Heir of Fire (10 page)

“Baba Yellowlegs is dead.” Manon whipped her head to her grandmother, who was smiling faintly. “Killed in Ri
ft
hold.
Th
e duke received word. No one knows who, or why.”

“Crochans?”

“Perhaps.” Mother Blackbeak's smile spread, revealing iron teeth spotted with rust. “
Th
e King of Adarlan has invited us to assemble in the Ferian Gap. He says he has a gi
ft
for us there.”

Manon considered what she knew about the vicious, deadly king hell-­bent on conquering the world. Her responsibility as both Coven leader and heir was to keep her grandmother alive; ­it was instinct to anticipate every pitfall, every potential threat. “It could be a trap. To gather us in one place, and then destroy us. He could be working with the Crochans. Or perhaps the Bluebloods.
Th
ey've always wanted to make themselves High Witches of every Ironteeth Clan.”

“Oh, I think not,” Mother Blackbeak purred, her depthless ebony eyes crinkling. “For the king has made us an o
ff
er. Made all the Ironteeth Clans an o
ff
er.”

Manon waited, even though she could have gutted someone just to ease the miserable impatience.

“
Th
e king needs riders,” Mother Blackbeak said, still staring at the horizon. “Riders for his wyverns—­to be his aerial cavalry. He's been breeding them in the Gap all these years.”

It had been a while—­too damn long—­but Manon could feel the threads of fate twisting around them, tightening.

“And when we are done, when we have served him, he will let us keep the wyverns. To take our host to reclaim the Wastes from the mortal pigs who now dwell there.” A
fi
erce, wild thrill pierced Manon's chest, sharp as a knife. Following the Matron's gaze, Manon looked to the horizon, where the mountains ­were still blanketed with winter. To
fl
y again, to soar through the mountain passes, to hunt down prey the way they'd been born to . . .

Th
ey ­weren't enchanted ironwood brooms.

But wyverns would do just
fi
ne.

10

A
ft
er a grueling day of training new recruits, avoiding Dorian, and keeping well away from the king's watchful eye, Chaol was almost at his rooms, more than ready to sleep, when he noticed that two of his men ­were missing from their posts outside the Great Hall.
Th
e two remaining men winced as he stopped dead.

It ­wasn't unusual for guards to occasionally miss a shi
ft
. If someone was sick, if they had some family tragedy, Chaol always found a replacement. But two
missing
guards, with no replacement in sight . . . “Someone had better start talking,” he ground out.

One of them cleared their throats—­a newer guard, who had just
fi
nished his training three months before.
Th
e other one was relatively new, too, which was why he'd assigned them to night duty outside the empty Great Hall. But he'd put them under the supposedly responsible and watchful eyes of the two
other
guards, both of whom had been ­there for years.

Th
e guard who'd cleared his throat went red. “It—­they said . . . Ah, Captain, they said that no one would really notice if they ­were gone, since it's the Great Hall, and it's empty and, ah—”

“Use your words,” Chaol snapped. He was going to
murder
the two deserters.

“
Th
e general's party, sir,” said the other. “General Ashryver walked past on his way into Ri
ft
hold and invited them to join him. He said it would be all right with you, so they went with him.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. Of course Aedion did.

“And you two,” Chaol growled, “didn't think it would be useful to report this to anyone?”

“With all due respect, sir,” said the second one, “we ­were . . . we didn't want them to think we ­were ratters. And it's just the Great Hall—”

“Wrong thing to say,” Chaol snarled. “You're both on double duty for a month—­in the gardens.” Where it was still freezing. “Your leisure time is now non­ex­is­tent. And if you
ever
again fail to report another guard abandoning his post, you're both gone. Understood?”

When he got a mumbled con
fi
rmation, he stalked toward the front gate of the castle. Like hell he'd go to sleep now. He had two guards to hunt down in Ri
ft
hold . . . and a general to exchange some words with.

•

Aedion had rented out an entire tavern. Men ­were at the door to keep out the ri
ff
ra
ff
, but one glare from Chaol, one glimpse of the eagle-­shaped pommel of his sword, had them stepping aside.
Th
e tavern was crammed with various nobles, some women who could have been courtesans or courtiers, and men—­lots of drunk, boisterous men. Card games, dice, bawdy singing to the music made by the small quintet by the roaring
fi
re, free-­
fl
owing taps of ale, bottles of sparkling wine . . . Was Aedion going to pay for this with his blood money, or was it on the king?

Chaol spotted his two guards, plus half a dozen others, playing cards, women in their laps, grinning like
fi
ends. Until they saw him.

Th
ey ­were still groveling as Chaol sent them packing—­back to the castle, where he would deal with them tomorrow. He ­couldn't decide whether they deserved to lose their positions, since Aedion had lied, and he didn't like making choices like that unless he'd slept on them
fi
rst. So out they went, into the freezing night. And then Chaol began the pro­cess of hunting down the general.

But no one knew where he was. First, someone sent Chaol upstairs, to one of the tavern's bedrooms. Where he indeed found the two women someone said Aedion had slipped away with—­but another man was between them. Chaol only demanded where the general had gone.
Th
e women said they'd seen him playing dice in the cellar with some masked, high-­ranking nobles. So Chaol stormed down there. And indeed, there ­were the masked, high-­ranking nobles.
Th
ey ­were pretending to be mere revelers, but Chaol recognized them anyway, even if he didn't call them out by name.
Th
ey insisted Aedion was last seen playing the
fi
ddle in the main room.

So Chaol went back upstairs. Aedion was certainly not playing the
fi
ddle. Or the drum, or the lute or the pipes. In fact, it seemed that Aedion Ashryver ­wasn't even at his own party.

A courtesan prowled up to him to sell her wares, and would have walked away at his snarl had Chaol not o
ff
ered her a silver coin for information about the general. She'd seen him leave an hour ago—­on the arm of one of her rivals. Headed o
ff
to a more
private
location, but she didn't know where. If Aedion was no longer ­here, then . . . Chaol went back to the castle.

But he did hear one more bit of information.
Th
e Bane would arrive soon, people said, and when the legion descended on the city, they planned to show Ri
ft
hold a ­whole new level of debauchery. All of Chaol's guards ­were invited, apparently.

It was the last thing he wanted or needed—­an entire legion of lethal warriors wreaking havoc on Ri
ft
hold and distracting his men. If that happened, the king might look too closely at Chaol—­or ask where he sometimes disappeared to.

So he needed to have more than just words with Aedion. He needed to
fi
nd something to use against him so Aedion would agree
not
to throw these parties and swear to keep his Bane under control. Tomorrow night, he'd go to what­ever party Aedion threw.

And see what leverage he could
fi
nd.

11

Freezing and aching from shivering all night, Celaena awoke before dawn in her miserable little room and found an ivory tin sitting outside the door. It was
fi
lled with a salve that smelled of mint and rosemary, and beneath it was a note written in tight, concise letters.

You deserved it. Maeve sends her wishes for a speedy recovery.

Snorting at the lecture Rowan must have received, and how it must have ru
ffl
ed his feathers to bring her the gi
ft
, Celaena smeared the salve onto her still-­swollen lip. A glance in the speckled shard of mirror above the dresser revealed that she had seen better days. And was never drinking wine or eating teggya again. Or going more than a day without a bath.

Apparently Rowan agreed, because he'd also le
ft
a few pitchers of water, some soap, and a new set of clothes: white underthings, a loose shirt, and a pale-gray surcoat and cloak similar to what he had worn the day before.
Th
ough simple, the fabric was thick and of good quality.

Celaena washed as best she could, shaking with the cold leaking in from the misty forest beyond. Suddenly homesick for the giant bathing pool at the palace, she quickly dried and slid into the clothes, thankful for the layers.

Her teeth ­wouldn't stop chattering. Hadn't stopped chattering all night, actually. Having wet hair now didn't help, even a
ft
er she braided it back. She stu
ff
ed her feet into the knee-­high leather boots and tied the thick red sash around her waist as tightly as she could manage without losing the ability to move, hoping to give herself
some
shape, but . . .

Celaena scowled at the mirror. She'd lost weight—­enough so that her face looked about as hollow as she felt. Even her hair had become rather dull and limp.
Th
e salve had already taken down the swelling in her lip, but not the color. At least she was clean again. If frozen to her core. And—­completely overdressed for kitchen duty. Sighing, she unwrapped her sash and shrugged o
ff
the overcoat, tossing them onto the bed. Gods, her hands ­were so cold that the ring on her
fi
nger was slipping and sliding about. She knew it was a mistake, but she looked at it anyway, the amethyst dark in the early morning light.

What would Chaol make of all this? She was ­here, a
ft
er all, because of him. Not just ­here in this physical place, but ­here inside this endless exhaustion, the near-­constant ache in her chest. It was not his fault that Nehemia died, not when the princess had orchestrated everything. Yet he had kept information from her. He had chosen the
king
. Even though he'd claimed he loved her, he still loyally served that monster. Maybe she had been a fool for letting him in, for dreaming of a world where she could ignore the fact that he was captain to the man who had shattered her life again and again.

Th
e pain in her chest sharpened enough that breathing became di
f
fi
cult. She stood there for a moment, pushing back against it, letting it sink into the fog that smothered her soul, and then trudged out the door.

•

Th
e one bene
fi
t to scullery duty was that the kitchen was warm. Hot, even.
Th
e great brick oven and hearth ­were blazing, chasing away the morning mist that slithered in from the trees beyond the bay of windows above the copper sinks.
Th
ere ­were only two other people in the kitchen—­a hunched old man tending to the bubbling pots on the hearth and a youth at the wooden table that split the kitchen in half, chopping onions and monitoring what smelled like bread. By the Wyrd, she was hungry.
Th
at bread smelled divine. And what was in those pots?

Despite the absurdly early hour, the young man's merry prattling had echoed o
ff
the stones of the stairwell, but he'd fallen silent, both men stopping their work, when Rowan strode down the steps into the kitchen.
Th
e Fae prince had been waiting for her down the hall, arms crossed, already bored. But his animal-­bright eyes had narrowed slightly, as if he'd been half ­hoping she would oversleep ­and give him an excuse to punish her. As an immortal, he probably had endless patience and creativity when it came to thinking up miserable punishments.

Rowan addressed the old man by the hearth—­standing so still that Celaena wondered if the prince had learned it or been born with it. “Your new scullery maid for the morning shi
ft
. A
ft
er breakfast, I have her for the rest of the day.” Apparently, his lack of greeting ­wasn't personal. Rowan looked at her with raised brows, and she could see the words in his eyes as clearly as if he'd spoken them:
You wanted to remain unidenti
fi
ed, so go ahead, Princess. Introduce yourself with what­ever name you want.

At least he'd listened to her last night. “Elentiya,” she choked out. “My name is Elentiya.” Her gut tightened.

Th
ank the gods Rowan didn't snort at the name. She might have eviscerated him—­or tried to, at least—­if he mocked the name Nehemia had given her.

Th
e old man hobbled forward, wiping his gnarled hands on a crisp white apron. His brown woolen clothes ­were simple and worn—­a bit threadbare in places—­and he seemed to have some trouble with his le
ft
knee, but his white hair was tied back neatly from his tan face. He bowed sti
ffl
y. “So good of you to
fi
nd us additional help, Prince.” He shi
ft
ed his chestnut-brown eyes to Celaena and gave her a no-­nonsense once-­over. “Ever work in a kitchen?”