Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(30)

A chain was clamped around his back leg, undoubtedly to keep him from flying out of the pit. The tail, as long as his body and tipped with two curved spikes, flicked back and forth like a cat’s.

“They can fly hundreds of miles in a day and still be ready to fight when they arrive,” the man said, and the witches all hissed in a breath. That sort of speed and endurance . . .

“What do they eat?” asked Petrah, freckled face still calm and grave.

The man rubbed his neck. “They’ll eat anything. But they like it fresh.”

“So do we,” said Iskra with a grin. Had anyone but the Yellowlegs heir said it, Manon would have joined in with the other grins around her.

Titus gave a sudden thrash, lunging for the nearest man while using his magnificent tail to snap the raised spears behind him. A whip cracked, but it was too late.

Blood and screams and the crunch of bone. The man’s legs and head tumbled to the ground. The torso was swallowed down in one bite. The smell of blood filled the air, and every single one of the Ironteeth witches inhaled deeply. The man in front of them took a too-­casual step away.

The bull in the pit was now looking up at them, tail still slashing against the floor.

Magic was gone, and yet this was possible—­this creation of magnificent beasts. Magic was gone, and yet Manon felt the sureness of the moment settle along her bones. She was meant to be ­here. She’d have Titus or no other.

Because she’d suffer no creature to be her mount but the fiercest, the one whose blackness called to her own. As her eyes met with the endless dark of Titus’s, she smiled at the wyvern.

She could have sworn he smiled back.

13

Celaena didn’t realize how exhausted she was until all sounds—­Emrys’s soft singing from the table, the thud of dough as he kneaded it, the chopping of Luca’s knife and his ceaseless chatter about everything and anything—­stopped. And she knew what she’d find when she turned toward the stairwell. Her hands ­were pruny, fingers aching, back and neck throbbing, but . . . Rowan was leaning against the archway of the stairwell, arms crossed and violence beckoning in his lifeless eyes. “Let’s go.”

Though his features remained cold, she had the distinct impression that he was somewhat annoyed at her for not sulking in a corner, bemoaning the state of her nails. As she left, Luca drew a finger across his neck as he mouthed good luck.

Rowan led her through a small courtyard, where sentries tried to pretend they ­weren’t watching their every move, and out into the forest. The ward-­magic woven between the ring of megaliths again nipped at her skin as they passed, and nausea washed through her. Without the constant heat of the kitchen, she was half-frozen by the time they strode between the moss-­coated trees, but even that was only a vague flicker of feeling.

Rowan trekked up a rocky ridge toward the highest reaches of the forest, still clouded in mist. She barely paused to take in the view of the foothills below, the plains before them, all green and fresh and safe from Adarlan. Rowan didn’t utter a single word until they reached what looked like the weather-­stained ruins of a temple.

It was now no more than a flat bed of stone blocks and columns whose carvings had been dulled by wind and rain. To her left lay Wendlyn, foothills and plains and peace. To her right arose the wall of the Cambrian Mountains, blocking any sight of the immortal lands beyond. Behind her, far down, she could make out the fortress snaking along the spine of the mountain.

Rowan crossed the cracked stones, his silver hair battered by the crisp, damp wind. She kept her arms loose at her sides, more out of reflex than anything. He was armed to the teeth, his face a mask of unyielding brutality.

She made herself give a little smile, her best attempt at a dutiful, eager expression. “Do your worst.”

He looked her over from head to toe: the mist-­damp shirt, now icy against her puckered skin, the equally stained and damp pants, the position of her feet . . .

“Wipe that smarmy, lying smile off your face.” His voice was as dead as his eyes, but it had a razor-­sharp bite behind it.

She kept her smarmy, lying smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stepped toward her, the canines coming out this time. “Here’s your first lesson, girl: cut the ­horse­shit. I don’t feel like dealing with it, and I’m probably the only one who ­doesn’t give a damn about how angry and vicious and awful you are underneath.”

“I don’t think you particularly want to see how angry and vicious and awful I am underneath.”

“Go ahead and be as nasty as you want, Princess, because I’ve been ten times as nasty, for ten times longer than you’ve been alive.”

She didn’t let it out—­no, because he didn’t truly understand a thing about what lurked under her skin and ran claws down her insides—­but she stopped any attempt to control her features. Her lips pulled back from her teeth.

“Better. Now shift.”

She didn’t bother to sound pleasant as she said, “It’s not something I can control.”

“If I wanted excuses, I’d ask for them. Shift.”

She didn’t know how. She had never mastered it as a child, and there certainly hadn’t been any opportunities to learn in the past de­cade. “I hope you brought snacks, because ­we’re going to be ­here a long, long while if today’s lesson is dependent upon my shifting.”