve gestured to Rowan, who had not moved from the door. “You shall come to me once Prince Rowan decides that you have mastered your gi
ft
s. He shall train you here. And you shall not set foot in Doranelle until he deems your training complete.”

A
ft
er facing the ­horse­shit she'd seen in the glass castle—­demons, witches, the king—­training with Rowan, even in magic, seemed rather anticlimactic.

But—but it could take weeks. Months. Years.
Th
e familiar fog of nothing crept in, threatening to smother her once again. She pushed it back long enough to say, “What I need to know isn't something that can
wait
—”

“You want answers regarding the keys, heir of Terrasen?
Th
en they shall be waiting for you in Doranelle.
Th
e rest is up to you.”

“Truthfully,” Celaena blurted. “You will truthfully answer my questions about the keys.”

Maeve smiled, and it was not a thing of beauty. “You ­haven't forgotten
all
of our ways, then.” When Celaena didn't react, Maeve added, “I will
truthfully
answer all your questions about the keys.”

It might be easier to walk away. Go
fi
nd some other ancient being to pester for the truth. Celaena breathed in and out, in and out. But Maeve had been there—­had been there at the dawn of this world during the Valg wars. She had
held
the Wyrdkeys. She knew what they looked like, how they felt. Maybe she even knew where Brannon had hidden them—­especially the last, unnamed key. And if Celaena could
fi
nd a way to steal the keys from the king, to destroy him, to stop his armies and free Eyllwe, even if she could
fi
nd just
one
Wyrdkey . . . “What manner of training—”

“Prince Rowan shall explain the speci
fi
cs. For now, he will escort you to your chamber to rest.”

Celaena looked Maeve straight in her death-­dealing eyes. “You swear you'll tell me what I need to know?”

“I do not break my promises. And I have the feeling that you are unlike your mother in that regard, too.”

Bitch.
Bitch
, she wanted to hiss. But then Maeve's eyes
fl
icked to Celaena's right palm. She knew everything.
Th
rough what­ever spies or power or guesswork, Maeve knew everything about her and the vow to Nehemia.

“To what end?” Celaena asked so
ft
ly, the anger and the fear dragging her down into an inescapable exhaustion. “You want me to train only so I can make a spectacle of my talents?”

Maeve ran a moon-­white
fi
nger down the owl's head. “I wish you to become who you ­were born to be. To become queen.”

•

Become queen.

Th
e words haunted Celaena that night—­kept her from sleeping, even though she was so exhausted she could have wept for the dark-­eyed Silba to put her out of her misery.
Queen.
Th
e word throbbed right along with the fresh split lip that
also
made sleeping very uncomfortable.

She could thank Rowan for that.

A
ft
er Maeve's command, Celaena hadn't bothered with good-­byes before walking out. Rowan had only cleared the way because Maeve gave him a nod, and he followed Celaena into a narrow hallway that smelled of roasting meat and garlic. Her stomach grumbled, but she'd probably hurl her guts up the second she swallowed anything. So she trailed Rowan down the corridor, down the stairs, each footstep alternating between iron-­willed control and growing rage.

Le
ft
.
Nehemia.

Right.
You made a vow, and you will keep it, by what­ever means neces
sary.

Le
ft
.
Training. Queen.

Right.
Bitch. Manipulative, cold-­blooded, sadistic bitch.

Ahead of her, Rowan's own steps ­were silent on the dark stones of the hallway.
Th
e torches hadn't been lit yet, and in the murky interior, she could hardly tell he was there. But she knew—­if only because she could almost feel the ire radiating o
ff
him. Good. At least one other person ­wasn't particularly thrilled about this bargain.

Training.
Training
.

Her ­whole life had been training, from the moment she was born. Rowan could train her until he was blue in the face, and as long as it got her the answers about the Wyrdkeys, she'd play along. But it didn't mean that, when the time came, she had to
do
anything. Certainly not take up her throne.

She didn't even
have
a throne, or a crown, or a court. Didn't want them. And she could bring down the king as Celaena Sardothien, thank you very much.

She tightened her
fi
ngers into
fi
sts.

Th
ey encountered no one as they descended a winding staircase and started down another corridor. Did the residents of this fortress—Mistward, Maeve had called it—know who was in that study upstairs? Maeve probably got o
ff
on terrifying them. Maybe she had all of them—
half-­breeds
, she'd called them—­enslaved through some bargain or another. Disgusting. It was disgusting, to keep them ­here just for having a mixed heritage that was no fault of theirs.

Celaena
fi
nally opened up her mouth.

“You must be
very
important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty.”

“Given your history, she didn't trust anyone but her best to keep you in line.”

Oh, the prince wanted to tangle. What­ever self-­control he'd had on their trek to the fortress was hanging by a thread. Good.

“Playing warrior in the woods ­doesn't seem like the greatest indicator of talent.”

“I fought on killing
fi
elds long before you, your parents, or your grand-­uncle ­were even born.”

She bristled—­exactly like he wanted. “Who's to
fi
ght ­here except birds and beasts?”

Silence.
Th
en—“
Th
e world is a far bigger and more dangerous place than you can imagine, girl. Consider yourself blessed to receive any training—­to have the chance to prove yourself.”

“I've seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling.”

A so
ft
, harsh laugh. “Just wait,
Aelin
.”

Another jab. And she let herself fall for it. “Don't call me that.”

“It's your name. I'm not going to call you anything di
ff
erent.”

She stepped in his path, getting right near those too-­sharp canines. “No one ­here can know who I am. Do you understand?”

His green eyes gleamed, animal-­bright in the dark. “My aunt has given me a harder task than she realizes, I think.”
My
aunt. Not
our
aunt.

And then she said one of the foulest things she'd ever uttered in her life, bathing in the pure hate of it. “Fae like you make me understand the King of Adarlan's actions a bit more, I think.”

Faster than she could sense, faster than anything had a right to be, he punched her.

She shi
ft
ed enough to keep her nose from shattering but took the blow on her mouth. She hit the wall, whacked her head, and tasted blood.
Good
.

He struck again with that immortal speed—­or would have. But with equally unnerving swi
ft
ness, he halted his second blow before it fractured her jaw and snarled in her face, low and vicious.

Her breathing turned ragged as she purred, “Do it.”

He looked more interested in ripping out her throat than in talking, but he held the line he'd drawn. “Why should I give you what you want?”

“You're just as useless as the rest of your brethren.”

He let out a so
ft
, lethal laugh that raked claws down her temper. “If you're that desperate to eat stone, go ahead: I'll let you try to land the next punch.”

She knew better than to listen. But there was such a roar in her blood that she could no longer see right, think right, breathe right. So she damned the consequences to hell as she swung.

Celaena hit nothing but air—­air, and then his foot hooked behind hers in an e
ffi
cient maneuver that sent her careening into the wall once more. Impossible—­he'd tripped her as if she was nothing more than a trembling novice.

He was now a few feet away, arms crossed. She spat blood and swore. He smirked. It was enough to send her hurtling for him again, to tackle or pummel or strangle him, she didn't know.

She caught his feint le
ft
, but when she dove right, he moved so swi
ft
ly that despite her lifetime of training, she crashed into a darkened brazier behind him.
Th
e clatter echoed through the too-­quiet hall as she landed face-­
fi
rst on the stone
fl
oor, her teeth singing.