Heir of Fire (25 page)

Titus growled a territorial warning at the bait beast again, so loud she could feel it in every bone. Instead, the bait beast, small as he was, was gazing at her with something like rage and determination. Emotion, she might have called it. Hunger, but not for her.

No, she realized as the beast li
ft
ed its black gaze to Titus, letting out a low snarl in response. Not submissive in the least, that sound. A threat—­a promise.
Th
e bait beast wanted a shot at Titus.

Allies. If only for this moment.

Again, Manon felt that ebb and
fl
ow in the world, that invisible current that some called Fate and some called the loom of the
Th
ree-­Faced Goddess. Titus roared his
fi
nal threat.

Manon twisted to her feet and ran.

Every step made stars
fl
ash, and the ground shook as Titus barreled a
ft
er her, willing to tear through the bait beast to kill her if necessary.

Manon scooped up her sword and whirled, bringing it down upon the thick, rusted chain with every bit of strength le
ft
in her.

Wind-­Cleaver, they called her blade. Now they would call it Iron-­Cleaver.
Th
e chain snapped free as Titus leapt for her.

Titus didn't see it coming, and there was something like shock in his eyes as the bait beast tackled him and they rolled.

Titus was twice its size and uninjured, and Manon didn't wait to see the outcome before she took o
ff
for the tunnel, where the men ­were frantically li
ft
ing the grate.

But then a
boom
and a shocked murmur sounded, and Manon dared one look in time to see the wyverns leap apart and the bait beast strike again.

Th
e blow from that scarred, useless tail was so strong Titus's head slammed into the dirt.

As Titus surged to his legs, the bait beast feinted with its tail and made a swipe with jagged claws that had Titus roaring in pain.

Manon froze, barely
fift
een feet from the gate.

Th
e wyverns circled each other, wings scraping against the ground. It should have been a joke. And yet the bait beast ­wouldn't stand down, despite the limp, despite the scars and the blood.

Titus went right for the throat with no warning growl.

Th
e bait beast's tail connected with Titus's head. Titus reeled back but then lunged, jaws and tail snapping. Once those barbs got into the
fl
esh of the bait beast, it would be done.
Th
e bait beast dodged the tail by slamming its own down atop it, but ­couldn't escape the jaws that latched on to its neck.

Over. It should be over.

Th
e bait beast thrashed, but ­couldn't get free. Manon knew she should run. Others ­were shouting. She had been born without sympathy or mercy or kindness. She didn't care which one of them lived or died, so long as she escaped. But that current was still
fl
owing,
fl
owing toward the
fi
ght, not away from it. And she owed the bait beast a life debt.

So Manon did the most foolish thing she'd ever done in her long, wicked life.

She ran for Titus and brought Wind-­Cleaver down upon his tail. She severed clean through
fl
esh and bone, and Titus roared, releasing his prey.
Th
e stump of his tail lashed at her, and Manon took it right in the stomach, the air knocked out of her before she even hit the ground. When she raised herself, she saw the
fi
nal lunge that ended it.

Th
roat exposed by his bellow of pain, Titus didn't stand a chance as the bait beast pounced and closed its jaws around that mighty neck.

Titus had one last thrash, one
fi
nal attempt to pry himself free.
Th
e bait beast held
fi
rm, as though he'd been waiting for weeks or months or years. He clamped down and wrenched his head away, taking Titus's throat with him.

Silence fell. As if the world itself stopped when Titus's body crashed to the ground, black blood spilling everywhere.

Manon stood absolutely still. Slowly, the bait beast li
ft
ed its head from the carcass, Titus's blood dripping from his maw.
Th
eir eyes met.

People ­were shouting at her to run, and the gate groaned open, but Manon stared into those black eyes, one of them horribly scarred but intact. He took a step, then another toward her.

Manon held her ground. It was impossible.
Impossible
. Titus was twice his size, twice his weight, and had years of training.

Th
e bait beast had trounced him—­not because he was bigger or stronger, but because he wanted it more. Titus had been a brute and a killer, yet this wyvern before her . . . he was a
warrior
.

Men ­were rushing in with spears and swords and whips, and the bait beast growled.

Manon held up a hand. And again, the world stopped.

Manon, eyes still upon the beast, said, “He's mine.”

He had saved her life. Not by coincidence, but by choice. He'd felt the current running between them, too. “What?” her grandmother barked from above.

Manon found herself walking toward the wyvern, and stopped with not
fi
ve feet between them. “He's mine,” Manon said, taking in the scars, the limp, the burning life in those eyes.

Th
e witch and the wyvern looked at each other for a moment that lasted for a heartbeat, that lasted for eternity. “You're mine,” Manon said to him.

Th
e wyvern blinked at her, Titus's blood still dripping from his cracked and broken teeth, and Manon had the feeling that he had come to the same decision. Perhaps he had known long before to­night, and his
fi
ght with Titus hadn't been so much about survival as it had been a challenge to claim her.

As his rider. As his mistress. As
his
.

•

Manon named her wyvern Abraxos, a
ft
er the ancient serpent who held the world between his coils at the behest of the
Th
ree-­Faced Goddess. And that was about the only pleasant thing that happened that night.

When she'd returned to the others, Abraxos taken away for cleaning and mending and Titus's carcass hauled o
ff
by thirty men, Manon had stared down each and every witch who dared meet her eyes.

Th
e Yellowlegs heir was being held by Asterin in front of the Matrons. Manon gazed at Iskra for a long moment before she simply said, “Looks like I lost my footing.”

Iskra steamed at the ears, but Manon shrugged, wiping the dirt and blood from her face before limping back to the Omega. She ­wouldn't give Iskra the satisfaction of claiming she'd almost killed her. And Manon was in no shape to settle this in a proper
fi
ght.

Attack or clumsiness, Asterin was punished by Mother Blackbeak that night for letting the heir fall into the pit. Manon had asked to be the one to dispense the whipping, but her grandmother ignored her. Instead, she had the Yellowlegs heir do it. As Asterin's failure had occurred in plain sight of the other Matrons and their heirs, so would her punishment.

Standing in the mess hall, Manon watched each brutal lash, all ten of them at full strength, as Iskra sported a bruise on her jaw courtesy of Asterin.

To her everlasting credit, Asterin didn't scream. Not once. It still took all of Manon's self-­restraint to keep from grabbing the whip and using it to strangle Iskra.

Th
en came the conversation with her grandmother. It ­wasn't so much a conversation as it was a slap in the face, then a verbal beating that—­a day later—­still made Manon's ears ring.

She'd humiliated her grandmother and every Blackbeak in history by picking that “runty scrap of meat,” regardless of his victory. It was a
fl
uke that he'd killed Titus, her grandmother ranted. Abraxos was the smallest of any of the mounts, and on top of that, because of his size, he had never
fl
own a day in his life.
Th
ey had never let him out of the warrens.

Th
ey didn't even know if he
could
fl
y a
ft
er his wings had taken a beating for so long, and the handlers ­were of the opinion that should Abraxos attempt the Crossing, he'd splatter himself and Manon on the Gap
fl
oor.
Th
ey claimed no other wyverns would ever accept his dominance, not as a Wing Leader. Manon had ruined all of her grandmother's plans.

All these facts ­were shouted at her again and again. She knew that if she even
wanted
to change mounts, her grandmother would force her to keep Abraxos, just to humiliate her when she failed. Even if it got her killed in the pro­cess.

Her grandmother hadn't been in the pit, though. She hadn't looked into Abraxos's eyes and seen the warrior's heart beating in him. She hadn't noticed that he'd fought with more cunning and ferocity than any of the others. So Manon held
fi
rm and took the slap to the face, and the lecture, and then the second slap that le
ft
her cheek throbbing.

Manon's face was still aching when she reached the pen in which Abraxos now made his home. He was curled by the far wall, silent and still when so many of the creatures ­were pacing or shrieking or growling.

Her escort, the overseer, peered through the bars. Asterin lurked in the shadows. A
ft
er the whipping last night, her Second ­wasn't going to let her out of her sight anytime soon.

Manon hadn't apologized for the whipping.
Th
e rules ­were the rules, and her cousin had failed. Asterin deserved the lashing, just as Manon deserved the bruise on her cheek.

“Why's he curled up like that?” Manon asked the man.

“Suspect it's 'cause he's never had a pen to himself. Not this big, anyway.”

Manon studied the penned-­in cavern. “Where did they keep him before?”

Th
e man pointed at the
fl
oor. “With the other baiters in the sty. He's the oldest of the baiters, you know. Survived the pits and the stys. But that ­doesn't mean he's suitable for you.”

“If I wanted your opinion on his suitability, I'd ask for it,” Manon said, eyes still on Abraxos as she approached the bars. “How long to get him in the skies?”

Th
e man rubbed his head. “Could be days or weeks or months. Could be never.”

“We begin training with our mounts this a
ft
ernoon.”

“Not going to happen.” Manon raised her brows. “
Th
is one needs to be trained alone
fi
rst. I'll get our best trainers on it, and you can use another wyvern in the meantime to—”

“First of all, human,” Manon interrupted, “don't give me orders.” Her iron teeth snapped out, and he
fl
inched. “Second, I won't be training with another wyvern. I'll train with him.”

Th
e man was pale as death as he said, “All your sentinels' mounts will attack him. And the
fi
rst
fl
ight will spook him so bad that he'll
fi
ght back. So unless you want your soldiers and their mounts to tear each other apart, I suggest you train alone.” He trembled and added, “Milady.”

Th
e wyvern was watching them. Waiting. “Can they understand us?”

“No. Some spoken commands and whistles, but no more than a dog.”

Manon didn't believe that for one moment. It ­wasn't that he was lying to her. He just didn't know any better. Or maybe Abraxos was di
ff
erent.

She'd use every moment until the War Games to train him. When she and her
Th
irteen ­were crowned victors, she'd make each and every one of the witches who doubted her, her grandmother included, curse themselves for fools. Because she was Manon Blackbeak, and she'd never failed at anything. And there would be nothing better than watching Abraxos bite o
ff
Iskra's head on the battle
fi
eld.

24

It was far too easy to lie to his men about the bruises and cuts on his face when Chaol returned to the castle—­an unfortunate incident with a drunk vagrant in Ri
ft
hold. Enduring the lies and the injuries was better than being carrion. Chaol's bargain with Aedion and the rebels had been simple: information for information.

He'd promised more information about their queen, as well as about the king's black rings, in exchange for what they knew regarding the king's power. It had kept him alive that night, and every night a
ft
erward, when he'd waited for them to change their minds. But they never came for him, and to­night, he and Aedion waited until well past twelve before slipping into Celaena's old rooms.

It was the
fi
rst time he'd dared return to the tomb since that night with Celaena and Dorian, and the skull-­shaped bronze knocker, Mort, didn't move or speak at all. Even though Chaol wore the Eye of Elena at his throat, the knocker remained frozen. Perhaps Mort only answered to those with Brannon Galathynius's blood in their veins.

So he and Aedion combed through the tomb, the dusty halls, scouring every inch for signs of spies or ways to be discovered. When they ­were at last satis
fi
ed that no one could overhear them, Aedion said, “Tell me what I'm doing down ­here, Captain.”

Th
e general had shown no awe or surprise as Chaol had led him into Elena and Gavin's resting place, though his eyes had widened slightly at Damaris. But whether or not Aedion knew what it was, he'd said nothing. For all his brashness and arrogance, Chaol had a feeling the man had many, many secrets—­and was damn good at concealing them.