Heir of Fire (62 page)

She was their queen, and she could o
ff
er them nothing less.

Aelin Galathynius smiled at her, hand still outreached. “Get up,” the princess said.

Celaena reached across the earth between them and brushed her
fi
ngers against Aelin's.

And arose.

55

Th
e barrier fell.

But the darkness did not advance over the ward-­stones, and Rowan, who had been restrained by Gavriel and Lorcan in the grass outside the fortress, knew why.

Th
e creatures and Narrok had captured a prize far greater than the demi-­Fae.
Th
e joy of feeding on her was something they planned to relish for a long, long while. Everything ­else was secondary—­as if they'd forgotten to continue advancing, swept up in the frenzy of feasting.

Behind them, the
fi
ghting continued, as it had for the past twenty minutes. Wind and ice ­were of no use against the darkness, though Rowan had hurled both against it the moment the barrier fell. Again and again, anything to pierce that eternal black and see what was le
ft
of the princess. Even as he started hearing a so
ft
, warm female voice, beckoning to him from the darkness—­that voice he had spent centuries forgetting, which now tore him to shreds.

“Rowan,” Gavriel murmured, tightening his grip on Rowan's arm. Rain had begun pouring. “We are needed inside.”

“No,” he snarled. He knew Aelin was alive, because during all these weeks that they had been breathing each other's scents, they had become bonded. She was alive, but could be in any level of torment or decay.
Th
at was why Gavriel and Lorcan ­were holding him back. If they didn't, he would run for the darkness, where Lyria beckoned.

But for Aelin, he had tried to break free.

“Rowan, the others—”

“No.”

Lorcan swore over the roar of the torrential rain. “She is
dead
, you fool, or close enough to it. You can still save other lives.”

Th
ey began hauling him to his feet, away from her. “If you don't let me go, I'll rip your head from your body,” he snarled at Lorcan, the commander who had o
ff
ered him a company of warriors when he had nothing and no one le
ft
.

Gavriel
fl
icked his eyes to Lorcan in some silent conversation. Rowan tensed, preparing to
fl
ing them o
ff
.
Th
ey would knock him unconscious sooner than allow him into that dark, where Lyria's beckoning had now turned to screaming for mercy. It ­wasn't real. It ­wasn't real.

But Aelin
was
real, and was being drained of life with every moment they held him ­here. All he needed to get them unconscious was for Gavriel to drop his magical shield—­which he'd had up against Rowan's own power from the moment he'd pinned him. He had to get into that dark, had to
fi
nd her. “
Let go
,” he growled again.

A rumbling shook the earth, and they froze. Beneath them some huge power was surging—­a behemoth rising from the deep.

Th
ey turned toward the darkness. And Rowan could have sworn that a golden light arced through it, then disappeared.

“
Th
at's impossible,” Gavriel breathed. “She burned out.”

Rowan didn't dare blink. Her burnouts had always been self-­imposed, some inner barrier composed of fear and a lingering desire for normalcy that kept her from accepting the true depth of her power.

Th
e creatures fed on despair and pain and terror. But what if—­what if the victim let go of those fears? What if the victim walked through them—­embraced them?

As if in answer,
fl
ame erupted from the wall of darkness.

Th
e
fi
re unfurled,
fi
lling the rainy night, vibrant as a red opal. Lorcan swore, and Gavriel threw up additional shields of his own magic. Rowan didn't bother.

Th
ey did not
fi
ght him as he shrugged o
ff
their grip, surging to his feet.
Th
e
fl
ame didn't singe a hair on his head. It
fl
owed above and past him, glorious and immortal and unbreakable.

And there, beyond the stones, standing between two of those creatures, was Aelin, a strange mark glowing on her brow. Her hair
fl
owed around her, shorter now and bright like her
fi
re. And her eyes—­though they ­were red-­rimmed, the gold in her eyes was a living
fl
ame.

Th
e two creatures lunged for her, the darkness sweeping in around them.

Rowan ran all of one step before she
fl
ung out her arms, grabbing the creatures by their
fl
awless faces—­her palms over their open mouths as she exhaled sharply.

As if she'd breathed
fi
re into their cores,
fl
ames shot out of their eyes, their ears, their
fi
ngers.
Th
e two creatures didn't have a chance to scream as she burned them into cinders.

She lowered her arms. Her magic was raging so
fi
ercely that the rain turned to steam before it hit her. A weapon bright from the forging.

He forgot Gavriel and Lorcan as he bolted for her—­the gold and red and blue
fl
ames utterly hers, this heir of
fi
re. Spying him at last, she smiled faintly. A queen's smile.

But there was exhaustion in that smile, and her bright magic
fl
ickered. Behind her, Narrok and the remaining creature—­the one they had faced in the woods—­were spooling the darkness into themselves, as if readying for attack. She turned toward them, swaying slightly, her skin deathly pale.
Th
ey had fed on her, and she was drained a
ft
er shredding apart their brethren. A very real, very
fi
nal burnout was steadily approaching.

Th
e wall of black swelled, one
fi
nal hammer blow to squash her, but she stood fast, a golden light in the darkness.
Th
at was all Rowan needed to see before he knew what he had to do. Wind and ice ­were of no use ­here, but there ­were other ways.

Rowan drew his dagger and sliced his palm open as he sprinted through the gate-­stones.

•

Th
e darkness built and built, and she knew it would hurt, knew it would likely kill her and Rowan when it came crashing down. But she would not run from it.

Rowan reached her, panting and bloody. She did not dishonor him by asking him to
fl
ee as he extended his bleeding palm, o
ff
ering his raw power to harness now that she was well and truly emptied. She knew it would work. She had suspected it for some time now.
Th
ey ­were
carranam
.

He had come for her. She held his gaze as she grabbed her own dagger and cut her palm, right over the scar she'd given herself at Nehemia's grave. And though she knew he could read the words on her face, she said, “To what­ever end?”

He nodded, and she joined hands with him, blood to blood and soul to soul, his other arm coming around to grip her tightly.
Th
eir hands clasped between them, he whispered into her ear, “I claim you, too, Aelin Galathynius.”

Th
e wave of impenetrable black descended, roaring as it made to devour them.

Yet this was not the end—­this was not
her
end. She had survived loss and pain and torture; she had survived slavery and hatred and despair; she would survive this, too. Because hers was not a story of darkness. So she was not afraid of that crushing black, not with the warrior holding her, not with the courage that having one true friend o
ff
ered—­a friend who made living not so awful a
ft
er all, not if she ­were with him.

Rowan's magic punched into her, old and strange and so vast her knees buckled. He held her with that unrelenting strength, and she harnessed his wild power as he opened his innermost barriers, letting it
fl
ow through her.

Th
e black wave was not halfway fallen when they shattered it apart with golden light, leaving Narrok and his remaining prince gaping.

She did not give them a moment to spool the darkness back. Drawing power from the endless well within Rowan, she pulled up
fi
re and light, embers and warmth, the glow of a thousand dawns and sunsets. If the Valg craved the sunshine of Erilea, then she would give it to them.

Narrok and the prince ­were shrieking.
Th
e Valg did not want to go back; they did not want to be ended, not a
ft
er so long spent waiting to return to her world. But she crammed the light down their throats, burning up their black blood.

She clung to Rowan, gritting her teeth against the sounds.
Th
ere was a sudden silence, and she looked to Narrok, standing so still, watching, waiting. A spear of black punched into her head—­o
ff
ering one more vision in a mere heartbeat. Not a memory, but a glimpse of the future.
Th
e sounds and smell and look of it ­were so real that only her grip on Rowan kept her anchored in the world.
Th
en it was gone, and the light was still building, enveloping them all.

Th
e light became unbearable as she willed it into the two Valg who had now dropped to their knees, pouring it into every shadowy corner of them. And she could have sworn that the blackness in Narrok's eyes faded. Could have sworn that his eyes became a mortal brown, and that gratitude
fl
ickered just for a moment. Just for a moment; then she burned both demon and Narrok to ash.

Th
e remaining Valg prince crawled only two steps before he followed suit, a silent scream on his perfect face as he was incinerated. When the light and
fl
ames receded, all that remained of Narrok and the Valg ­were four Wyrdstone collars steaming in the wet grass.

56

A few days a
ft
er the unforgivable, despicable slave massacre, Sorscha was
fi
nishing up a letter to her friend when there was a knock on her workroom door. She jumped, scrawling a line of ink down the center of the page.

Dorian popped his head in, grinning, but the grin faltered when he saw the letter. “I hope I'm not interrupting,” he said, slipping in and shutting the door. As he turned, she balled up the ruined paper and chucked it into the rubbish pail.

“Not at all,” she said, toes curling as he nuzzled her neck and slipped his arms around her waist. “Someone might walk in,” she protested, squirming out of his grip. He let her go, but his eyes gleamed in a way that told her when they ­were alone again to­night, he might not be so easy to convince. She smiled.

“Do that again,” he breathed.

So Sorscha smiled again, laughing. And he looked so ba
ffl
ed by it that she asked, “What?”

“
Th
at's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” he said.

She had to look away, go
fi
nd something to do with her hands.
Th
ey worked together in silence, as they ­were prone to doing now that Dorian knew his way around the workroom. He liked helping her with her tonics for other patients.

Someone coughed from the doorway, and they straightened, Sor­scha's heart
fl
ying into her throat. She hadn't even noticed the door opening—­or the Captain of the Guard now standing in it.

Th
e captain walked right in, and Dorian sti
ff
ened beside her.

“Captain,” she said, “are you in need of my assistance?”

Dorian said nothing, his face unusually grim—­those beautiful eyes haunted and heavy. He slipped a warm hand around her waist, resting it on her back.
Th
e captain quietly shut the door, and seemed to listen to the outside hall for a moment before speaking.

He looked even graver than her prince—­his broad shoulders seeming to sag under an invisible burden. But his golden-­brown eyes ­were clear as they met Dorian's. “You ­were right.”

•

Chaol supposed it was a miracle in itself that Dorian had agreed to do this.
Th
e grief on Dorian's face this morning had told him he could ask. And that Dorian would say yes.

Dorian made Chaol explain everything—­to both of them.
Th
at was Dorian's price: the truth owed to him, and to the woman who deserved to know what she was risking herself for.

Chaol quietly, quickly, explained everything: the magic, the Wyrdkeys, the three towers . . . all of it. To her credit, Sorscha didn't fall apart or doubt him. He wondered if she was reeling, if she was upset with Dorian for not telling her. She revealed nothing, not with that healer's training and self-­control. But the prince watched Sorscha as if he could read her impregnable mask and see what was brewing beneath.

Th
e prince had somewhere to be. He kissed Sorscha before he le
ft
, murmuring something in her ear that made her smile. Chaol hadn't suspected to
fi
nd Dorian so . . . happy with his healer. Sorscha. It was an embarrassment that Chaol had never known her name until today. And from the way Dorian looked at her, and she him . . . He was glad that his friend had found her.

When Dorian had gone, Sorscha was still smiling, despite what she'd learned. It made her truly stunning—­it made her ­whole face open up.