Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(25)

Then—nothing. Everyone but her two companions vanished upstairs, and sleepy laughter, grumbling, and clinking silverware echoed down the stairwell. Famished, Celaena looked longingly at the food left on the worktable just as she caught Luca staring at her.

“Go ahead,” he said with a grin before moving to help Emrys haul a massive iron cauldron over toward the sink. Even with the insanity of the past hour, Luca had managed to chat up almost every person who came into the kitchen, his voice and laughter floating over the clanging pots and barked orders. “You’ll be at those dishes for a while and might as well eat now.”

Indeed, there was a tower of dishes and pots already by the sinks. The cauldron alone would take forever. So Celaena plunked down at the table, served herself some eggs and potatoes, poured a cup of tea, and dug in.

Devouring was a better word for what she did. Holy gods, it was delicious. Within moments, she’d consumed two pieces of toast laden with eggs, then started on the fried potatoes. Which ­were as absurdly good as the eggs. She ditched the tea in favor of downing a glass of the richest milk she’d ever tasted. Not that she ever really drank milk, since she’d had her pick of exotic juices in Rifthold, but . . . She looked up from her plate to find Emrys and Luca gaping from the hearth. “Gods above,” the old man said, moving to sit at the table. “When was the last time you ate?”

Good food like this? A while. And if Rowan was coming back at some point, she didn’t want to be swaying from hunger. She needed her strength for training. Magic training. Which was sure to be horrific, but she would do it—­to fulfill her bargain with Maeve and honor her vow to Nehemia. Suddenly not very hungry, she set down her fork. “Sorry,” she said.

“Oh, eat all you like,” Emrys said. “There’s nothing more satisfying to a cook than seeing someone enjoy his food.” He said it with enough humor and kindness that it chafed.

How would they react if they knew the things she’d done? What would they do if they knew about the blood she’d spilled, how she’d tortured Grave and taken him apart piece by piece, the way she’d gutted Archer in that sewer? The way she’d failed her friend. Failed a lot of people.

They ­were noticeably quieter as they sat down. They didn’t ask her any questions. Which was perfect, because she didn’t really want to start a conversation. She ­wouldn’t be ­here for long, anyway. Emrys and Luca kept to themselves, chatting about the training Luca was to do with some of the sentries on the battlements that day, the meat pies Emrys would make for lunch, the oncoming spring rains that might ruin the Beltane festival like last year. Such ordinary things to talk about, worry about. And they ­were so easy with each other—­a family in their own way.

Uncorrupted by a wicked empire, by years of brutality and slavery and bloodshed. She could almost see the three souls in the kitchen lined up beside each other: theirs bright and clear, hers a flickering black flame.

Do not let that light go out. Nehemia’s last words to her that night in the tunnels. Celaena pushed around the food on her plate. She’d never known anyone whose life hadn’t been overshadowed by Adarlan. She could barely remember her brief years before the continent had been enslaved, when Terrasen had still been free.

She could not remember what it was like to be free.

A pit yawned open beneath her feet, so deep that she had to move lest it swallow her ­whole.

She was about to get started on the dishes when Luca said from down the table, “So you either have to be very important or very unlucky to have Rowan training you to enter Doranelle.” Damned was more like it, but she kept her mouth shut. Emrys was looking on with cautious interest. “That is what you’re training for, right?”

“Isn’t that why you’re all ­here?” The words came out flatter than even she expected.

Luca said, “Yes, but I’ve got years until I learn whether I’ve met their qualifications.”

Years. Years? Maeve ­couldn’t mean for her to be ­here that long. She looked at Emrys. “How long have you been training?”

The old man snorted. “Oh, I was about fifteen when I came ­here, and worked for them for about . . . ten years, and I was never worthy enough. Too ordinary. Then I decided I’d rather have a home and my own kitchen ­here than be looked down upon in Doranelle for the rest of my days. It didn’t hurt that my mate felt the same way. You’ll meet him soon enough. He’s always popping in to steal food for himself and his men.” He chuckled, and Luca grinned.

Mate—not husband. The Fae had mates: an unbreakable bond, deeper than marriage, that lasted beyond death. Celaena asked, “So you’re all—half-­breeds?”

Luca stiffened, but flashed a smile as he said, “Only the pure-­blooded Fae call us that. We prefer demi-­Fae. But yes, most of us ­were born to mortal mothers, with the fathers unaware they’d sired us. The gifted ones usually get snatched away to Doranelle, but for us common offspring, the humans still aren’t comfortable with us, so . . . we go ­here, we come to Mistward. Or to the other border outposts. Few enough get permission to go to Doranelle that most just come ­here to live among their own kind.” Luca’s eyes narrowed on her ears. “Looks like you got more human in you than Fae.”

“Because I’m not half.” She didn’t want to share any more details than that.