Heir of Fire (12 page)

Celaena glanced toward those iron
fi
gurines on the mantel. She contemplated mentioning that some believed the gods had also bred with ancient humans and given them magic that way, but . . . that would involve more talking than necessary. She tilted her head to the side. “What do you know about Rowan? How old is he?”
Th
e more she learned, the better.

Emrys wrapped his wrinkled hands around his teacup. “He's one of the few Fae we see around Mistward—­he stops in every now and then to retrieve reports for Maeve, but he keeps to himself. Never stays the night. Occasionally he'll come with the others like him—­there are six of them who closely serve the Queen as war leaders or spies, you see.
Th
ey never talk to us, and all we hear are rumors about where they go and what they do. But I've known Rowan since I
fi
rst came ­here. Not that I really know him, mind you. Sometimes he's gone for years, o
ff
serving Her Majesty. And I don't think anyone knows how old he is. When I was
fift
een, the oldest people living ­here had known him since they ­were younglings, so . . . I'd say he's very old.”

“And mean as an adder,” Luca muttered.

Emrys gave him a warning look. “You'd best mind your tongue.” He glanced toward the doors, as if Rowan would be lurking there. When his gaze fell again on Celaena, it was wary. “I'll admit that you're probably in for a good heap of di
ffi
culty.”

“He's a stone-­cold killer and a sadist is what he means,” Luca added. “
Th
e meanest of Maeve's personal cabal of warriors, they say.”

Well, that ­wasn't a surprise, either. But there ­were
fi
ve others like him—
that
was an unpleasant fact. She said quietly, “I can handle him.”

“We're not allowed to learn the Old Language until we enter Doranelle,” Luca said, “but I heard his tattoo is a list of all the people he's slaughtered.”

“Hush,” Emrys said.

“It's not like he ­doesn't act like it.” Luca frowned again at Celaena. “Maybe you should consider whether Doranelle is worth it, you know? It's not so bad living ­here.”

She'd already had enough interacting. “I can handle him,” she repeated. Maeve ­couldn't intend to keep her ­here for years. If that started to seem likely, Celaena would leave. And
fi
nd another way to stop the king.

Luca opened his mouth but Emrys hushed him again, his gaze falling on Celaena's scarred hands. “Let her run her own course.”

Luca started chattering about the weather, and Celaena headed to the mountain of dishes. As she washed, she fell into a rhythm, as she'd done while cleaning her weapons aboard that ship.

Th
e kitchen sounds turned mu
ffl
ed as she let herself spiral down, contemplating that horrible realization again and again: she could not remember what it was like to be free.

12

Th
e Blackbeak Clan was the last to fully assemble at the Ferian Gap.

As a result, they got the smallest and farthest rooms in the warren of halls carved into the Omega, the last of the Ruhnn Mountains and the northernmost of the sister-­peaks
fl
anking the snow-­blasted pass.

Across the gap was the Northern Fang, the
fi
nal peak of the White Fangs, which was currently occupied by the king's men—­massive brutes who still didn't know quite what to make of the witches who had stalked in from every direction.

Th
ey'd been ­here for a day and Manon had yet to glimpse any sign of the wyverns the king had promised. She'd heard them, even though they ­were ­housed across the pass in the Northern Fang. No matter how deep you got into the Omega's stone halls, the shrieks and roars vibrated in the stone, the air pulsed with the boom of leathery wings, and the
fl
oors hissed with the scrape of talon on rock.

It had been
fi
ve hundred years since all three Clans had assembled.
Th
ere had been over twenty thousand of them at one point. Now only three thousand remained, and that was a generous estimate. All that was le
ft
of a once-­mighty kingdom.

Still, the halls of the Omega ­were a dangerous place to be. Already she'd had to pull apart Asterin and a Yellowlegs bitch who hadn't yet learned that Blackbeak sentinels—­especially members of the
Th
irteen—­didn't take lightly to being called so
ft
-­hearted.

Th
ere had been blue blood splattered on their faces, and though Manon was more than pleased to see that Asterin, beautiful, brash Asterin, had done most of the damage, she'd still had to punish her Second.

Th
ree unblocked blows. One to the gut, so Asterin could feel her own powerlessness; one to the ribs, so she'd consider her actions every time she drew breath; and one to the face, so her broken nose would remind her that the punishment could have been far worse.

Asterin had taken them all without scream or complaint or plea, just as any of the
Th
irteen would have done.

And this morning, her Second, nose swollen and bruised at the bridge, had given Manon a
fi
erce grin over their miserable breakfast of boiled oats. Had it been another witch, Manon would have dragged her by the neck to the front of the room and made her regret the insolence, but Asterin . . .

Even though Asterin was her cousin, she ­wasn't a friend. Manon didn't have friends. None of the witches, especially the
Th
irteen, had friends. But Asterin had guarded her back for a century, and the grin was a sign that she ­wouldn't put a dagger in Manon's spine the next time they ­were knee-­deep in battle.

No, Asterin was just insane enough to wear the broken nose like a badge of honor, and would love her crooked nose for the rest of her not-­so-­immortal life.

Th
e Yellowlegs heir, a haughty bull of a witch named Iskra, had merely given her o
ff
ending sentinel a warning to keep her mouth shut and sent her down to the in
fi
rmary in the belly of the mountain. Fool.

All the coven leaders ­were under orders to keep their sentinels in line—­to suppress the
fi
ghting between Clans. Or ­else the three Matrons would come down on them like a hammer. Without punishment, without Iskra making an example of her, the o
ff
ending witch would keep at it until she got strung up by her toes by the new High Witch of the Yellowlegs Clan.

Th
ey'd held a sham of a memorial ser­vice last night for Baba Yellowlegs in the cavernous mess hall—­lighting any old candles in lieu of the traditional black ones, wearing what­ever hoods they could
fi
nd, and going through the Sacred Words to the
Th
ree-­Faced Goddess as though they ­were reading a recipe.

Manon had never met Baba Yellowlegs, and didn't particularly care that she'd died. She was more interested in
who
had killed her, and why.
Th
ey all ­were, and it was those questions that ­were exchanged between the expected words of loss and mourning. Asterin and Vesta had done the talking, as they usually did, chatting up the other witches while Manon listened from nearby. No one knew anything, though. Even her two Shadows, concealed in the dark pockets of the mess hall as they'd been trained to do, had overheard nothing.

It was the not knowing that made her shoulders tight as Manon stalked up the sloped hallway to where the Matrons and all the Coven leaders ­were to assemble, Blackbeak and Yellowlegs witches stepping aside to let her pass. She resented not knowing anything that might be useful, that might give the
Th
irteen or the Blackbeaks an advantage. Of course, the Bluebloods ­were nowhere to be seen.
Th
e reclusive witches had arrived
fi
rst and claimed the uppermost rooms in the Omega, saying they needed the mountain breeze to complete their rituals every day.

Religious fanatics with their noses in the wind, was what Mother Blackbeak had always called them. But it had been their insane devotion to the
Th
ree-­Faced Goddess and their vision of the Witch Kingdom under Ironteeth rule that had mustered the Clans
fi
ve centuries ago—­even if it had been the Blackbeak sentinels who'd won the battles for them.

Manon treated her body as she would any other weapon: she kept it clean and honed and ready at any time to defend and destroy. But even her training ­couldn't keep her from being out of breath when she reached the atrium by the black bridge that connected the Omega to the Northern Fang. She hated the expanse of stone without even touching it. It smelled wrong.

It smelled like those two prisoners she'd seen with the duke. In fact, this ­whole place reeked like that.
Th
e scent ­wasn't natural; it didn't belong in this world.

About
fift
y witches—­the highest-­ranking coven leaders in each Clan—­were gathered at the giant hole in the side of the mountain. Manon spotted her grandmother immediately, standing at the bridge entrance with what had to be the Blueblood and Yellowlegs Matrons.

Th
e new Yellowlegs Matron was supposedly some half ­sister of Baba, and she certainly looked the part: huddled in brown robes, sa
ff
ron ankles peeking out, white hair braided back to reveal a wrinkled, brutal face mottled with age. By rule, all Yellowlegs wore their iron teeth and nails on permanent display, and the new High Witch's ­were shining in the dull morning light.

Unsurprisingly, the Blueblood Matron was tall and willowy, more priestess than warrior. She wore the traditional deep blue robes, and a band of iron stars circled her brow. As Manon approached the crowd, she could see that the stars ­were barbed. Not surprising, either.

Legend had it that all witches had been gi
ft
ed by the
Th
ree-­Faced Goddess with iron teeth and nails to keep them anchored to this world when magic threatened to pull them away.
Th
e iron crown, supposedly, was proof that the magic in the Blueblood line ran so strong that their leader needed
more
—­needed iron and pain—­to keep her tethered in this realm.

Nonsense. Especially when magic had been gone these past ten years. But Manon had heard rumors of the rituals the Bluebloods did in their forests and caves, rituals in which pain was the gateway to magic, to opening their senses. Oracles, mystics, zealots.

Manon stalked through the ranks of the assembled Blackbeak coven leaders.
Th
ey ­were the most numerous—­twenty coven leaders, over which Manon ruled with her
Th
irteen. Each leader touched two
fi
ngers to her brow in deference. She ignored them and took up a spot at the front of the crowd, where her grandmother gave her an acknowledging glance.

An honor, for any High Witch to acknowledge an individual. Manon bowed her head, pressing two
fi
ngers to her brow. Obedience, discipline, and brutality ­were the most beloved words in the Blackbeak Clan. All ­else was to be extinguished without second thought.

She still had her chin high, hands behind her back, when she spotted the other two heirs watching her.

Th
e Blueblood heir, Petrah, stood closest to the High Witches, her group in the center of the crowd. Manon sti
ff
ened but held her gaze.

Her freckled skin was as pale as Manon's, and her braided hair was as golden as Asterin's—­a deep, brassy color that caught the gray light. She was beautiful, like so many of them, but grave. Above her blue eyes, a worn leather band rested on her brow in lieu of the iron-­star crown.
Th
ere was no way of telling how old she was, but she ­couldn't be much older than Manon if she looked this way a
ft
er magic had vanished.
Th
ere was no aggression, but no smile, either. Smiles ­were rare amongst witches—­unless you ­were on the hunt or on a killing
fi
eld.

Th
e Yellowlegs heir, though . . . Iskra was grinning at Manon, bristling with a challenge that Manon found herself aching to meet. Iskra hadn't forgotten the brawl between their sentinels in the hallway yesterday. If anything, from the look in Iskra's brown eyes, it seemed that the brawl had been an invitation. Manon found herself debating how much trouble she'd get into for shredding the throat of the Yellowlegs heir. It would put an end to any
fi
ghts between their sentinels.

It would also put an end to her life, if the attack ­were unprovoked. Witch justice was swi
ft
. Dominance battles could end in loss of life, but the claim had to be made up front. Without a formal provocation from Iskra, Manon's hands ­were tied.

“Now that ­we're assembled,” the Blueblood Matron—­Cresseida—said, drawing Manon's attention, “shall we show you what ­we've been brought ­here to do?”

Mother Blackbeak waved a hand to the bridge, black robes billowing in the icy wind. “We walk into the sky, witches.”

•

Th
e crossing of the black bridge was more harrowing than Manon wanted to admit. First, there was the miserable stone, which throbbed beneath her feet, giving o
ff
that reek that no one ­else seemed to notice.
Th
en there was the screeching wind, which battered them this way and that, trying to shove them over the carved railing.

Th
ey ­couldn't even see the
fl
oor of the Gap. Mist shrouded everything below the bridge—­a mist that hadn't vanished in the day they'd been ­here, or the days they'd hiked up the Gap. It was, she supposed, some trick of the king's. Contemplating it led only to more questions, none of which she bothered to voice, or really care about all that much.