Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(100)

Manon didn’t particularly care about her beauty, weapon though it was. But she ­wasn’t about to say that, or to offer it without bargaining. “I’d like to inspect the silk first.”

“Cut a swatch,” the spider ordered the three, who gently set down the yards of silk while one sliced off a perfect square. Men had killed for smaller amounts—­and ­here they ­were, cutting it as if it ­were ordinary wool. Manon tried not to think about the size of the pincer that extended it to her. She stalked to the cliff edge, stepping over Abraxos’s tail as she held the silk to the light.

Darkness embrace her, it sparkled. She tugged it. Flexible, but strong as steel. Impossibly light. But—

“There’s an imperfection ­here . . . Can I expect the rest of it to be similarly marred?” The spider hissed and the ground thudded as she neared. Abraxos stopped her with a warning growl that set the other three coming up behind her—­guards, then. But Manon held up the swatch to the light. “Look,” Manon said, pointing to a vein of color running through it.

“That’s no imperfection,” the spider snapped. Abraxos’s tail curled around Manon, a shield between her and the spiders, bringing her closer to the wall of his body.

Manon held it higher, angling it toward the sun. “Look in the better light. You think I’m going to give away my beauty for second-­rate weaving?”

“Second rate!” the spider seethed. Abraxos’s tail curled tighter.

“No—it appears I’m mistaken.” Manon lowered her arms, smiling. “It seems I’m not in the bargaining mood today.”

The spiders, now standing along the cliff ’s edge, didn’t even have time to move as Abraxos’s tail unwound like a whip and slammed into them.

They went flying into the ravine, shrieking. Manon didn’t waste a second as she stuffed the remaining yards of silk into the empty saddle­bags. She mounted Abraxos and they leapt into the air, the cliff the perfect takeoff spot, just as she’d planned.

The perfect trap for those foolish, ancient monsters.

38

Manon gave a foot of spidersilk to the overseer after he carefully grafted it onto Abraxos’s wings. She’d gotten extra—­lots of it, in case it ever wore down—­and it was now locked in the false bottom of a trunk. She told no one where she had been, or why Abraxos’s wings now shimmered in a certain light. Asterin would have murdered her for the risk, and her grandmother would have butchered Asterin for not being there. Manon was in no mood to replace her Second and find a new member for the Thirteen.

Once Abraxos had healed, Manon brought him to the mouth of the Northern Fang to try the Crossing. Before, his wings had been too weak to attempt the plunge—­but with the silk reinforcements, he’d stand a far greater chance.

But the risk remained, which was why Asterin and Sorrel waited behind her, already on their mounts. If things went wrong, if Abraxos ­couldn’t pull up or the silk failed, she was to jump—­jump away from him. Let him die, while one of them caught her in the claws of their wyverns.

Manon ­wasn’t too keen on that plan, but it was the only way Asterin and Sorrel would agree to let her do it. Though Manon was the Blackbeak heir, they would have locked her in a wyvern pen rather than let her make the Crossing without the proper precautions. She might have called them softhearted and given them the beatings they deserved, but it was smart. Tensions ­were worse than ever, and she ­wouldn’t put it past the Yellowlegs heir to spook Abraxos during the Crossing.

Manon nodded her readiness to her Second and Third before approaching her beast. Not many had gathered, but Iskra was on the viewing platform, smiling faintly. Manon checked the stirrups, the saddle, and the reins one more time, Abraxos tense and snarling.

“Let’s go,” she said to him, pulling the reins to lead him a bit farther ahead so she could mount him. He still had plenty of space to get a running start—­and with his new wings, she knew he would be fine. They’d done steep plunges and hard upswings before. But Abraxos ­wouldn’t move.

“Now,” she snapped at him, tugging hard.

Abraxos turned an eye to her and growled. She lightly smacked his leathery cheek. “Now.”

Those hind legs dug in, and he tucked his wings in tight. “Abraxos.”

He was looking at the Crossing, then back at her. Wide-­eyed. Petrified—­utterly petrified. Useless, stupid, cowardly beast.

“Stop it,” she said, moving to climb into the saddle instead. “Your wings are fine now.” She reached for his haunch but he reared away, the ground shaking as he slammed down. Behind her, Asterin and Sorrel murmured to their mounts, who had skittered back and snapped at Abraxos, and at each other.

There was a soft laugh from the viewing platform, and Manon’s teeth popped down.

“Abraxos. Now.” She reached for the saddle again.

He bucked away, slamming into the wall and shrinking back.

One of the men brought out a whip, but she held out a hand. “Don’t take another step,” she snapped, iron nails out. Whips only made Abraxos more uncontrollable. She turned to her mount. “You rutting coward,” she hissed at the beast, pointing to the Crossing. “Get back in line.” Abraxos met her stare, refusing to back down. “Get in line, Abraxos!”

“He ­can’t understand you,” Asterin said quietly.