Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)(18)

Maeve smiled, and it was not a thing of beauty. “You haven’t forgotten all of our ways, then.” When Celaena didn’t react, Maeve added, “I will truthfully answer all your questions about the keys.”

It might be easier to walk away. Go find some other ancient being to pester for the truth. Celaena breathed in and out, in and out. But Maeve had been there—had been there at the dawn of this world during the Valg wars. She had held the Wyrdkeys. She knew what they looked like, how they felt. Maybe she even knew where Brannon had hidden them—especially the last, unnamed key. And if Celaena could find a way to steal the keys from the king, to destroy him, to stop his armies and free Eyllwe, even if she could find just one Wyrdkey … “What manner of training—”

“Prince Rowan shall explain the specifics. For now, he will escort you to your chamber to rest.”

Celaena looked Maeve straight in her death-dealing eyes. “You swear you’ll tell me what I need to know?”

“I do not break my promises. And I have the feeling that you are unlike your mother in that regard, too.”

Bitch. Bitch, she wanted to hiss. But then Maeve’s eyes flicked to Celaena’s right palm. She knew everything. Through whatever spies or power or guesswork, Maeve knew everything about her and the vow to Nehemia.

“To what end?” Celaena asked softly, the anger and the fear dragging her down into an inescapable exhaustion. “You want me to train only so I can make a spectacle of my talents?”

Maeve ran a moon-white finger down the owl’s head. “I wish you to become who you were born to be. To become queen.”




Become queen.

The words haunted Celaena that night—kept her from sleeping, even though she was so exhausted she could have wept for the dark-eyed Silba to put her out of her misery. Queen. The word throbbed right along with the fresh split lip that also made sleeping very uncomfortable.

She could thank Rowan for that.

After Maeve’s command, Celaena hadn’t bothered with good-byes before walking out. Rowan had only cleared the way because Maeve gave him a nod, and he followed Celaena into a narrow hallway that smelled of roasting meat and garlic. Her stomach grumbled, but she’d probably hurl her guts up the second she swallowed anything. So she trailed Rowan down the corridor, down the stairs, each footstep alternating between iron-willed control and growing rage.

Left. Nehemia.

Right. You made a vow, and you will keep it, by whatever means necessary.

Left. Training. Queen.

Right. Bitch. Manipulative, cold-blooded, sadistic bitch.

Ahead of her, Rowan’s own steps were silent on the dark stones of the hallway. The torches hadn’t been lit yet, and in the murky interior, she could hardly tell he was there. But she knew—if only because she could almost feel the ire radiating off him. Good. At least one other person wasn’t particularly thrilled about this bargain.

Training. Training.

Her whole life had been training, from the moment she was born. Rowan could train her until he was blue in the face, and as long as it got her the answers about the Wyrdkeys, she’d play along. But it didn’t mean that, when the time came, she had to do anything. Certainly not take up her throne.

She didn’t even have a throne, or a crown, or a court. Didn’t want them. And she could bring down the king as Celaena Sardothien, thank you very much.

She tightened her fingers into fists.

They encountered no one as they descended a winding staircase and started down another corridor. Did the residents of this fortress—Mistward, Maeve had called it—know who was in that study upstairs? Maeve probably got off on terrifying them. Maybe she had all of them—half-breeds, she’d called them—enslaved through some bargain or another. Disgusting. It was disgusting, to keep them here just for having a mixed heritage that was no fault of theirs.

Celaena finally opened up her mouth.

“You must be very important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty.”

“Given your history, she didn’t trust anyone but her best to keep you in line.”

Oh, the prince wanted to tangle. Whatever self-control he’d had on their trek to the fortress was hanging by a thread. Good.

“Playing warrior in the woods doesn’t seem like the greatest indicator of talent.”

“I fought on killing fields long before you, your parents, or your grand-uncle were even born.”

She bristled—exactly like he wanted. “Who’s to fight here except birds and beasts?”

Silence. Then—“The world is a far bigger and more dangerous place than you can imagine, girl. Consider yourself blessed to receive any training—to have the chance to prove yourself.”

“I’ve seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling.”

A soft, harsh laugh. “Just wait, Aelin.”

Another jab. And she let herself fall for it. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name. I’m not going to call you anything different.”

She stepped in his path, getting right near those too-sharp canines. “No one here can know who I am. Do you understand?”

His green eyes gleamed, animal-bright in the dark. “My aunt has given me a harder task than she realizes, I think.” My aunt. Not our aunt.

And then she said one of the foulest things she’d ever uttered in her life, bathing in the pure hate of it. “Fae like you make me understand the King of Adarlan’s actions a bit more, I think.”