Heir of Fire (59 page)

Th
ough her body remained unmoving on the bed, Nehemia's voice whispered,
Coward
.

Celaena vomited. A faint, hoarse laugh sounded behind her.

She backed up, farther and farther from the bed where Nehemia lay.
Th
en she was standing in a sea of red—­red and white and gray, and—

She now stood like a wraith in her parents' bed, where she had lain ten years ago, awakening between their corpses to the servant woman's screaming. It was those screams she could hear now, high and endless, and—
Coward
.

Celaena fell against the headboard, as real and smooth and cold as she remembered it.
Th
ere was nowhere ­else for her to go. It was a memory—­these ­were not real things.

She pressed her palms against the wood,
fi
ghting her building scream.
Coward
. Nehemia's voice again
fi
lled the room. Celaena squeezed her eyes shut and said into the wall, “I know. I know.”

She did not
fi
ght as cold, claw-­tipped
fi
ngers stroked at her cheeks, at her brow, at her shoulders. One of the claws severed clean through her long braid as it whipped her around. She did not 
fi
ght as darkness swallowed her ­whole and dragged her down deep.

•

Th
e darkness had no end and no beginning.

It was the abyss that had haunted her steps for ten years, and she free-fell into it, welcomed it.

Th
ere was no sound, only the vague sense of going toward a bottom that might not exist, or that might mean her true end. Maybe the Valg princes had devoured her, turning her into a husk. Maybe her soul was forever trapped ­here, in this plunging darkness.

Perhaps this was hell.

•

Th
e blackness was rippling now, shi
ft
ing with sound and color that she passed through. She lived through each image, each memory worse than the next. Chaol's face as he saw what she truly was; Nehemia's mutilated body; her
fi
nal conversation with her friend, the damning things she'd said.
When your people are lying dead around you, don't come crying to me
.

It had come true—­now thousands of slaves from Eyllwe had been slaughtered for their bravery.

She tumbled through a maelstrom of the moments when she had proved her friend right. She was a waste of space and breath, a stain on the world. Unworthy of her birthright.

Th
is was hell—­and looked like hell, as she saw the bloodbath she'd created on the day she rampaged through Endovier.
Th
e screams of the dying—­the men she'd cut apart—­tore at her like phantom hands.

Th
is was what she deserved.

•

She went mad during that
fi
rst day in Endovier.

Went mad as the descent slowed and she was stripped and strapped between two blood-­splattered posts.
Th
e cold air nipped at her bare breasts, a bite that was nothing compared to the terror and agony as a whip cracked and—

She jerked against the ropes binding her. She scarcely had time to draw in a breath before the crack sounded again, cleaving the world like lightning, cleaving her skin.

“Coward,” Nehemia said behind her, and the whip cracked. “Coward.”
Th
e pain was blinding. “Look at me.” She ­couldn't li
ft
her head, though. ­Couldn't turn.
“Look at me.”

She sagged against her ropes, but managed to look over her shoulder.

Nehemia was ­whole, beautiful and untouched, her eyes full of damning hatred. And then from behind her emerged Sam, handsome and tall. His death had been so similar to Nehemia's, and yet so much worse, drawn out over hours. She had not saved him, either. When she beheld the iron-­tipped whip in his hands, when he stepped past Nehemia and let the whip unfurl onto the rocky earth, Celaena let out a low, quiet laugh.

She welcomed the pain with open arms as he took a deep breath, clothes shi
ft
ing with the movement as he snapped the whip.
Th
e iron tip—­oh gods, it ripped her clean open, knocked her legs out from underneath her.

“Again,” Celaena told him, the word little more than a rasp.
“Again.”

Sam obeyed.
Th
ere was only the thud of leather on wet
fl
esh as Sam and Nehemia took turns, and a line of people formed behind them, waiting for what they deserved as payment for what she had failed to do.

Such a long line of people. So many lives that she had taken or failed to protect.

Again.

Again.

Again.

•

She had not walked past the barrier expecting to defeat the Valg princes.

She had walked out there for the same reason she had snapped that day in Endovier.

But the Valg princes had not killed her yet.

She had felt their plea­sure as she begged for the whipping. It was their sustenance. Her mortal
fl
esh was nothing to them—­it was the agony within that was the prize.
Th
ey would draw this out forever, keep her as their pet.

Th
ere was no one to save her, no one who could enter their darkness and live.

One by one, they groped through her memories. She fed them, gave them everything they wanted and more. Back and back, sorting through the years as they plunged into the dark, twining together. She did not care.

She had not looked into the Valg prince's eyes expecting to ever again see sunrise.

•

She did not know how long she fell with them.

But then there was a rushing, roaring below—­a frozen river. Whispers and foggy light ­were rising to meet them. No, not rising—­this was the bottom.

An end to the abyss. And an end to her, perhaps, at last.

She didn't know if the Valg princes' hissing was from anger or plea­sure as they slammed into that frozen river at the bottom of her soul.

54

Trumpets announced his arrival. Trumpets and silence as the people of Orynth crowded the steep streets winding up to the white palace that watched over them all. It was the
fi
rst sunny day in weeks—­the snow on the cobblestone streets melting quickly, though the wind still had a
fi
nal bite of winter to it, enough so that the King of Adarlan and his entire massive party ­were bundled in furs that covered their regalia.

Th
eir gold and crimson
fl
ags, however,
fl
apped in the crisp wind, the golden poles shining as brightly as the armor of their bearers, who trotted at the head of the party. She watched them approach from one of the balconies o
ff
the throne room, Aedion at her side running a constant commentary about the state of their ­horses, armor, weapons—­about the King of Adarlan himself, who rode near the front on a great black warhorse.
Th
ere was a pony beside him, bearing a smaller
fi
gure. “His sniveling son,” Aedion told her.

Th
e ­whole castle was miserably quiet. Everyone was dashing around, but silently, tensely. Her father had been on edge at breakfast, her mother distracted, the ­whole court snarly and wearing far more weapons than usual. Only her uncle seemed the same—­only Orlon had smiled at her today, said she looked very pretty in her blue dress and golden crown, and tugged one of her freshly pressed curls. No one had told her anything about this visit, but she knew it was important, because even Aedion was wearing clean clothes, a crown,
and
a new dagger, which he'd taken to tossing in the air.

“Aedion, Aelin,” someone hissed from inside the throne room—­Lady Marion, her mother's dearest friend and handmaiden. “On the dais,
now
.” Behind the lovely lady peeked a night-­black head of hair and onyx eyes—­Elide, her daughter.
Th
e girl was too quiet and breakable for her to bother with usually. And Lady Marion,
her
nursemaid, coddled her own daughter endlessly.

“Rat's balls,” Aedion cursed, and Marion went red with anger, but did not reprimand. Proof enough that today was di
ff
erent—­dangerous, even.

Her stomach shi
ft
ed. But she followed Lady Marion inside, Aedion at her heels as always, and preched on her little throne set beside her father's. Aedion took up his place
fl
anking her, shoulders back and head high, already her protector and warrior.

Th
e ­whole of Orynth was silent as the King of Adarlan entered their mountain home.

•

She hated the King of Adarlan.

He did not smile—­not when he stalked into the throne room to greet her uncle and parents, not when he introduced his eldest son, Crown Prince Dorian Havilliard, and not when they came to the great hall for the largest feast she'd ever seen. He'd only looked at her twice so far: once during that initial meeting, when he'd stared at her long and hard enough that her father had demanded to know what he found so interesting about his daughter, and their ­whole court had tensed. But she hadn't broken his dark stare. She hated his scarred, brutish face and furs. Hated the way he ignored his dark-­haired son, who stood like a pretty doll beside him, his manners so elegant and graceful, his pale hands like little birds as they moved.

Th
e second time the king had looked at her had been at this table, where she now sat a few seats down,
fl
anked by Lady Marion on the side closest to the king and Aedion on the other.
Th
ere ­were daggers on Lady Marion's legs beneath her dress—­she knew because she kept bumping into them. Lord Cal, Marion's husband, sat beside his wife, the steel on him gleaming.

Elide, along with all the other children, had been sent upstairs. Only she and Aedion—­and Prince Dorian—­were allowed ­here. Aedion pu
ff
ed with pride and barely restrained temper when the King of Adarlan viewed her a second time, as if he could see through to her bones.
Th
en the king was swept into conversation with her parents and uncle and all the lords and ladies of the court who had placed themselves around the royal family.

She had always known her court took no chances, not with her and not with her parents or uncle. Even now, she noticed the eyes of her father's closest friends darting to the windows and doorways as they maintained conversation with those around them.

Th
e rest of the hall was
fi
lled with the party from Adarlan and the outer circles of Orlon's court, along with key merchants from the city who wanted to make ties with Adarlan. Or something like that. But her attention was on the prince across from her, who seemed utterly ignored by his father and his own court, shoved down near the end with her and Aedion.

He ate so beautifully, she thought, watching him cut into his roast chicken. Not a drop moved out of place, not a scrap fell on the table. She had decent manners, while Aedion was hopeless, his plate littered with bones and crumbs scattered everywhere, even some on her own dress. She'd kicked him for it, but his attention was too focused on the royals down the table.

So both she and the Crown Prince ­were to be ignored, then. She looked at the boy again, who was around her age, she supposed. His skin was from the winter, his blue-­black hair neatly trimmed; his sapphire eyes li
ft
ed from his plate to meet hers.

“You eat like a
fi
ne lady,” she told him.

His lips thinned and color stained his ivory cheeks. Across from her, Quinn, her uncle's Captain of the Guard, choked on his water.

Th
e prince glanced at his father—­still busy with her uncle—­before replying. Not for approval, but in fear. “I eat like a prince,” Dorian said quietly.

“You do not need to cut your bread with a fork and knife,” she said. A faint pounding started in her head, followed by a
fl
ickering warmth, but she ignored it.
Th
e hall was hot, as they'd shut all the windows for some reason.

“Here in the North,” she went on as the prince's knife and fork remained where they ­were on his dinner roll, “you need not be so formal. We don't put on airs.”

Hen, one of Quinn's men, coughed pointedly from a few seats down. She could almost hear him saying,
Says the little lady with her
hair pressed into careful curls and wearing her new dress that she threatened to skin us over if we got dirty.

She gave Hen an equally pointed look, then returned her attention to the foreign prince. He'd already looked down at his food again, as if he expected to be neglected for the rest of the night. And he looked lonely enough that she said, “If you like, you could be my friend.” Not one of the men around them said anything, or coughed.

Dorian li
ft
ed his chin. “I have a friend. He is to be Lord of Anielle someday, and the
fi
ercest warrior in the land.”

She doubted Aedion would like that claim, but her cousin remained focused down the table. She wished she'd kept her mouth closed. Even this useless foreign prince had friends.
Th
e pounding in her head increased, and she took a drink of her water. Water—­always water to cool her insides.

Reaching for her glass, however, sent spikes of red-­hot pain through her head, and she winced. “Princess?” Quinn said, always the
fi
rst to notice.

She blinked, black spots forming. But the pain stopped.

No, not a stop, but a pause. A pause, then—

Right between her eyes, it ached and pressed at her head, trying to get in. She rubbed her brows. Her throat closed up, and she reached for the water, thinking of coolness, of calm and cold, exactly as her tutors and the court had told her. But the magic was churning in her gut—­burning up. Each pulse of pain in her head made it worse.