Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(116)

Rowan smiled slowly. “We’re done for today. Go eat something.”

The circular shield did not burn her, though its flames swirled and sizzled. As she’d commanded. It had . . . worked.

So she raised her eyes to Rowan. “No. Again.”

•

After a week of making shields of various sizes and temperatures, Celaena could have multiple defenses burning at once, and encircle the entire glen with half a thought to protect it from outside assault. And when she awoke one morning before dawn, she ­couldn’t say why she did it, but she slipped from the room she shared with Rowan and went down to the ward-­stones.

She shivered from more than the early morning cold as the power of the curving gate-­stones zinged against her skin when she passed through. But none of the sentries on the battlements ordered her to stop as she walked along the line of towering, carved rocks until she found a bit of even ground and began to practice.

44

As one the Thirteen flew; as one the Thirteen led the other Blackbeak covens in the skies. Drill after drill, through rain and sun and wind, until they ­were all tanned and freckled. Even though Abraxos had yet to make the Crossing, the Spidersilk patching on his wings improved his flying significantly.

It was all going beautifully. Abraxos had gotten into a brawl for dominance with Lin’s bull and emerged victorious, and after that, none in her coven or any other challenged him. The War Games ­were fast approaching, and though Iskra hadn’t been any trouble since the night Manon had half killed her, they watched their backs: in the baths, around every dark corner, double-­checking every rein and strap before they mounted their wyverns.

Yes, it was all going beautifully, until Manon was summoned to her grandmother’s room.

“Why is it,” her grandmother said by way of greeting, pacing the room, teeth always out, “that I have to hear from gods-­damned Cresseida that your runty, useless wyvern hasn’t made the Crossing? Why is it that I am in the middle of a meeting, planning these War Games so you can win, and the other Matrons tell me that you aren’t allowed to participate because your mount will not make the Crossing and therefore isn’t allowed to fly in the host?”

Manon glimpsed the flash of nails before they raked down her cheek. Not hard enough to scar, but enough to bleed.

“You and that beast are an embarrassment,” her grandmother hissed, teeth snapping in her face. “All I want is for you to win these Games—­so we can take our rightful place as queens, not High Witches. Queens of the Waste, Manon. And you are doing your best to ruin it.” Manon kept her eyes on the ground. Her grandmother dug a nail into her chest, cutting through her red cloak, piercing the flesh right above her heart. “Has your heart melted?”

“No.”

“No,” her grandmother sneered. “No, it cannot melt, because you do not have a heart, Manon. We are not born with them, and we are glad of it.” She pointed to the stone floor. “Why is it that I am informed today that Iskra caught a gods-­damned Crochan spying on us? Why am I the last to know that she is in our dungeons and that they have been interrogating her for two days?”

Manon blinked, but that was all the surprise she let show. If Crochans ­were spying on them . . . Another slice to the face, marring the other cheek.

“You will make the Crossing tomorrow, Manon. Tomorrow, and I don’t care if you splatter yourself on the rocks. If you live, you had better pray to the Darkness that you win those Games. Because if you don’t . . .” Her grandmother sliced a nail across Manon’s throat. A scratch to set the blood running.

And a promise.

•

Everyone came this time to watch the Crossing. Abraxos was saddled, focus pinned on the cave mouth open to the night beyond. Asterin and Sorrel ­were behind her—­but beside their mounts, not astride them. Her grandmother had gotten wind of how they planned to save her and forbidden it. It was Manon’s own stupidity and pride that had to pay, she’d said.

Witches lined the viewing platform, and from high above, the High Witches and their heirs watched from a small balcony. The noise was near deafening. Manon glanced at Asterin and Sorrel and found them looking stone-­cold fierce, but tense.

“Keep to the walls so he ­doesn’t spook your wyverns,” she told them. They nodded grimly.

Since grafting the Spidersilk onto Abraxos’s wings, Manon had been careful not to push him too hard until the healing was absolutely complete. But the Crossing, with its plunge and winds . . . his wings could be shredded in a matter of seconds if the silk didn’t hold.

“We’re waiting, Manon,” her grandmother barked from above. She waved a hand toward the cave mouth. “But by all means, take your time.”

Laughter—from the Yellowlegs, Blackbeaks . . . everyone. Yet Petrah ­wasn’t smiling. And none of the Thirteen, gathered closest along the viewing platform, ­were smiling, either.

Manon turned to Abraxos, looking into those eyes. “Let’s go.” She tugged on the reins.

But he refused to move—­not from fear or terror. He slowly lifted his head—­looking to where her grandmother stood—­and let out a low, warning growl. A threat.

Manon knew she should reprimand him for the disrespect, but the fact that he could grasp what was occurring in this hall . . . it should have been impossible.