Heir of Fire (51 page)

And a promise.

•

Everyone came this time to watch the Crossing. Abraxos was saddled, focus pinned on the cave mouth open to the night beyond. Asterin and Sorrel ­were behind her—­but beside their mounts, not astride them. Her grandmother had gotten wind of how they planned to save her and forbidden it. It was Manon's own stupidity and pride that had to pay, she'd said.

Witches lined the viewing platform, and from high above, the High Witches and their heirs watched from a small balcony.
Th
e noise was near deafening. Manon glanced at Asterin and Sorrel and found them looking stone-­cold
fi
erce, but tense.

“Keep to the walls so he ­doesn't spook your wyverns,” she told them.
Th
ey nodded grimly.

Since gra
ft
ing the Spidersilk onto Abraxos's wings, Manon had been careful not to push him too hard until the healing was absolutely complete. But the Crossing, with its plunge and winds . . . his wings could be shredded in a matter of seconds if the silk didn't hold.

“We're waiting, Manon,” her grandmother barked from above. She waved a hand toward the cave mouth. “But by all means, take your time.”

Laughter—from the Yellowlegs, Blackbeaks . . . everyone. Yet Petrah ­wasn't smiling. And none of the
Th
irteen, gathered closest along the viewing platform, ­were smiling, either.

Manon turned to Abraxos, looking into those eyes. “Let's go.” She tugged on the reins.

But he refused to move—­not from fear or terror. He slowly li
ft
ed his head—­looking to where her grandmother stood—­and let out a low, warning growl. A threat.

Manon knew she should reprimand him for the disrespect, but the fact that he could grasp what was occurring in this hall . . . it should have been impossible.

“
Th
e night is waning,” her grandmother called, heedless of the beast that stared at her with such rage in his eyes.

Sorrel and Asterin exchanged glances, and she could have sworn her Second's hand twitched toward the hilt of her sword. Not to hurt Abraxos, but . . . Every single one of the
Th
irteen was casually reaching for their weapons. To
fi
ght their way out—­in case her grandmother gave the order to have Manon and Abraxos put down.
Th
ey'd heard the challenge in Abraxos's growl—­understood that the beast had drawn a line in the sand.

Th
ey ­were not born with hearts, her grandmother said.
Th
ey had all been told that. Obedience, discipline, brutality.
Th
ose ­were the things they ­were supposed to cherish.

Asterin's eyes ­were bright—­stunningly bright—­and she nodded once at Manon.

It was that same feeling she'd gotten when Iskra whipped Abraxos—­that thing she ­couldn't describe, but it blinded her.

Manon gripped Abraxos's snout, forcing his gaze away from her grandmother. “Just once,” she whispered. “All you have to do is make this jump just
once
, Abraxos, and then you can
shut them up forever
.”

Th
en, rising up from the deep, there came a steady two-­note beat.
Th
e beat of the chained bait beasts, who hauled the massive machines around. Like a thudding heart. Or beating wings.

Louder the beat sounded, as if the wyverns down in the pits knew what was happening. It grew and grew, until it reached the cavern—­until Asterin reached for her shield and joined in. Until each one of the
Th
irteen took up the beat. “You hear that?
Th
at
is for you.”

For a moment, as the beat pulsed around them, phantom wings from the mountain itself, Manon thought that it would not be so bad to die—­if it was with him, if she was not alone.

“You are one of the
Th
irteen,” she said to him. “From now until the Darkness cleaves us apart. You are mine, and I am yours. Let's show them why.”

He hu
ff
ed into her palms as if to say he already knew all that and that she was just wasting time. She smiled faintly, even as Abraxos cast another challenging glare in her grandmother's direction.
Th
e wyvern lowered himself to the ground for Manon to climb into the saddle.

Th
e distance to the entrance seemed so much shorter in the saddle than on foot, but she did not let herself doubt him as she blinked her inner lid into place and retracted her teeth.
Th
e Spidersilk would hold—­she would consider no other alternative. “Fly, Abraxos,” she told him, and dug her spurs into his sides.

Like a roaring star, he thundered down the long shoot, and Manon moved with him, meeting each gallop of his powerful body, each step in time with the beat of the wyverns locked in the belly of the mountain. Abraxos
fl
apped his wings open, pounding them once, twice, gathering speed, fearless, unrelenting, ready.

Still, the beat did not stop, not from the wyverns or from the
Th
irteen or from the Blackbeak covens, who picked it up, stomping their feet or clapping their hands. Not from the Blueblood heir, who clapped her sword against her dagger, or the Blueblood witches who followed her lead.
Th
e entire mountain shook with the sound.

Faster and faster, Abraxos raced for the drop, and Manon held on tight.
Th
e cave mouth opened wide. Abraxos tucked in his wings, using the movement to give his body one last shove over the lip as he took Manon with him and plunged.

Fast as lightning arcing across the sky, he plummeted toward the Gap
fl
oor.

Manon ­rose up into the saddle, clinging as her braid ripped free from her cloak, then came loose from its bonds, pulling painfully behind her, making her eyes water despite the lids. Down and down he fell, wings tucked in tight, tail straight and balanced.

Down into hell, into eternity, into that world where, for a moment, she could have sworn that something tightened in her chest.

She did not shut her eyes, not as the moon-­illuminated stones of the Gap became closer, clearer. She did not need to.

Like the sails of a mighty ship, Abraxos's wings unfurled, snapping tight. He tilted them upward, pulling against the death trying to drag them down.

And it was those wings, covered in glimmering patches of Spidersilk, that stayed strong and sturdy, sending them soaring clean up the side of the Omega and into the starry sky beyond.

45

To their credit, the sentries didn't jump when Rowan shi
ft
ed beside them atop the battlement wall.
Th
ey had eyes keen enough to have detected his arrival as he swooped in. A slight tang of fear leaked from them, but that was to be expected, even if it troubled him more than it had in the past. But they did stir slightly when he spoke. “How long has she been down there?”

“An hour, Prince,” one said, watching the
fl
ashing
fl
ames below.

“For how many mornings in a row?”

“
Th
is is the fourth, Prince,” the same sentry replied.

Th
e
fi
rst three days she'd slipped from bed before dawn, he'd assumed she'd been helping in the kitchens. But when they'd trained yesterday she'd . . .
improved
at a rate she shouldn't have, as if overnight. He had to give her credit for resourcefulness.

Th
e girl stood outside the ward-­stones,
fi
ghting with herself.

A dagger of
fl
ame
fl
ew from her hand toward the invisible barrier between two stones, then another, as if racing for the head of an opponent. It hit the magic wall with a
fl
ash of light and bounced back, re
fl
ected o
ff
the protective spell encircling the fortress. And when it reached her, she shielded—­swi
ft
, strong, sure. A warrior on a battle
fi
eld.

“I've never seen anyone . . .
fi
ght like that,” the sentry said.

It was a question, but Rowan didn't bother to answer. It ­wasn't their business, and he ­wasn't entirely certain if his queen would be pleased with the demi-­Fae learning to use their powers in such a way.
Th
ough he fully planned to tell Lorcan, his commander and the only male who outranked him in Doranelle, just to see whether they could use it in their training.

Th
e girl moved from throwing weapons to hand-­to-­hand combat: a punch of power, a sweeping kick of
fl
ame. Her
fl
ames had become gloriously varied—­golds and reds and oranges. And her technique—­not the magic, but the way she moved . . . Her master had been a monster, there was no doubt of that. But he had trained her thoroughly. She ducked and
fl
ipped and twisted, relentless, raging, and—

She swore with her usual color as the wall sent the punch of ruby
fl
ame back at her. She managed to shield, but still got knocked on her ass. Yet none of the sentries laughed. Rowan didn't know if it was because of his presence or because of her.

He got his answer a heartbeat later, as he waited for her to shout or shriek or walk away. But the princess just slowly got to her feet, not bothering to brush o
ff
the dirt and leaves, and kept practicing.

•

Th
e next corpse appeared a week later, setting a rather wretched tone for the crisp spring morning as Celaena and Rowan ran for the site.

Th
ey'd spent the past week
fi
ghting and defending and manipulating her magic, interrupted only by a rather miserable visit from some Fae nobility traveling through the area—­which le
ft
Celaena in no hurry to set foot in Doranelle.
Th
ankfully, the guests stayed for one night, hardly disrupting her lessons.

Th
ey worked only with
fi
re, ignoring the drop of water a
ffi
nity that she'd been given. She tried again and again to summon the water, when she was drinking, while in the bath, when it rained, but to no avail. Fire it was, then. And while she knew Rowan was aware of her early morning practicing, he never lightened her training, though she could have sworn she occasionally felt their magic . . . playing together, her
fl
ame taunting his ice, his wind dancing amongst her embers. But each morning brought something new, something harder and di
ff
erent and miserable. Gods, he was brilliant. Cunning and wicked and brilliant.

Even when he beat the hell out of her. Every. Damn. Day.

Not from malice, not like it had been before, but to prove his point—­her enemies would give no quarter. If she needed to pause, if her power faltered, she died.

So he knocked her into the mud or the stream or the grass with a blast of wind or ice. So she ­rose, shooting arrows of
fl
ame, her shield now her strongest ally. Again and again, hungry and exhausted and soaking with rain and mist and sweat. Until shielding was an instinct, until she could hurl arrows and daggers of
fl
ame together, until she knocked
him
on his ass.
Th
ere was always more to learn; she lived and breathed and dreamt of
fi
re.

Sometimes, though, her dreams ­were of a brown-­eyed man in an empire across the sea. Sometimes she'd awaken and reach for the warm, male body beside hers, only to realize it was not the captain—­that she would never again lie next to Chaol, not a
ft
er what had happened. And when she remembered that, it sometimes hurt to breathe.

Th
ere was nothing romantic about sharing a bed with Rowan, and they kept to their own sides.
Th
ere certainly was nothing romantic about it when they reached the site of the corpse and she peeled o
ff
her shirt to cool down. In nothing but her underclothes, Celaena's skin was bitten by the sea air with a delightful chill, and even Rowan unbuttoned his heavy jacket as they carefully approached the coordinates.

“Well, I can certainly smell him this time,” Celaena said between panting breaths.
Th
ey'd reached the site in little less than three hours, guessing by the sun.
Th
at was faster and longer than she'd ever run, thanks to the Fae form she'd been training in.

“
Th
is body has been rotting ­here longer than the demi-­Fae from three days ago.”

She bit back her retort.
Th
ere had been another demi-­Fae body found, and he hadn't let her go see it, instead forcing her to practice all day while he
fl
ew to the site. But this morning, he'd taken one look at the
fi
re smoldering in her eyes and relented.

Celaena stepped carefully on the pine carpet, scanning for any signs of a
fi
ght or of the attacker.
Th
e ground was churned up, and despite the rushing stream, the
fl
ies ­were buzzing near what appeared to be a heap of clothing peeking from behind a small boulder.

Rowan swore, low and viciously, even li
ft
ing his forearm to cover his nose and mouth as he examined the husk that remained, the demi-­Fae male's face twisted in horror. Celaena might done the same, except . . . except—

Th
at second smell was ­here, too. Not as strong as it had been at the
fi
rst site, but it lingered. She shoved back against the memory that wanted to rise in response to the smell, the memory that had overwhelmed her that day in the barrow-­
fi
eld.