Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(153)

It was that word of defiance that broke the hold she’d kept on herself for the past day, the damper she’d put on her power as she secretly spiraled down to the core of her magic, pulling up as much as she could gather.

The heat spread from her, warming the stones so swiftly that Rowan’s blood turned to red steam. His companions swore and near-­invisible shields rippled around them and their sovereign.

She knew the gold in her eyes had shifted to flame, because when she looked to Maeve, the queen’s face had gone bone-­white.

And then Celaena set the world on fire.

60

Maeve was not burning, and neither ­were Rowan or his friends, whose shields Celaena tore through with half a thought. But the river was steaming around them, and shouting arose from the palace, from the city, as a flame that did not burn or hurt enveloped everything. The entire island was wreathed in wildfire.

Maeve was standing now, stalking off the dais. Celaena let a little more heat seep through her hold on the flame, warming Maeve’s skin as she moved to meet her aunt. Wide-­eyed, Rowan hung from his friends’ arms, his blood fizzing on the stones.

“You wanted a demonstration,” Celaena said quietly. Sweat trickled down her back, but she gripped the magic with everything she had. “One thought from me, and your city will burn.”

“It is stone,” Maeve snapped.

Celaena smiled. “Your people aren’t.”

Maeve’s nostrils flared delicately. “Would you murder innocents, Aelin? Perhaps. You did it for years, didn’t you?”

Celaena’s smile didn’t falter. “Try me. Just try to push me, Aunt, and see what comes of it. This was what you wanted, ­wasn’t it? Not for me to master my magic, but for you to learn just how powerful I am. Not how much of your sister’s blood flows in my veins—­no, you’ve known from the start that I have very little of Mab’s power. You wanted to know how much I got from Brannon.”

The flames ­rose higher, and the shouts—­of fright, not pain—­rose with them. The flames would not hurt anyone unless she willed it. She could sense other magics fighting against her own, tearing holes into her power, but the conflagration surrounding the veranda burned strong.

“You never gave the keys to Brannon. And you didn’t journey with Brannon and Athril to retrieve the keys from the Valg,” Celaena went on, a crown of fire wreathing her head. “You went to steal them for yourself. You wanted to keep them. Once Brannon and Athril realized that, they fought you. And Athril . . .” Celaena drew Goldryn, its hilt glowing bloodred. “Your beloved Athril, dearest friend of Brannon . . . when Athril fought you, you killed him. You, not the Valg. And in your grief and shame, you ­were weakened enough that Brannon took the keys from you. It ­wasn’t some enemy force who sacked the Sun Goddess’s temple. It was Brannon. He burned any last trace of himself, any clue of where he was going so you would not find him. He left only Athril’s sword to honor his friend—­in the cave where Athril had first carved out the eye of that poor lake creature—­and never told you. After Brannon left these shores, you did not dare follow him, not when he had the keys, not when his magic—my magic—­was so strong.”

It was why Brannon had hidden the Wyrdkey in his ­house­hold’s heirloom—­to give them that extra ounce of power. Not against ordinary enemies, but in case Maeve ever came for them. Perhaps he had not put the keys back in the gate because he wanted to be able to call upon their power should Maeve ever decide to install herself as mistress of all lands.

“That was why you abandoned your land in the foothills and left it to rot. That was why you built a city of stone surrounded by water: so Brannon’s heirs could not return and roast you alive. That was why you wanted to see me, why you bargained with my mother. You wanted to know what manner of threat I would pose. What would happen when Brannon’s blood mixed with Mab’s line.” Celaena opened her arms wide, Goldryn burning bright in one hand. “Behold my power, Maeve. Behold what I grapple with in the deep dark, what prowls under my skin.”

Celaena exhaled a breath and extinguished each and every flame in the city.

The power ­wasn’t in might or skill. It was in the control—­the power lay in controlling herself. She’d known all along how vast and deadly her fire was, and a few months ago, she would have killed and sacrificed and slaughtered anyone and anything to fulfill her vow. But that hadn’t been strength—­it had been the rage and grief of a broken, crumbling person. She understood now what her mother had meant when she had patted her heart that night she’d given her the amulet.

As every light went out in Doranelle, plunging the world into darkness, Celaena stalked over to Rowan. One look and a flash of her teeth had the twins releasing him. Their bloodied whips still in hand, Gavriel and Lorcan made no move toward her as Rowan sagged against her, murmuring her name.

Lights kindled. Maeve remained where she stood, dress soot-­stained, face shining with sweat. “Rowan, come ­here.” Rowan stiffened, grunting with pain, but staggered to the dais, blood trickling from the hideous wounds on his back. Bile stung Celaena’s throat, but she kept her eyes on the queen. Maeve barely gave Celaena a glance as she seethed, “Give me that sword and get out.” She extended a hand toward Goldryn.

Celaena shook her head. “I don’t think so. Brannon left it in that cave for anyone but you to find. And so it is mine, through blood and fire and darkness.” She sheathed Goldryn at her side. “Not very pleasant when someone ­doesn’t give you what you want, is it?”