Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass, #3)(49)

She didn’t want to recall how Nehemia had been used—had used herself—against her, to force her to act. Wanted to pretend she wasn’t starting to forget what Nehemia had looked like.

“Shift again,” Rowan ordered, jerking his chin at her. “This time, try to—”

She was forgetting what Nehemia looked like. The shade of her eyes, the curve of her lips, the smell of her. Her laugh. The roaring in Celaena’s head went quiet, silenced by that familiar nothingness.

Do not let that light go out.

But Celaena didn’t know how to stop it. The one person she could have told, who might have understood … She was buried in an unadorned grave, so far from the sun-warmed soil that she had loved.

Rowan gripped her by the shoulders. “Are you listening?”

She gave him a bored stare, even as his fingers dug into her skin. “Why don’t you just bite me again?”

“Why don’t I give you the lashing you deserve?”

He looked so dead set on it that she blinked. “If you ever take a whip to me, I will skin you alive.”

He let go of her and stalked around the clearing, a predator assessing its prey. “If you don’t shift again, you’re pulling double duty in the kitchens for the next week.”

“Fine.” At least working in the kitchens had some quantifiable results. At least in the kitchens, she could tell up from down and knew what she was doing. But this—this promise she’d made, the bargain she’d struck with Maeve … She’d been a fool.

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.”




Rowan didn’t stop her as she returned to the fortress and packed. It took all of a minute, as she hadn’t even unloaded her satchel and had no weapons left. She supposed she could have ripped the fortress apart to find where Rowan had stashed them, or stolen them from the demi-Fae, but both would require time and bring more attention than she wanted. She didn’t talk to anyone as she walked out.

She’d find another way to learn about the Wyrdkeys and destroy the King of Adarlan and free Eyllwe. If she kept going like this, she’d have nothing left inside to fight with.

She’d marked the paths they’d taken on the way in, but as she entered the tree-covered slopes, she mostly relied on the position of the cloud-veiled sun to navigate. She’d make the trip back, find food along the way, and figure out something else. This had been a fool’s errand from the start. At least she hadn’t been too long delayed—though she might now have to be quicker about finding the answers she needed, and—

“Is this what you do? Run away when things get hard?” Rowan was standing between two trees directly in her path, having undoubtedly flown here.

She brushed past him, her legs burning with the downhill walk. “You’re free of your obligation to train me, so I have nothing more to say to you, and you have nothing more to say to me. Do us both a favor and go to hell.”

A growl. “Have you ever had to fight for anything in your life?”

She let out a low, bitter laugh and walked faster, veering westward, not caring about the direction as much as getting away from him. But he kept up easily, his long, heavily muscled legs devouring the mossy ground. “You’re proving me right with every step you take.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t know what you want from Maeve—what answers you’re looking for, but you—”

“You don’t know what I want from her?” It was more of a shout than a question. “How about saving the world from the King of Adarlan?”

“Why bother? Maybe the world’s not worth saving.” She knew he meant it, too. Those lifeless eyes spoke volumes.

“Because I made a promise. A promise to my friend that I would see her kingdom freed.” She shoved her scarred palm into his face. “I made an unbreakable vow. And you and Maeve—all you gods-damned bastards—are getting in the way of that.” She went off down the hillside again. He followed.

“And what of your own people? What of your own kingdom?”

“They are better off without me, just as you said.”

His tattoo scrunched as he snarled. “So you’d save another land, but not yours. Why can’t your friend save her own kingdom?”

“Because she is dead!” She screamed the last word so loudly it burned in her throat. “Because she is dead, and I am left with my worthless life!”

He merely stared at her with that animal stillness. When she walked away, he didn’t come after her.




She lost track of how far she walked and in what direction she traveled. She didn’t really care. She hadn’t spoken the words—she is dead—since the day after Nehemia had been taken from her. But she was dead. And Celaena missed her.

Night swept in earlier due to the cloud cover, the temperature plummeting as thunder grumbled in the distance. She made weapons as she went, finding a sharp stone to whittle down branches into rudimentary spears: the longer one she used as a walking stick, and though they were little more than stakes, she told herself the two short ones were daggers. Better than nothing.