Heir of Fire (55 page)

A few days later, Rowan assembled a small group of captains around a table in the dining hall. “Bas's scouting team reported that the creatures look like they're readying to move in a few days,” he said, pointing to a map. “Are the
fi
rst and second miles of traps almost done?”
Th
e captains gave their con
fi
rmation. “Good. Tomorrow, I want your men preparing the next few miles, too.”

Standing beside Rowan, Celaena watched as he led them through the meeting, keeping track of all the various legs and arms of their plan—­not to mention remembering all the names of the captains, their soldiers, and what they ­were responsible for. He remained calm and steady—­
fi
erce, even—­despite the hell that might soon be upon them.

Glancing at the demi-­Fae assembled, their attention wholly on Rowan, she could see that they clung to that steadiness, that cold determination and clever mind—­and centuries of experience. She envied him for it. And beneath that, with a growing heaviness she could not control, she wished that when she le
ft
this continent . . . she ­wouldn't go alone.

“Get some sleep. You're no use to me completely dazed.”

She blinked. She'd been staring at him.
Th
e meeting was over, the captains already walking away to attend to their various tasks.

“Sorry.” She rubbed her eyes.
Th
ey'd been up since before dawn, readying the last few miles of path, checking that all the traps ­were secure. Working with him was so e
ff
ortless.
Th
ere was no judgment, no need to explain herself. She knew no one would ever replace Nehemia, and she never wanted anyone to, but Rowan made her feel . . . better. As if she could
fi
nally breathe a
ft
er months of su
ff
ocating. Yet now . . .

He was still watching her, frowning. “Just say it.”

She examined the map on the table between them. “We can handle the mortal soldiers, but those creatures and Narrok . . . if we had Fae warriors—­like your companion who came to receive his tattoo”—­she didn't think calling him Rowan's
kitty-­cat friend
would help her case this time—“or all
fi
ve of your cadre, even, it could turn the tide.” She traced the line of mountains that separated these lands from the immortal ones beyond. “But you have not sent for them. Why?”

“You know why.”

“Would Maeve order you home out of spite for the demi-­Fae?”

His jaw tightened. “For a few reasons, I think.”

“And this is the person you chose to serve.”

“I knew what I was doing when I drank her blood to seal the oath.”

“
Th
en let's hope Wendlyn's reinforcements get ­here quickly.” She pursed her lips and turned to go to their room. He gripped her wrist.

“Don't do that.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“With that . . . disgust.”

“I'm not—” But he gave her a sharp look. She sighed. “
Th
is . . . all this, Rowan . . .” She waved a hand to the map, to the doors the demi-­Fae had passed through, to the sounds of people readying their supplies and defenses in the courtyard. “For what­ever it's worth, all of this just proves that she ­doesn't deserve you. I think you know that, too.”

He looked away. “
Th
at isn't your concern.”

“I know. But I thought you should still hear it.”

He didn't respond, ­wouldn't even meet her eyes, so she walked away. She looked over her shoulder once, to
fi
nd him still hunched over the table, hands braced on its surface, the powerful muscles of his back visible through his shirt. And she knew he ­wasn't looking at the map, not really.

But saying that she wished he could return with her to Adarlan, to Terrasen, was pointless. He had no way to break his oath to Maeve, and she had nothing to entice him with even if he could. She was not a queen. She had no plans to be one, and even if she had a kingdom to give him if he ­were free . . . Telling him all that was useless.

So she le
ft
Rowan in the hall. But it did not stop her from wishing she could keep him.

•

Th
e next a
ft
ernoon, a
ft
er washing her face and bandaging a burn on her forearm in Rowan's room, Celaena was just coming down to help with the dinner preparations when she felt, rather than heard, the ripple of silence through the fortress, deeper and heavier than the ner­vous quiet that had hovered over the compound the last few days.

Th
e fortress had not been this tense since that
fi
rst night Maeve had been ­here.

It was too soon for her aunt to be checking on her. She had little to show so far other than a few somewhat useful tricks and her various shields.

She took the stairs two at a time until she reached the kitchen. If Maeve learned about the invasion and ordered Rowan to leave . . . Breathing, thinking—­those ­were the key tools to enduring this encounter.

Th
e heat and yeasty scent hit her as she bounded down the last steps, slowing her gait, li
ft
ing her chin, even though she doubted her aunt would condescend to meet in the kitchen. Unless she wanted her unbalanced. But—

But Maeve was not in the kitchen.

Rowan was, and his back was to her as he stood at the other end with Emrys, Malakai, and Luca, talking quietly. Celaena stopped dead as she beheld at Emrys's too pale face, the hand gripping Malakai's arm.

As Rowan turned to her, lips thin and eyes wide with—­with shock and horror and grief—­the world stopped dead, too.

Rowan's arms hung slack at his sides, his
fi
ngers clenching and unclenching. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she went back upstairs, what­ever he had to say would not be true.

Rowan took a step toward her—­one step, and that was all it took before she began shaking her head, before she li
ft
ed her hands in front of her as if to push him away. “Please,” she said, and her voice broke. “Please.”

Rowan kept approaching, the bearer of some inescapable doom. And she knew that she could not outrun it, and could not fall on her knees and beg for it to be undone.

Rowan stopped within reach but did not touch her, his features hardening again—­not from cruelty. Because he knew, she realized, that one of them would have to hold it together. He needed to be calm—­needed to keep his wits about him for this.

Rowan swallowed once. Twice. “
Th
ere was . . . there was an uprising at the Calaculla labor camp,” he said.

Her heart stumbled on a beat.

“A
ft
er Princess Nehemia was assassinated, they say a slave girl killed her overseer and sparked an uprising.
Th
e slaves seized the camp.” He took a shallow breath. “
Th
e King of Adarlan sent two legions to get the slaves under control. And they killed them all.”

“
Th
e slaves killed his legions?” A push of breath.
Th
ere ­were thousands of slaves in Calaculla—­all of them together would be a mighty force, even for two of Adarlan's legions.

With horri
fi
c gentleness, Rowan grasped her hand. “No.
Th
e soldiers killed every slave in Calaculla.”

A crack in the world, through which a keening wail pushed in like a wave. “
Th
ere are thousands of people enslaved in Calaculla.”

Th
e resolve in Rowan's countenance splintered as he nodded. And when he opened and closed his mouth, she realized it was not over.
Th
e only word she could breathe was “Endovier?” It was a ­fool's plea.

Slowly, so slowly, Rowan shook his head. “Once he got word of the uprising in Eyllwe, the King of Adarlan sent two other legions north. None ­were spared in Endovier.”

She did not see Rowan's face when he gripped her arms as if he could keep her from falling into the abyss. No, all she could see ­were the slaves she'd le
ft
behind, the ashy mountains and those mass graves they dug every day, the faces of her people, who had worked beside her—­her people whom she had le
ft
behind. Whom she had let herself forget, had let su
ff
er; who had prayed for salvation, holding out hope that someone, anyone would remember them.

She had abandoned them—­and she had been too late.

Nehemia's people, the people of other kingdoms, and—­and her people.
Th
e people of Terrasen.
Th
e people her father and mother and court had loved so
fi
ercely.
Th
ere had been rebels in Endovier—­rebels who fought for her kingdom when she . . . when she had been . . .

Th
ere ­were children in Endovier. In Calaculla.

She had not protected them.

Th
e kitchen walls and ceiling crushed her, the air too thin, too hot. Rowan's face swam as she panted, panted, faster and faster—

He murmured her name too so
ft
ly for the others to hear.

And the sound of it, that name that had once been a promise to the world, the name she had spat on and de
fi
led, the name she did not deserve . . .

She tore o
ff
his grip, and then she was walking out the kitchen door, across the courtyard, through the ward-­stones, and along the invisible barrier—­until she found a spot just out of sight of the fortress.

Th
e world was full of screaming and wailing, so loud she drowned in it.

Celaena did not utter a sound as she unleashed her magic on the barrier, a blast that shook the trees and set the earth rumbling. She fed her power into the invisible wall, begging the ancient stones to take it, to use it.
Th
e wards, as if sensing her intent, devoured her power ­whole, absorbing every last ember until it
fl
ickered, hungry for more.

So she burned and burned and burned.

49

For weeks now, Chaol hadn't had any contact with any of his friends—­allies, what­ever they had been. So, one last time, Chaol slipped into the rhythm of his old duties.
Th
ough it was more di
ffi
cult than ever to oversee the king's luncheons, though making his reports was an e
ff
ort of will, he did it. He had heard nothing from Aedion or Ren, and still hadn't yet asked Dorian to use his magic to test out their theories about the spell. He was starting to wonder if he was done playing his part in Aelin's growing rebellion.

He'd gathered enough information, crossed enough lines. Perhaps it was time to learn what could be done from Anielle. He would be closer to Morath, and maybe he could uncover what the king was brewing down there.
Th
e king had accepted his plans to take up his mantle as heir to Anielle with hardly any objections. Soon, he was to present options for a replacement.

Chaol was currently standing guard at a state luncheon in the great hall, which Aedion and Dorian ­were both attending.
Th
e doors had been thrown open to welcome in the spring air, and Chaol's men ­were standing at each one, weapons at the ready.

Everything was normal, everything was going smoothly, until the king stood, his black ring seeming to gobble up the midday sun streaming in through the towering windows. He li
ft
ed a goblet, and the room fell silent. Not in the way it did when Aedion spoke. Chaol hadn't been able to stop thinking about what the general had said to him about choosing a side, or what Dorian had said about his refusal to accept Celaena and the prince for what they really ­were. Over and over again, he'd contemplated it.

But nothing could prepare Chaol, or anyone in that silent hall, as the king smiled to the tables below his dais and said, “Good news arrived this morning from Eyllwe and the north.
Th
e Calaculla slave rebellion has been dealt with.”

Th
ey'd heard nothing of it, and Chaol wished he could cover his ears as the king said, “We'll have to work to replenish the mines, there and in Endovier, but the rebel taint has been purged.”

Chaol was glad he was leaning against a pillar. It was Dorian who spoke, his face bone-­white. “What are you talking about?”

His father smiled at him. “Forgive me. It seems the slaves in Calaculla got it into their heads to start an uprising a
ft
er Princess Nehemia's unfortunate death. We got it into our heads not to allow it. Or any other potential uprisings. And as we didn't have the resources to devote to interrogating each and every slave to weed out the ­traitors . . .”

Chaol understood what strength it took for Dorian not to shake his head in horror as he did the calculations and understood just how many people had been slaughtered.

“General Ashryver,” the king said. Aedion sat motionless. “You and your Bane will be pleased to know that since the purge in Endovier, many of the rebels in your territory have ceased their . . . antics. It seems they did not want a fate similar to that of their friends in the mines.”

Chaol didn't know how Aedion found the courage and will, but the general smiled and bowed his head. “
Th
ank you, Majesty.”

•

Dorian burst into Sorscha's workroom. She jumped from her spot at the table, a hand on her chest. “Did you hear?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.

Her eyes ­were red enough to suggest that she had. He took her face in his hands, pressing his brow against hers, needing that cool strength. He didn't know how he'd kept from weeping or vomiting or killing his father on the spot. But looking at her, breathing in her rosemary-­and-­mint scent, he knew why.