Heir of Fire (30 page)

“Hmm.” Sorscha chewed on her lip. It was surprisingly distracting. “But iron's in your blood, so how does
that
work?”

“I think it was the gods' way of keeping us from growing too powerful: if we keep contact with the magic, if it's
fl
owing through us for too long, we faint. Or worse.”

“I wonder what would happen if we increased the iron in your diet, perhaps adding a large amount of treacle to your food. We give it to anemic patients, but if we gave you a highly concentrated dose . . . it would taste awful, and could be dangerous, but—”

“But perhaps if it's in my body, then when the magic rises up . . .” He grimaced. He might have balked at the memory of the agony when he'd tried to seal that iron door, but . . . He ­couldn't bring himself to say no to her. “Do you have any ­here? Just something to add to a drink?”

She didn't, but she got some. And within a quarter of an hour, Dorian said a prayer to Silba and swallowed it, cringing at the obscene sweetness. Nothing.

Sorscha's eyes darted from his own to the pocket watch in her hand. Counting. Waiting to see if there was an adverse reaction. A minute passed. And then ten. Dorian had to go soon, and so did she, but a
ft
er a while, Sorscha quietly said, “Try it. Try summoning it.
Th
e iron should be in your blood now.” He shut his eyes, and she added, “It reacts when you're upset—­angry or scared or sad.
Th
ink about something that makes you feel that way.”

She was risking her position, her life, everything for this. For him, the son of the man who had ordered his army to destroy her village, then slaughter her family with the other unwanted immigrants squatting in Ri
ft
hold. He didn't deserve it.

He breathed in. Out. She also didn't deserve the world of trouble he was bringing down upon her—­or would continue to bring to her door every time he came ­here. He knew when women liked him, and he'd known from the
fi
rst moment he'd seen her that she found him attractive. He'd hoped that opinion hadn't changed for the worse, but now . . .
Th
ink of what upsets you
.

Everything upset him. It upset him that she was risking her life, that he had no choice but to endanger her. Even if he took that
fi
nal step toward her, even if he took her into his bed like he so badly wanted to, he was still . . . the Crown Prince.
You will always be my enemy,
Celaena had once said.

Th
ere was no escaping his crown. Or his father, who would behead Sorscha, burn her, and scatter her ashes to the wind if he found out she'd helped him. His father, whom his friends ­were now working to destroy.
Th
ey had lied to him and ignored him for that cause. Because he
was
a danger, to them, to Sorscha, and—

Roaring pain surged from his core and up his throat, and he gagged.
Th
ere was another wave, and a cool breeze tried to kiss his face, but it vanished like mist under the sun as the pain trembled through him. He leaned forward, squeezing his eyes shut as the agony and then the nausea went through him again. And again.

But then it was quiet. Dorian opened his eyes to
fi
nd Sorscha, clever, steady, wonderful Sorscha, standing there, biting her lip. She took one step—­toward him, not away, for once. “Did it—”

Dorian was on his feet so fast the chair rocked behind him, and had her face between his hands a heartbeat a
ft
er that. “
Yes
,” he breathed, and kissed her. It was fast—­but her face was
fl
ushed, and her eyes wide as he pulled back. His own eyes ­were wide, gods be damned, and he was still rubbing his thumb against her so
ft
cheek. Still contemplating going back for more, because that hadn't been nearly enough.

But she pulled away, returning to her work. As if—­as if it hadn't been anything, ­other than an embarrassment. “Tomorrow?” she murmured. She ­wouldn't look at him.

He could hardly muster the words to tell her yes as he staggered out. She'd looked so surprised, and if he didn't get out, he was likely to kiss her again.

But maybe she didn't want to be kissed.

27

Standing atop a viewing platform on the side of the Omega, Manon watched the
fi
rst Yellowlegs coven of the day take the Crossing.
Th
e plunge down followed by the violent sweep up was stunning, even when it was the Yellowlegs riders astride the wind.

Leading them along the sheer face of the Northern Fang was Iskra. Her bull, a massive beast named Fendir, was a force of nature in himself.
Th
ough smaller than Titus, he was twice as nasty.

“
Th
ey suit each other,” Asterin said from beside Manon.
Th
e rest of the
Th
irteen ­were in the sparring room, instructing the other covens in hand-­to-­hand combat. Faline and Fallon, the green-­eyed demon-­twins, ­were undoubtedly taking some plea­sure from torturing the newest sentinels.
Th
ey thrived on that sort of thing.

Iskra and Fendir swept over the uppermost peak of the Northern Fang and vanished into the clouds, the other twelve riders trailing in tight formation.
Th
e cold wind whipped at Manon's face, beckoning to her. She was on her way to the caverns to see Abraxos, but she'd wanted to monitor the Yellowlegs Crossing
fi
rst. Just to make sure they ­were truly gone for the next three hours.

She looked across the span of the bridge to the Fang and its giant entryway. Screeching and roaring echoed from it, reverberating across the mountains. “I want you to keep the
Th
irteen occupied for the rest of the day,” Manon said.

As Second, Asterin was the only one of the
Th
irteen with any sort of right to question her, and even then, it was only in very limited circumstances. “You're going to train with him?” Manon nodded. “Your grandmother said she'd gut me if I let you out of my sight again.” Golden hair twining about her in the wind, Asterin's face, with its now-­crooked nose, was wary.

“You're going to have to decide,” Manon said, not bothering to bare her iron teeth. “Are you her spy or my Second?”

No hint of pain or fear or betrayal. Just a slight narrowing of her eyes. “I serve you.”

“She's your Matron.”

“I serve you.”

For a heartbeat, Manon wondered when she'd ever earned that kind of loyalty.
Th
ey ­weren't friends—­at least, not in the way that humans seemed to be friends. Every Blackbeak already owed her their loyalty and obedience as the heir. But this . . .

Manon had never explained herself, her plans, or her intentions to anyone except her grandmother. But she found herself saying to her Second, “I'm still going to be Wing Leader.”

Asterin smiled, her iron teeth like quicksilver in the morning sun. “We know.”

Manon li
ft
ed her chin. “I want the
Th
irteen adding tumbling to their hand-­to-­hand training. And when you can handle your wyvern on your own, I want you in the skies when the Yellowlegs are alo
ft
. I want to know where they
fl
y, how they
fl
y, and what they do.”

Asterin nodded. “I already have the Shadows watching the Yellowlegs in the halls,” she said, a glimmer of rage and bloodthirst in those gold-­
fl
ecked black eyes. When Manon raised a brow, Asterin said, “You didn't think I'd let Iskra o
ff
so easily, did you?”

Manon could still feel the iron-­tipped
fi
ngers digging into her back, shoving her into the pit. Her ankle was sore and sti
ff
from the fall, her ribs bruised from the beating she'd taken from Titus's tail. “Keep them in line. Unless you want your nose broken a second time.”

Asterin
fl
ashed a grin. “We don't move without your command, Lady.”

•

Manon didn't want the overseer in the pen. Or his three handlers, all bearing spears and whips. She didn't want any of them for three reasons.

Th
e
fi
rst was that she wanted to be alone with Abraxos, who was crouched against the back wall, waiting and watching.

Th
e second was that the human smell of them, the beckoning warmth of the blood pulsing in their necks, was distracting.
Th
e stench of their fear was distracting. She'd debated for a good minute whether it would be worth it to gut one of them just to see what the others would do. Already, men ­were going missing from the Fang—­men who ­were rumored to have crossed the bridge to the Omega and never returned. Manon hadn't killed any of the men ­here yet, but every minute alone with them tempted her to play.

And the third reason she resented their presence was that Abraxos loathed them, with their whips and spears and chains and their hulking presence.
Th
e wyvern ­wouldn't move from his spot against the wall no matter how viciously they cracked their whips. He hated whips—­not just feared, but actually hated.
Th
e sound alone made him cringe and bare his teeth.

Th
ey'd been in the pen for ten minutes, attempting to get close enough to get him chained down and saddled. If it didn't happen soon, she'd have to go back to the Omega before the Yellowlegs returned.

“He's never taken a saddle,” the overseer said to her. “Probably won't.” She heard the unspoken words.
I'm not going to risk my men getting it on him. You're just being proud. Pick another mount like a good girl.

Manon
fl
ashed her iron teeth at the overseer, her upper lip pulling back just enough to warn him. He backed up a step, whip drooping. Abraxos's mutilated tail slashed across the ground, his eyes never leaving the three men trying to force him into submission.

One of them cracked the whip, so close to Abraxos that he
fl
inched away. Another snapped it near his tail—­twice.
Th
en Abraxos lunged, with both neck and tail.
Th
e three handlers scrambled, barely out of reach of his snapping teeth. Enough.

“Your men have cowards' hearts,” she said, giving the overseer a withering look as she stalked across the dirt
fl
oor.

Th
e overseer grabbed for her, but she slashed with iron-­tipped
fi
ngers and sliced his hand open. He cursed, but Manon kept walking, licking his blood o
ff
her nails. She almost spat it out.

Vile.
Th
e blood tasted rotten, as if it had curdled or festered inside a corpse for days. She glanced at the blood on the rest of her hand. It was too dark for human blood. If witches had indeed been killing these men, why had no one reported this? She bit down the questions. She would think about it another time. Maybe drag the overseer into a forgotten corner and open him up to see what was decaying inside him.

But right now . . .
Th
e men had gone quiet. Each step brought her closer to Abraxos. A line had been marked in the dirt where the safety of the chains ended. Manon took three steps beyond it, one for each face of their Goddess: Maiden. Mother. Crone.

Abraxos crouched, the powerful muscles of his body tense, ready to spring.

“You know who I am,” Manon said, gazing into those endless black eyes, not giving one inch to fear or doubt. “I am Manon Blackbeak, heir to the Blackbeak Clan, and you are
mine
. Do you understand?”

One of the men snorted, and Manon might have whirled to tear out his tongue right there, but Abraxos . . . Abraxos lowered his head ever so slightly. As if he understood.

“You are Abraxos,” Manon said to him, a chill slithering down her neck. “I gave you that name because he is the Great Beast, the serpent who wrapped the world in his coils, and who will devour it at the very end when the
Th
ree-­Faced Goddess bids him to. You are Abraxos,” she repeated, “and you are
mine
.”

A blink, then another. Abraxos took a step toward her. Leather groaned as someone tightened their grip on a coiled whip. But Manon held fast, li
ft
ing one hand toward her wyvern. “Abraxos.”

Th
e mighty head came toward her, those eyes pools of liquid night meeting her own. Her hand was still extended, tipped in iron and stained with blood. He pressed his snout into her palm and hu
ff
ed.

His gray hide was warm and surprisingly so
ft
—­thick but supple, like worn leather. Up close, the variation in coloring was striking—­not just gray, but dark green, brown, black. It was marred all over by thick scars, so many that they could have been the stripes of a jungle cat. Abraxos's teeth, yellow and cracked, gleamed in the torchlight. Some ­were missing, but those that remained ­were as long as a
fi
nger and twice as thick. His hot breath reeked, either from his diet or rotting teeth.

Each of the scars, the chipped teeth and broken claws, the mutilated tail—­they ­weren't the markings of a victim. Oh, no.
Th
ey ­were the trophies of a survivor. Abraxos was a warrior who'd had all the odds stacked against him and survived. Learned from it. Triumphed.

Manon didn't bother to look at the men behind her as she said, “Get out.” She kept staring into those dark eyes. “Leave the saddle and get out. If you bring a whip in ­here again, I'll use it on you myself.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Muttering and clicking their tongues, the handlers shu
ffl
ed out and shut the gate. When they ­were alone, Manon stroked the massive snout.