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She was one person, one complete waste of life.
“I’ve known a few brooding warrior-types in my day, but I think you might be the broodiest of them all.”
“You’ve gathered enough about me at this point to have learned what you need to know.”
“Fair enough. But what am I to call you?” She gripped the saddle but didn’t mount it. “Rowan.”
“I’m taking you where you’ve been summoned.”
He could probably kill her without a second thought—and then move on to his next task, utterly untroubled by ending her existence. It didn’t unnerve her as much as it should have.
Enemy. Lover. Queen.
Because Celaena was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, heir to the throne and rightful Queen of Terrasen. It made her his mortal enemy. It made her Dorian’s enemy.
Nehemia’s death had shattered her. What he had done, his role in that death, had shattered her, too. He knew that. He just prayed that she could piece herself back together again. Because a broken, unpredictable assassin was one thing. But a queen …
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 flush out the real ones.
It wasn’t the carved oak furniture, or the faded green drapes, or the warmth of the fire that made her stop dead. It was the dark-haired woman seated behind the desk. Maeve, Queen of the Fae. Her aunt. And then came the words she had been dreading for ten years. “Hello, Aelin Galathynius.”
“I wish you to become who you were born to be. To become queen.”
“I’ve seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling.” A soft, harsh laugh. “Just wait, Aelin.”
“You’re just as useless as the rest of your brethren.” He let out a soft, lethal laugh that raked claws down her temper. “If you’re that desperate to eat stone, go ahead: I’ll let you try to land the next punch.”
He sauntered down the hall. “Next time you say anything like that,” he said without looking over his shoulder, “I’ll have you chopping wood for a month.”
So Celaena turned away from the stars, nestling under the threadbare blanket against the frigid cold, and closed her eyes, trying to dream of a different world. A world where she was no one at all.
she enjoyed more than the groans of dying men,
You didn’t need a weapon at all when you were born one.
She was here, after all, because of him. Not just here in this physical place, but here inside this endless exhaustion, the near-constant ache in her chest.
How would they react if they knew the things she’d done?
“So you either have to be very important or very unlucky to have Rowan training you to enter Doranelle.”
contemplating that horrible realization again and again: she could not remember what it was like to be free.
Manon bowed her head, pressing two fingers to her brow. Obedience, discipline, and brutality were the most beloved words in the Blackbeak Clan.
“We walk into the sky, witches.”
As her eyes met with the endless dark of Titus’s, she smiled at the wyvern. She could have sworn he smiled back.
“I don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing for ten years, other than flouncing around and calling yourself an assassin. But I think you’re used to getting your way. I think you have no control over yourself. No control, and no discipline—not the kind that counts, deep down. You are a child, and a spoiled one at that. And,” he said, those green eyes holding nothing but distaste, “you are a coward.”
“I had planned to wait until you had some handle on your power—planned to make you come at night, when the barrow-wights are really something to behold, but consider this a favor, as there are few that will dare come out in the day. Walk through the mounds—face the wights and make it to the other side of the field, Aelin, and we can go to Doranelle whenever you wish.” It was a trap. She knew that well enough.
“You failed,” he said flatly. “You made it to the other side of the field, but I said to face the wights—not throw a magical tantrum.”
That thing should not have been there. Then what in hell was it, you stupid bastard? she silently shot back.
“I also heard there’s talk that the Yellowlegs need all the help they can get in the sparring room. But I suppose any army needs its supply drivers.”
“Watch your back. I will not be pleased if I have to find myself another heir.”
And not in a bad way—if he’d sensed that she was truly uncomfortable, he’d have kept his distance. This was more … flustered. He liked flustered.
“Ask it, Sorscha.”
He wasn’t an enemy using forbidden powers, but—a young man in need of help. Her help.
And Chaol realized that he’d revealed far more than he’d ever intended.
“Does your lover know what you are?” A cold question. She lifted her head, not caring how he’d found out. “He knows everything.” Not entirely true. His eyes flickered—with what emotion, she couldn’t tell. “I won’t be biting you again,” he said, and she wondered just what he’d tasted in her blood.
“If you ever take a whip to me, I will skin you alive.”
Rowan paused his stalking. “You’re worthless.” “Tell me something I don’t know.” He went on, “You would probably have been more useful to the world if you’d actually died ten years ago.” She just looked him in the eye and said, “I’m leaving.”
Order after order—a commander on the battlefield, solid and deadly.
A slight shrug, barely a movement at all. As if her gratitude were harder to endure than her hatred and reticence.
They had survived, when so many had not. And no one else could understand what it was like to bear it, unless they had lost as much.
“These days, I am very glad to be a mortal, and to only have to endure this life once. These days, I don’t envy you at all.”
“I used to wish I had a chance to see it all—and hated that I never would.”
“Tell me why the Captain of the Guard, a Lord of Adarlan, is helping his enemy. That’s all the information I want from you today.”
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.
“I’ll be airborne with Abraxos in a week, and then we’ll be flying as one.” It was a lie, but they believed her anyway.
She could have flown, could have soared for the sudden surge of ecstasy in her blood, the sheer freedom granted by the marvel of creation that was her body.
Her mother had called her Fireheart.
Now that she could shift on command, this was her new task: to light a candle without destroying everything in sight.
