Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)(145)

“Not while you are bound to her.”

“I am bound to her forever.”

“I know.” He was Maeve’s slave—worse than a slave. He had to obey every command, no matter how wretched.

He leaned over his knees, dipping a large hand in the water. “You’re right. I don’t want you to tell me. Any of it.”

“I hate that,” she breathed. “I hate her.”

He looked away, toward Goldryn, discarded behind them on the rock. She’d told him its history this morning as she scarfed down enough food for three full-grown Fae warriors. He hadn’t seemed particularly impressed, and when she showed him the ring she’d found in the scabbard, he had nothing to say other than “I hope you find a good use for it.” Indeed.

But the silence that was building between them was unacceptable. She cleared her throat. Perhaps she couldn’t tell him the truth about the third Wyrdkey, but she could offer him another.

The truth. The truth of her, undiluted and complete. And after all that they had been through, all that she still wanted to do …

So she steeled herself. “I have never told anyone this story. No one in the world knows it. But it’s mine,” she said, blinking past the burning in her eyes, “and it’s time for me to tell it.”

Rowan leaned back on the rock, bracing his palms behind him.

“Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom … very much.”

And then she told him of the princess whose heart had burned with wildfire, of the mighty kingdom in the north, of its downfall and of the sacrifice of Lady Marion. It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried—and during those times he leaned over to wipe away her tears.

When she finished, Rowan merely passed her more of the tonic. She smiled at him, and he looked at her for a while before he smiled back, a different smile than all the others he’d given her before.

They were quiet for some time, and she didn’t know why she did it, but she held out a hand in front of her, palm facing the pool beneath.

And slowly, wobbling, a droplet of water the size of a marble rose from the surface to her cupped palm.

“No wonder your sense of self-preservation is so pathetic, if that’s all the water you can conjure.” But Rowan flicked her chin, and she knew he understood what it meant, to have summoned even a droplet to her hand. To feel her mother smiling at her from realms away.

She grinned at Rowan through her tears, and sent the droplet splashing onto his face.

Rowan tossed her into the pool. A moment later, laughing, he jumped in himself.




After a week of regaining her strength, she and the other injured demi-Fae had recovered enough to attend a celebration thrown by Emrys and Luca. Before she and Rowan headed downstairs to join the festivities, Celaena peered in the mirror—and stopped dead.

The somewhat shorter hair was the least of the changes.

She was now flushed with color, her eyes bright and clear, and though she’d regained the weight she’d lost that winter, her face was leaner. A woman—a woman was smiling back at her, beautiful for every scar and imperfection and mark of survival, beautiful for the fact that the smile was real, and she felt it kindle the long-slumbering joy in her heart.

She danced that night. The morning after, she knew it was time.

When she and Rowan had finished saying their good-byes to the others, she paused at the edge of the trees to look at the crumbling stone fortress. Emrys and Luca were waiting for them at the tree line, faces pale in the morning light. The old male had already stuffed their bags full of food and supplies, but he still pressed a hot loaf into Celaena’s hands as they looked at each other.

She said, “It might take a while, but if—when I reclaim my kingdom, the demi-Fae will always have a home there. And you two—and Malakai—will have a place in my household, should you wish it. As my friends.”

Emrys’s eyes were gleaming as he nodded, gripping Luca’s hand. The young man, who had opted to keep a long, wicked scratch bestowed in battle down his face, merely stared at her, wide-eyed. A part of her heart ached at the shadows that now lay in his face. Bas’s betrayal would haunt him, she knew. But Celaena smiled at him, ruffled his hair, and made to turn away.

“Your mother would be proud,” Emrys said.

Celaena put a hand on her heart and bowed in thanks.

Rowan cleared his throat, and Celaena gave them one last parting smile before she followed the prince into the trees—to Doranelle, and to Maeve, at last.





Chapter 58


“Just be ready to leave for Suria in two days,” Aedion ordered Ren as the three of them gathered at midnight in the apartment where Ren and Murtaugh had stayed, still unaware of who it belonged to. “Take the southern gate—it’ll be the least monitored at that hour.”

It had been weeks since they’d last met, and three days since a vague letter had arrived for Murtaugh from Sol of Suria, a friendly invitation to a long-lost friend to visit him. The wording was simple enough that they all knew the young lord was feeling them out, hinting at interest in the “opportunity” Murtagh had mentioned in an earlier letter. Since then, Aedion had combed every path northward, calculating the movements and locations of every legion and garrison along the way. Two more days; then perhaps this court could begin to rebuild itself.