Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(152)

“He’d have to make countless collars for them, then.”

“He would not need to, not with all three keys. His control would be absolute. And he would not need living hosts—­only bodies.”

Celaena’s heart stumbled a beat, and Rowan tensed from his spot on the ground. “He could have an army of the dead, inhabited by the Valg.”

“An army that does not need to eat or sleep or breathe—­an army that will sweep like a plague across your continent, and others. Maybe other worlds, too.”

But he would need all three keys for it. Her chest tightened, and though they ­were in the open air, the palace, the river, the stars seemed to push in on her. There would be no army that she could raise to stop them, and without magic . . . they ­were doomed. She was doomed. She was—

A calming warmth wrapped around her, as if someone had pulled her into an embrace. Feminine, joyous, infinitely powerful. This doom has not yet come to pass, it seemed to whisper in her ear. There is still time. Do not succumb to fear yet.

Maeve was watching her with a feline interest, and Celaena wondered what it was that the dark queen beheld—­if she, too, could sense that ancient, nurturing presence. But Celaena was warm again, the panic gone, and though the feeling of being held disappeared, she still could have sworn the presence lingered nearby. There was time—­the king still did not have the third key.

Brannon—he had possessed all three, yet had chosen to hide them, rather than put them back. And somehow, suddenly, that became the greatest question of all: why?

“As for the locations of the three keys,” Maeve said, “I do not know where they are. They ­were brought across the sea, and I have not heard of them again until these past ten years. It would seem that the king has at least one, probably two. The third, however . . .” She looked her up and down, but Celaena refused to flinch. “You have some inkling of its whereabouts, don’t you?”

She opened her mouth, but Maeve’s fingers clenched the arm of her throne—­just enough to make Celaena glance at the stone. So much stone ­here—­in this palace and in the city. And that word Maeve had used earlier, taken . . .

“Don’t you?” Maeve pressed.

Stone—and not a sign of wood, save for plants and furniture . . .

“No, I don’t,” said Celaena.

Maeve cocked her head. “Rowan, rise and tell me the truth.”

His hands clenched, but he stood, his eyes on his queen as he swallowed. Twice. “She found a riddle, and she knows the King of Adarlan has at least the first key, but ­doesn’t know where he keeps it. She also learned what Brannon did with the third—­and where it is. She refused to tell me.” There was a glimmer of horror in his eyes, and his fists ­were trembling, as if some invisible force had compelled him to say it. The wolves only watched.

Maeve tutted. “Keeping secrets, Aelin? From your aunt?”

“Not for all the world would I tell you where the third key is.”

“Oh, I know,” Maeve purred. She snapped her fingers, and the wolves ­rose to their feet, shifting in flashes of light into the most beautiful men she’d ever beheld. Warriors from the size of them, from the lethal grace with which they moved; one light and one dark, but stunning—­perfect.

Celaena went for Goldryn, but the twins went for Rowan, who did nothing, didn’t even struggle as they gripped his arms, forcing him again to his knees. Two others emerged from the shadows behind them. Gavriel, his tawny eyes carefully empty, and Lorcan, face stone-­cold. And in their hands . . .

At the sight of the iron-­tipped whip each bore, Celaena forgot to breathe. Lorcan didn’t hesitate as he ripped Rowan’s jacket and tunic and shirt from him.

“Until she answers me,” Maeve said, as if she had just ordered a cup of tea.

Lorcan unfurled the whip, the iron tip clinking against the stones, and drew back his arm. There was nothing merciful on his rugged face, no glimmer of feeling for the friend on his knees.

“Please,” Celaena whispered. There was a crack, and the world fragmented as Rowan bowed when the whip sliced into his back. He gritted his teeth, hissing, but did not cry out.

“Please,” Celaena said. Gavriel sent his whip flying so fast Rowan had only a breath to recover. There was no remorse on Gavriel’s lovely face, no sign of the male she’d thanked weeks ago.

Across the veranda, Maeve said, “How long this lasts depends entirely on you, niece.”

Celaena did not dare drag her gaze away from Rowan, who took the whipping as if he had done this before—­as if he knew how to pace himself and how much pain to expect. His friends’ eyes ­were dead, as if they, too, had given and received this manner of punishment.

Maeve had harmed Rowan before. How many of his scars had she given him? “Stop it,” Celaena growled.

“Not for all the world, Aelin? But what about for Prince Rowan?”

Another strike, and blood was on the stones. And the sound—­that sound of the whip . . . the sound that echoed in her nightmares, the sound that made her blood run cold . . .

“Tell me where the third Wyrdkey is, Aelin.”

Crack. Rowan jerked against the twins’ iron grip. Was this why he had been praying to Mala that morning? Because he knew what to expect from Maeve?

She opened her mouth, but Rowan lifted his head, teeth bared, his face savage with pain and rage. He knew she could read the word in his eyes, but he still said, “Don’t.”