Heir of Fire (21 page)

“No. He ­doesn't even know why I sent her to Wendlyn. Or that she's—­you're both . . . Fae.”

Aedion had never possessed a fraction of the power that had smoldered in her veins, which had burned libraries and caused such general worry that there had been talk—­in those months before the world went to hell—­of sending her somewhere so that she could learn to control it. He'd overheard debate over packing her o
ff
to various academies or tutors in distant lands, but never to their aunt Maeve, waiting like a spider in a web to see what became of her niece. And yet she'd wound up in Wendlyn, on her aunt's doorstep.

Maeve had either never known or never cared about his inherited gi
ft
s. No, all he had ­were some of the physical traits of their immortal kin: strength, swi
ft
ness, sharp hearing, keen smell. It had made him a formidable opponent on the battle
fi
eld—­and saved his life more than once. Saved his very soul, if the captain was right about those rings.

“Is she coming back?” Aedion asked quietly.
Th
e
fi
rst of the many, many questions he had for the captain, now that he'd proved himself to be more than a useless servant of the king.

Th
ere was enough agony in the captain's eyes that Aedion knew that he loved her. Knew, and felt a tug of jealousy, if only because the captain knew her that well. “I don't know,” Chaol admitted. If he hadn't been his enemy, Aedion would have respected the man for the sacri
fi
ce implied. But Aelin had to come back. She
would
come back. Unless that return only earned her a walk to the butchering block.

He would sort through each wild thought when he was alone. He gripped the damp rail harder,
fi
ghting the urge to ask more.

But then the captain gave him a weighing look, as if he could see through every mask Aedion had ever worn. For a heartbeat, Aedion considered ­putting the blade right through the captain and dumping his body in the Avery, despite the information he possessed.
Th
e captain glanced at the blade, too, and Aedion wondered if he was thinking the same thing—­regretting his decision to trust him.
Th
e captain
should
regret it, should curse himself for a fool.

Aedion said, “Why ­were you tracking the rebels?”

“Because I thought they might have valuable information.” It had to be truly valuable, then, if he'd risk revealing himself as a traitor to get it.

Aedion had been willing to torture the captain—­to kill him, too. He'd done worse before. But torturing and killing his queen's lover ­wouldn't go over well if—
when
she returned. And the captain was now his greatest source of information. He wanted to know more about Aelin, about her plans, about what she was like and how he could
fi
nd her. He wanted to know everything. Anything. Especially where the captain now stood on the game board—­and what the captain knew about the king. So Aedion said, “Tell me more about those rings.”

But the captain shook his head. “I want to make a bargain with you.”

20

Th
e black eye was still gruesome, but it improved over the next week as Celaena worked in the kitchens, tried and failed to shi
ft
with Rowan, and generally avoided everyone.
Th
e spring rains had come to stay and the kitchen was packed every night, so Celaena took to eating dinner on the shadowed steps, arriving just before the Story Keeper began speaking.

Story Keeper—­that's what Emrys was, a title of honor amongst both Fae and humans in Wendlyn. What it meant was that when he began telling a story, you sat down and shut up. It also meant that he was a walking library of the kingdom's legends and myths.

By that time, Celaena knew most of the fortress's residents, if only in the sense that she could put names to faces. She'd observed them out of instinct, to learn her surroundings, her potential enemies and threats. She knew they observed her, too, when they thought she ­wasn't paying attention. And any shred of regret she felt at not approaching them was burned up by the fact that no one bothered to approach her, either.

Th
e only person who made an e
ff
ort was Luca, who still peppered Celaena with questions as they worked, still prattled on and on about his training, the fortress gossip, the weather. He'd only talked to her once about anything ­else—­on a morning when it had taken a monumental e
ff
ort to peel herself out of bed, and only the scar on her palm had made her plant her feet on the icy
fl
oor. She'd been washing the breakfast dishes, staring out the window without seeing anything, too heavy in her bones, when Luca had dumped a pot in the sink and quietly said, “For a long while, I ­couldn't talk about what happened to me before I came ­here.
Th
ere ­were some days I ­couldn't talk at all. ­Couldn't get out of bed, either. But if—­when you need to talk . . .”

She'd shut him down with a long look. And he hadn't said anything like it since.

Th
ankfully, Emrys gave her space. Lots of space, especially when Malakai arrived during breakfast to make sure Celaena hadn't caused any trouble. She usually avoided looking at the other fortress couples, but ­here, where she ­couldn't walk away . . . she hated their closeness, the way Malakai's eyes lit up every time he saw him. Hated it so much that she choked on it.

She never asked Rowan why he, too, came to hear Emrys's stories. As far as they ­were each concerned, the other didn't exist outside of training.

Training
was a generous way to describe what they ­were doing, as she had accomplished
nothing
. She didn't shi
ft
once. He snarled and sneered and hissed, but she ­couldn't do it. Every day, always when Rowan disappeared for a few moments, she tried, but—­nothing. Rowan threatened to drag her back to the barrows, as that seemed to be the only thing that had triggered any sort of response, but he'd backed o
ff
—­to her surprise—­when she told him that she'd slit her own throat before entering that place again. So they swore at each other, sat in brooding silence on the temple ruin, and occasionally had those unspoken shouting matches. If she was in a particularly nasty mood, he made her chop wood—­log a
ft
er log, until she could hardly li
ft
the ax and her hands ­were blistered. If she was going to be pissed o
ff
at the ­whole damn world, he said, if she was going to waste his time by not shi
ft
ing, then she might as well be useful in some way.

All this waiting—­for her. For the shi
ft
that made her shudder to think about.

It was on the eighth day a
ft
er her arrival, a
ft
er scrubbing pots and pans until her back throbbed, that Celaena stopped in the middle of their hike up the now-­familiar ridge. “I have a request.” She never spoke to him unless she needed to—­mostly to curse at him. Now she said, “I want to see
you
shi
ft
.”

A blink, those green eyes
fl
at. “You don't have the privilege of giving orders.”

“Show me how you do it.” Her memories of the Fae in Terrasen ­were foggy, as if someone had smeared oil over them. She ­couldn't remember seeing one of them change, where their clothes had gone, how fast it had been . . . He stared her down, seeming to say,
Just this once
, and then—

A so
ft
fl
ash of light, a ripple of color, and a hawk was
fl
apping midair, beating for the nearest tree branch. He settled on it, clicking his beak. She scanned the mossy earth. No sign of his clothes, his weapons. It had taken barely more than a few heartbeats.

He gave a battle cry and swooped, talons slashing for her eyes. She lunged behind the tree just as there was another
fl
ash and shudder of color, and then he was clothed and armed and growling in her face.
“Your turn.”

She ­wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her tremble. It was—­incredible. Incredible to see the shi
ft
. “Where do your clothes go?”

“Between, somewhere. I don't particularly care.” Such dead, joyless eyes. She had a feeling she looked like that these days. She
knew
she had looked like that the night Chaol had caught her gutting Archer in the tunnel. What had le
ft
Rowan so soulless?

He bared his teeth, but she didn't submit. She'd been watching the demi-­Fae warrior males at the fortress, and they growled and showed their teeth about
everything
.
Th
ey ­were not the ethereal, gentle folk that legend painted, that she vaguely remembered from Terrasen. No holding hands and dancing around the maypole with
fl
owers in their hair.
Th
ey ­were predators, the lot of them. Some of the dominant females ­were just as aggressive, prone to snarling when challenged or annoyed or even hungry. She supposed she might have
fi
t in with them if she'd bothered to try.

Still holding Rowan's stare, Celaena calmed her breathing. She imagined phantom
fi
ngers reaching down, pulling her Fae form out. Imagined a wash of color and light.
Pushed
herself against her mortal
fl
esh. But—nothing.

“Sometimes I wonder whether this is a punishment for
you
,” she said through her teeth. “But what could you have done to piss o
ff
her Immortal Majesty?”

“Don't use that tone when you talk about her.”

“Oh, I can use what­ever tone I want. And you can taunt and snarl at me and make me chop wood all day, but short of ripping out my tongue, you ­can't—”

Faster than lightning, his hand shot out and she gagged, jolting as he grabbed her tongue between his
fi
ngers. She bit down,
hard
, but he didn't let go. “Say that again,” he purred.

She choked as he kept pinching her tongue, and she went for his daggers, simultaneously slamming her knee up between his legs, but he shoved his body against hers, a wall of hard muscle and several hundred years of lethal training trapping her against a tree. She was a joke by comparison—a
joke
—and her
tongue
—

He released her tongue, and she gasped for breath. She swore at him, a
fi
lthy, foul name, and spat at his feet. And that's when he bit her.

She cried out as those canines pierced the spot between her neck and shoulder, a primal act of aggression—­the bite so strong and claiming that she was too stunned to move. He had her pinned against the tree and clamped down harder, his canines digging deep, her blood spilling onto her shirt. Pinned, like some weakling. But that was what she'd become, ­wasn't it? Useless, pathetic.

She growled, more animal than sentient being. And
shoved
.

Rowan staggered back a step, teeth ripping her skin as she struck his chest. She didn't feel the pain, didn't care about the blood or the
fl
ash of light.

No, she wanted to rip his throat out—­rip it out with the elongated canines she bared at him as she
fi
nished shi
ft
ing and roared.

21

Rowan grinned. “
Th
ere you are.” Blood—­her blood—­was on his teeth, on his mouth and chin. And those dead eyes glowed as he spat her blood onto the earth. She probably tasted like a sewer to him.

Th
ere was a shrieking in her ears, and Celaena lunged at him. Lunged, and then stopped as she took in the world with stunning clarity, smelled it and tasted it and breathed it like the
fi
nest wine. Gods, this place, this kingdom smelled
divine
, smelled like—

She had shi
ft
ed.

She panted, even though her lungs ­were telling her she was no longer winded and did not need as many breaths in this body.
Th
ere was a tickling at her neck—­her skin slowly beginning to stitch itself together. She was a faster healer in this form. Because of the magic . . .
Breathe
.
Breathe
.

But there it was, rising up, wild
fi
re crackling in her veins, in her
fi
ngertips, the forest around them so much kindling, and then—

She shoved back. Took the fear and used it like a battering ram inside herself, against the power, shoving it down, down.

Rowan prowled closer. “Let it out. Don't
fi
ght it.”

A pulse beat against her, nipping, smelling of snow and pine. Rowan's power, taunting hers. Not like her
fi
re, but a gi
ft
of ice and wind. A freezing zap at her elbow had her falling back against the tree.
Th
e magic bit her cheek now. Magic—­attacking her.

Th
e wild
fi
re exploded in a wall of blue
fl
ame, rushing for Rowan, engul
fi
ng the trees, the world, herself, until—

It vanished, sucked out into nothing, along with the air she was breathing.

Celaena dropped to her knees. As she clutched at her neck as if she could claw open an airway for herself, Rowan's boots appeared in the
fi
eld of her vision. He'd pulled the air out—­su
ff
ocated her
fi
re. Such power, such control. Maeve had not given her an instructor with similar abilities—­she'd instead sent someone with power capable of smothering her
fi
re, someone who ­wouldn't mind doing it should she become a threat.