Heir of Fire (5 page)

Silent as death, Manon slid up behind him.
Th
e fool didn't even know she was there until she brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Wrong kind of witch.”

Th
e man whirled, slamming into the closet door. He raised the dagger between them, his chest heaving. Manon merely smiled, her silver-­white hair glinting in the moonlight.

He noticed the shut door then, drawing in breath to shout. But Manon smiled broader, and a row of dagger-­sharp iron teeth pushed from the slits high in her gums, snapping down like armor.
Th
e man started, hitting the door behind him again, eyes so wide that white shone all around them. His dagger clattered on the
fl
oorboards.

And then, just to really make him soil his pants, she
fl
icked her wrists in the air between them.
Th
e iron claws shot over her nails in a stinging, gleaming
fl
ash.

Th
e man began whispering a plea to his so
ft
-­hearted gods as Manon let him back toward the lone window. Let him think he stood a chance while she stalked toward him, still smiling.
Th
e man didn't even scream before she ripped out his throat.

When she was done with him, she slipped through the bedroom door.
Th
e two men ­were still looting, still believing that all of this belonged to her. It had merely been an abandoned ­house—­its previous own­ers dead or smart enough to leave this festering place.

Th
e second man also didn't get the chance to scream before she gutted him with two swipes of her iron nails. But the third farmer came looking for his companions. And when he beheld her standing there, one hand twisted in his friend's insides, the other holding him to her as she used her iron teeth to tear out his throat, he ran.

Th
e common, watery taste of the man, laced with violence and fear, coated her tongue, and she spat onto the wooden
fl
oorboards. But Manon didn't bother wiping away the blood slipping down her chin as she gave the remaining farmer a head start into the
fi
eld of towering winter grass, so high that it was well over their heads.

She counted to ten, because she wanted to hunt, and had been that way since she tore through her mother's womb and came roaring and bloody into this world.

Because she was Manon Blackbeak, heir to the Blackbeak Witch-­Clan, and she had been ­here for weeks, pretending to be a Crochan witch in the hope that it would
fl
ush out the real ones.

Th
ey ­were still out there, the self-­righteous, insu
ff
erable Crochans, hiding as healers and wise-­women. Her
fi
rst, glorious kill had been a Crochan, no more than sixteen—­the same age as Manon at the time.
Th
e dark-­haired girl had been wearing the bloodred cloak that all Crochans ­were gi
ft
ed upon their
fi
rst bleeding—­and the only good it had done was mark her as prey.

A
ft
er Manon le
ft
the Crochan's corpse in that snow-­blasted mountain pass, she'd taken the cloak as a trophy—­and still wore it, over a hundred years later. No other Ironteeth witch could have done it—­because no other Ironteeth witch would have dared incur the wrath of the three Matrons by wearing their eternal enemy's color. But from the day Manon stalked into Blackbeak Keep wearing the cloak and holding that Crochan heart in a box—­a gi
ft
for her grandmother—­it had been her sacred duty to hunt them down, one by one, until there ­were none le
ft
.

Th
is was her latest rotation—­six months in Fenharrow while the rest of her coven was spread through Melisande and northern Eyllwe under similar orders. But in the months that she'd prowled from village to village, she hadn't discovered a single Crochan.
Th
ese farmers ­were the
fi
rst bit of fun she'd had in weeks. And she would be damned if she didn't enjoy it.

Manon walked into the
fi
eld, sucking the blood o
ff
her nails as she went. She slipped through the grasses, no more than shadow and mist.

She found the farmer lost in the middle of the
fi
eld, so
ft
ly bleating with fear. And when he turned, his bladder loosening at the sight of the blood and the iron teeth and the wicked, wicked smile, Manon let him scream all he wanted.

5

Celaena and Rowan rode down the dusty road that meandered between the boulder-­spotted grasslands and into the southern foothills. She'd memorized enough maps of Wendlyn to know that they'd pass through them and then over the towering Cambrian Mountains that marked the border between mortal-­ruled Wendlyn and the immortal lands of Queen Maeve.

Th
e sun was setting as they ascended the foothills, the road growing rockier, bordered on one side by rather harrowing ravines. For a mile, she debated asking Rowan where he planned to stop for the night. But she was tired. Not just from the day, or the wine, or the riding.

In her bones, in her blood and breath and soul, she was so, so tired. Talking to anyone was too taxing. Which made Rowan the perfect companion: he didn't say a single word to her.

Twilight fell as the road brought them through a dense forest that spread into and over the mountains, the trees turning from cypress to oak, from narrow to tall and proud, full of thickets and scattered mossy boulders. Even in the growing dark, the forest seemed to be breathing.
Th
e warm air hummed, leaving a metallic taste coating her tongue. Far behind them, thunder grumbled.

­Wouldn't that be wonderful. Especially since Rowan was
fi
nally dismounting to make camp. From the look of his saddlebags, he didn't have a tent. Or bedrolls. Or blankets.

Perhaps it was now fair to assume that her visit with Maeve ­wasn't to be pleasant.

Neither of them spoke as they led their ­horses into the trees, just far enough o
ff
the road to be hidden from any passing travelers. Dumping their gear at the camp he'd selected, Rowan brought his mare to a nearby stream he must have heard with those pointed ears. He didn't falter one step in the growing dark, though Celaena certainly stubbed her toes against a few rocks and roots. Excellent eyesight, even in the dark—­another Fae trait. One she could have if she—

No, she ­wasn't going to think about that. Not a
ft
er what had happened on the other side of that portal. She'd shi
ft
ed then—­and it had been awful enough to remind her that she had no interest in ever doing it again.

A
ft
er the ­horses drank, Rowan didn't wait for her as he took both mares back to the camp. She used the privacy to see to her own needs, then dropped to her knees on the grassy bank and drank her
fi
ll of the stream. Gods, the water tasted . . . new and ancient and powerful and delicious.

She drank until she understood the hole in her belly might very well be from hunger, then staggered back to camp,
fi
nding it by the gleam of Rowan's silver hair. He wordlessly handed her some bread and cheese, then returned to rubbing down the ­horses. She muttered a thank-­you, but didn't bother o
ff
ering to help as she plunked down against a towering oak.

When her belly had stopped hurting so much and she realized just how loudly she'd been munching on the apple he'd also tossed her while feeding the ­horses, she mustered enough energy to say, “Are there so many threats in Wendlyn that we ­can't risk a
fi
re?”

He sat against a tree and stretched his legs, crossing his ankles. “Not from mortals.”

His
fi
rst words to her since they'd le
ft
the city. It could have been an attempt to spook her, but she still did a mental inventory of all the weapons she carried. She ­wouldn't ask. Didn't want to know what manner of thing might crawl toward a
fi
re.

Th
e tangle of wood and moss and stone loomed, full of the rustling of heavy leaves, the gurgling of the swollen brook, the
fl
apping of feathered wings. And there, lurking over the rim of a nearby boulder, ­were three sets of small, glowing eyes.

Th
e hilt of her dagger was in her palm a heartbeat later. But they just stared at her. Rowan didn't seem to notice. He only leaned his head against the oak trunk.

Th
ey had always known her, the Little Folk. Even when Adarlan's shadow had covered the continent, they still recognized what she was. Small gi
ft
s le
ft
at campsites—­a fresh
fi
sh, a leaf full of blackberries, a crown of
fl
owers. She'd ignored them, and stayed out of Oakwald Forest as much as she could.

Th
e faeries kept their unblinking vigil. Wishing she hadn't downed the food so quickly, Celaena watched them back, ready to spring to a defensive position. Rowan hadn't moved.

What ancient oaths the faeries honored in Terrasen might be disregarded ­here. Even as she thought it, more eyes glowed between the trees. More silent witnesses to her arrival. Because Celaena was Fae, or something like a mongrel. Her great-­grandmother had been Maeve's sister, proclaimed a goddess when she died. Ridiculous, really. Mab had been very much mortal when she tied her life to the human prince who loved her so
fi
ercely.

She wondered how much these creatures knew about the wars that had destroyed her land, about the Fae and faeries that had been hunted down, about the burning of the ancient forests and the butchering of the sacred stags of Terrasen. She wondered if they had ever learned what became of their brethren in the West.

She didn't know how she found it in herself to care. But they seemed so . . . curious. Surprising even herself, Celaena whispered into the humming night, “
Th
ey still live.”

All those eyes vanished. When she glanced at Rowan, he hadn't opened his eyes. But she had the sense that the warrior had been aware the entire time.

6

Dorian Havilliard stood before his father's breakfast table, his hands held behind his back.
Th
e king had arrived moments ago but hadn't told him to sit. Once Dorian might have already said something about it. But having magic, getting drawn into what­ever mess Celaena was in, seeing that other world in the secret tunnels . . . all of that had changed everything.
Th
e best he could do these days was maintain a low pro
fi
le—to keep his father or anyone ­else from looking too long in his direction. So Dorian stood before the table and waited.

Th
e King of Adarlan
fi
nished o
ff
the roast chicken and sipped from what­ever was in his bloodred glass. “You're quiet this morning, Prince.”
Th
e conqueror of Erilea reached for a platter of smoked
fi
sh.

“I was waiting for you to speak, Father.”

Night-­black eyes shi
ft
ed toward him. “Unusual, indeed.”

Dorian tensed. Only Celaena and Chaol knew the truth about his magic—­and Chaol had shut him out so completely that Dorian didn't feel like attempting to explain himself to his friend. But this castle was full of spies and sycophants who wanted nothing more than to use what­ever knowledge they could to advance their position. Including selling out their Crown Prince. Who knew who'd seen him in the hallways or the library, or who had discovered that stack of books he'd hidden in Celaena's rooms? He'd since moved them down to the tomb, where he went every other night—­not for answers to the questions that plagued him but just for an hour of pure silence.

His father resumed eating. He'd been in his father's private chambers only a few times in his life.
Th
ey could be a manor ­house of their own, with their library and dining room and council chamber.
Th
ey occupied an entire wing of the glass castle—­a wing opposite from Dorian's mother. His parents had never shared a bed, and he didn't particularly want to know more than that.

He found his father watching him, the morning sun through the curved wall of glass making every scar and nick on the king's face even more gruesome. “You're to entertain Aedion Ashryver today.”

Dorian kept his composure as best he could. “Dare I ask why?”

“Since General Ashryver failed to bring his men ­here, it appears he has some spare time while awaiting the Bane's arrival. It would be bene
fi
cial to you both to become better acquainted—­especially when your choice of friends of late has been so . . . common.”

Th
e cold fury of his magic clawed its way up his spine. “With all due respect, Father, I have two meetings to prepare for, and—”

“It's not open for debate.” His father kept eating. “General Ashryver has been noti
fi
ed, and you will meet him outside your chambers at noon.”

Dorian knew he should keep quiet, but he found himself asking, “Why do you tolerate Aedion? Why keep him alive—­why make him a general?” He'd been unable to stop wondering about it since the man's arrival.

His father gave a small, knowing smile. “Because Aedion's rage is a useful blade, and he is capable of keeping his people in line. He will not risk their slaughter, not when he has lost so much. He has quelled many a would-­be rebellion in the North from that fear, for he is well aware that it would be his own people—­the civilians—who su
ff
ered
fi
rst.”