Heir of Fire (13 page)

By the time they reached the cavernous atrium of the Northern Fang, Manon's ears ­were frozen and her face was raw. She'd
fl
own at high altitudes, in all kinds of weather, but not for a long while. Not without a fresh belly of meat in her, keeping her warm.

She wiped her runny nose on the shoulder of her red cloak. She'd seen the other coven leaders eyeing the crimson material—­as they always did, with yearning and scorn and envy. Iskra had gazed at it the ­longest, sneering. It would be nice—­really damn nice—­to peel o
ff
the Yellowlegs heir's face one day.

Th
ey reached the gaping mouth into the upper reaches of the Northern Fang. ­Here the stone was scarred and gouged, splattered with the Triple Goddess knew what. From the tang of it, it was blood. Human blood.

Five men—­all looking hewn from the same scarred stone themselves—­met the three Matrons with grim nods. Manon fell into step behind her grandmother, one eye on the men, the other on their surroundings.
Th
e other two heirs did the same. At least they agreed on that.

As heirs, their foremost duty was to protect their High Witches, even if it meant sacri
fi
cing themselves. Manon glanced at the Yellowlegs Matron, who held herself just as proudly as the two Ancients as they walked into the shadows of the mountain. But Manon didn't take her hand o
ff
her blade, Wind-­Cleaver, for a heartbeat.

Th
e screams and wing beats and clank of metal ­were far louder ­here.

“
Th
is is where we breed and train 'em until they can make the Crossing to the Omega,” one of the men was saying, gesturing to the many cave mouths they passed as they strode through the cavernous hall. “Hatcheries are in the belly of the mountain, a level above the forges for the armory—­to keep the eggs warm, you see. Dens are a level above that. We keep 'em separated by gender and type.
Th
e bulls we hold in their own pens unless we want to breed 'em.
Th
ey kill anyone in their cages. Learned that the hard way.”
Th
e men chuckled, but the witches did not. He went on about the di
ff
erent types—­the bulls ­were the best, but a female could be just as
fi
erce and twice as smart.
Th
e smaller ones ­were good for stealth, and had been bred to be totally black against the night sky, or a pale blue to blend into daylight patrols.
Th
e average wyvern's colors they didn't care about so much, since they wanted their enemies to drop dead from terror, the man claimed.

Th
ey descended steps carved into the stone itself, and if the reek of blood and waste didn't overwhelm every sense, then the din of the wyverns—­a roaring and screeching and booming of wings and
fl
esh on rock—­nearly drowned out the man's words. But Manon stayed focused on her grandmother's position, on the positions of the others around her. And she knew that Asterin, one step behind her, was doing the same for her.

He led them onto a viewing platform in a massive cavern.
Th
e sunken
fl
oor was at least forty feet below, one end of the chamber wholly open to the cli
ff
face, the other sealed with an iron grate—­no, a door.

“
Th
is is one of the training pits,” the man explained. “It's easy to sort out the natural-­born killers, but we discover a lot of them show their mettle in the pits. Before you . . . ladies,” he said, trying to hide his wince at the word, “even lay eyes on them, they'll be in ­here,
fi
ghting it out.”

“And when,” said Mother Blackbeak, pinning him with a stare, “will we select our mounts?”

Th
e man swallowed. “We trained a brood of gentler ones to teach you the basics.”

A growl from Iskra. Manon might also have snarled at the implied insult, but the Blueblood Matron spoke. “You don't learn to ­ride by hopping on a war­horse, do you?”

Th
e man almost sagged with relief. “Once you're comfortable with the
fl
ying—”

“We ­were born on the back of the wind,” said one of the coven leaders in the back. Some grunts of approval. Manon kept silent, as did her Blackbeak coven leaders. Obedience. Discipline. Brutality.
Th
ey did not descend to boasting.

Th
e man
fi
dgeted and kept his focus on Cresseida, as if she ­were the only safe one in the room, even with her barbed crown of stars. Idiot. Manon sometimes thought the Bluebloods ­were the deadliest of them all.

“Soon as you're ready,” he said, “we can begin the selection pro­cess. Get you on your mounts, and start the training.”

Manon risked taking her eyes o
ff
her grandmother to study the pit.
Th
ere ­were giant chains anchored in one of the walls, and enormous splotches of dark blood stained the stones, as if one of these beasts had been pushed against it. A giant crack spider-webbed from the center. What­ever hit the wall had been tossed hard.

“What are the chains for?” Manon found herself asking. Her grandmother gave her a warning look, but Manon focused on the man. Predictably, his eyes widened at her beauty—­then stayed wide as he beheld the death lurking beneath it.

“Chains are for the bait beasts,” he said. “
Th
ey're the wyverns we use to show the others how to
fi
ght, to turn their aggression into a weapon. ­We're under orders not to put any of 'em down, even the runts and broken ones, so we put the weaklings to good use.”

Just like dog
fi
ghting. She looked again to the splotch and the crack in the wall.
Th
e bait beast had probably been thrown by one of the bigger ones. And if the wyverns could hurl each other like that, then the damage to humans . . . Her chest tightened with anticipation, especially as the man said, “Want to see a bull?”

A glimmer of iron nails as Cresseida made an elegant gesture to continue.
Th
e man let out a sharp whistle. None of them spoke as chains rattled, a whip cracked, and the iron gate to the pit groaned as it li
ft
ed. And then, heralded by men with whips and spears, the wyvern appeared.

A collective intake of breath, even from Manon.

“Titus is one of our best,” the man said, pride gleaming in his voice.

Manon ­couldn't tear her eyes away from the gorgeous beast: his mottled gray body covered in a leathery hide; his massive back legs, armed with talons as big as her forearm; and his enormous wings, tipped with a claw and used to propel him forward like a front set of limbs.

Th
e triangular head swiveled this way and that, and his dripping maw revealed yellow, curved fangs. “Tail's armed with a venomous barb,” the man said as the wyvern emerged fully from the pit, snarling at the men down there with him.
Th
e reverberations of the snarl echoed through the stone, into her boots and up her legs, right into her husk of a heart.

A chain was clamped around his back leg, undoubtedly to keep him from
fl
ying out of the pit.
Th
e tail, as long as his body and tipped with two curved spikes,
fl
icked back and forth like a cat's.

“
Th
ey can
fl
y hundreds of miles in a day and still be ready to
fi
ght when they arrive,” the man said, and the witches all hissed in a breath.
Th
at sort of speed and endurance . . .

“What do they eat?” asked Petrah, freckled face still calm and grave.

Th
e man rubbed his neck. “
Th
ey'll eat anything. But they like it fresh.”

“So do we,” said Iskra with a grin. Had anyone but the Yellowlegs heir said it, Manon would have joined in with the other grins around her.

Titus gave a sudden thrash, lunging for the nearest man while using his magni
fi
cent tail to snap the raised spears behind him. A whip cracked, but it was too late.

Blood and screams and the crunch of bone.
Th
e man's legs and head tumbled to the ground.
Th
e torso was swallowed down in one bite.
Th
e smell of blood
fi
lled the air, and every single one of the Ironteeth witches inhaled deeply.
Th
e man in front of them took a too-­casual step away.

Th
e bull in the pit was now looking up at them, tail still slashing against the
fl
oor.

Magic was gone, and yet this was possible—­this creation of magni
fi
cent beasts. Magic was gone, and yet Manon felt the sureness of the moment settle along her bones. She was
meant
to be ­here. She'd have Titus or no other.

Because she'd su
ff
er no creature to be her mount but the
fi
ercest, the one whose blackness called to her own. As her eyes met with the endless dark of Titus's, she smiled at the wyvern.

She could have sworn he smiled back.

13

Celaena didn't realize how exhausted she was until all sounds—­Emrys's so
ft
singing from the table, the thud of dough as he kneaded it, the chopping of Luca's knife and his ceaseless chatter about everything and anything—­stopped. And she knew what she'd
fi
nd when she turned toward the stairwell. Her hands ­were pruny,
fi
ngers aching, back and neck throbbing, but . . . Rowan was leaning against the archway of the stairwell, arms crossed and violence beckoning in his lifeless eyes. “Let's go.”

Th
ough his features remained cold, she had the distinct impression that he was somewhat annoyed at her for not sulking in a corner, bemoaning the state of her nails. As she le
ft
, Luca drew a
fi
nger across his neck as he mouthed
good luck
.

Rowan led her through a small courtyard, where sentries tried to pretend they ­weren't watching their every move, and out into the forest.
Th
e ward-­magic woven between the ring of megaliths again nipped at her skin as they passed, and nausea washed through her. Without the constant heat of the kitchen, she was half-frozen by the time they strode between the moss-­coated trees, but even that was only a vague
fl
icker of feeling.

Rowan trekked up a rocky ridge toward the highest reaches of the forest, still clouded in mist. She barely paused to take in the view of the foothills below, the plains before them, all green and fresh and safe from Adarlan. Rowan didn't utter a single word until they reached what looked like the weather-­stained ruins of a temple.

It was now no more than a
fl
at bed of stone blocks and columns whose carvings had been dulled by wind and rain. To her le
ft
lay Wendlyn, foothills and plains and peace. To her right arose the wall of the Cambrian Mountains, blocking any sight of the immortal lands beyond. Behind her, far down, she could make out the fortress snaking along the spine of the mountain.

Rowan crossed the cracked stones, his silver hair battered by the crisp, damp wind. She kept her arms loose at her sides, more out of re
fl
ex than anything. He was armed to the teeth, his face a mask of unyielding brutality.

She made herself give a little smile, her best attempt at a dutiful, eager expression. “Do your worst.”

He looked her over from head to toe: the mist-­damp shirt, now icy against her puckered skin, the equally stained and damp pants, the position of her feet . . .

“Wipe that smarmy, lying smile o
ff
your face.” His voice was as dead as his eyes, but it had a razor-­sharp bite behind it.

She kept her smarmy, lying smile. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He stepped toward her, the canines coming out this time. “Here's your
fi
rst lesson, girl: cut the ­horse­shit. I don't feel like dealing with it, and I'm probably the only one who ­doesn't give a damn about how angry and vicious and awful you are underneath.”

“I don't think you particularly want to see how angry and vicious and awful I am underneath.”

“Go ahead and be as nasty as you want, Princess, because I've been ten times as nasty, for ten times longer than you've been alive.”

She didn't let it out—­no, because he didn't truly understand a thing about what lurked under her skin and ran claws down her insides—­but she stopped any attempt to control her features. Her lips pulled back from her teeth.

“Better. Now shi
ft
.”

She didn't bother to sound pleasant as she said, “It's not something I can control.”

“If I wanted excuses, I'd ask for them.
Shi
ft
.”

She didn't know how. She had never mastered it as a child, and there certainly hadn't been any opportunities to learn in the past de­cade. “I hope you brought snacks, because ­we're going to be ­here a long, long while if today's lesson is dependent upon my shi
ft
ing.”

“You're
really
going to make me enjoy training you.” She had a feeling he could have switched out
training you
for
eating you alive
.

“I've already participated in a dozen versions of the master-­disciple training saga, so why don't we cut that ­horse­shit, too?”

His smile turned quieter, more lethal. “Shut your smart-­ass mouth and shi
ft
.”

A shuddering rush went through her—­a spear of lightning in the abyss.
“No.”