Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(37)

There ­were only a few overlapping minutes between their three-­hour rotations, and the coven leaders did their best to keep them from running into each other. At least Manon did. Her temper was on a tight leash these days, and one more sneer from the Yellowlegs heir was likely to end in bloodshed. The same could be said of her Thirteen, two of whom—­the green-­eyed twins Faline and Fallon, more demon than witch—­had gotten into a brawl with some Yellowlegs idiots, unsurprisingly. She’d punished them just as she’d punished Asterin: three blows each, public and humiliating. But, like clockwork, fights still broke out between other covens whenever they ­were in close quarters.

Which was what made the mess hall so deadly. The two daily meals ­were the only time they all shared together—­and while they kept to their own tables, the tension was so thick Manon could slice it with her blade.

Manon stood in line for her bowl of slop—­that was the best name she could give the doughy goop the mess hall served—­flanked by Asterin, with the last of the Blueblood witches in the line ahead of her. Somehow, the Bluebloods ­were always first—­first in line for food, first to ­ride the wyverns (the Thirteen had yet to get airborne), and likely to get first pick of the beasts. A growl rumbled deep in her throat, but Manon pushed her tray along the table, watching the pale-­faced server heap a grayish-­white ball of food into the bowl of the Blueblood in front of her.

She didn’t bother to note the details of his features as the thick vein in his throat pulsed. Witches didn’t need blood to survive, but humans didn’t need wine, either. The Bluebloods ­were picky about whose blood they drank—­virgins, young men, pretty girls—­but the Blackbeaks didn’t particularly care one way or another.

The man’s ladle began shaking, tip-­tapping along the side of the cauldron.

“Rules are rules,” drawled a voice to her left. Asterin let out a warning snarl, and Manon didn’t have to look to know that the Yellowlegs heir, Iskra, lurked there. “No eating the rabble,” the dark-­haired witch added, shoving her bowl in front of the man, cutting the line. Manon took in the iron nails and teeth, the calloused hand so blatantly making a show of dominance.

“Ah. I was wondering why no one’s bothered to eat you,” Manon said.

Iskra shouldered her way farther in front of Manon. Manon could feel the eyes in the room shifting toward them, but she reined in her temper, allowing the disrespect. Mess hall posturing meant nothing. “I hear your Thirteen are taking to the air today,” said the Yellowlegs heir as Manon received her own ration.

“What business is it of yours?”

Iskra shrugged her toned shoulders. “They say you ­were once the best flier in all three Clans. It would be a shame if it were just more gossip.”

It was true—­she’d earned her spot as coven leader as much as she’d inherited it.

Iskra went on, sliding her plate along to the next server, who spooned some pale root vegetable onto her slop. “There’s talk of skipping our training rotation so we can see the legendary Thirteen take to the skies for the first time in a de­cade.”

Manon clicked her tongue in pretend thought. “I also heard there’s talk that the Yellowlegs need all the help they can get in the sparring room. But I suppose any army needs its supply drivers.”

A low laugh from Asterin, and Iskra’s brown eyes flashed. They reached the end of the serving table, where Iskra faced Manon. With their trays in hand, neither could reach for the blades at their sides. The room had gone silent, even the high table at which the three Matrons sat.

Manon’s gums stung as her iron teeth shot from their slits and snapped down. She said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Any time you need a lesson in combat, Iskra, you just let me know. I’d be happy to teach you a few things about soldiering.”

Before the heir could reply, Manon stalked across the room. Asterin gave Iskra a mocking bow of the head, followed by identical gestures from the rest of her Thirteen, but Iskra remained staring at Manon, simmering.

Manon plunked down at her table to find her grandmother smiling faintly. And when all of Manon’s twelve sentinels ­were seated around her, Thirteen from now until the Darkness embraced them, Manon allowed herself a smile, too.

They ­were going to fly today.

•

As if the open cliff face weren’t enough to make the two gathered Blackbeak covens shift on their feet, the twenty-­six tethered wyverns in a tight space, none of them that docile, made even Manon twitchy.

But she showed no fear as she approached the wyvern at the center. Two lines of thirteen stood chained and ready. The Thirteen took the first. The other coven took the one behind. Manon’s new riding gear was heavy and awkward—­leather and fur, capped with steel shoulder-­guards and leather wrist-­braces. More than she was used to wearing, especially with her red cloak.

They’d already practiced saddling the mounts for two days, though they’d usually have handlers around to do it for them. Manon’s mount for the day—­a small female—­was lying on her belly, low enough that Manon easily climbed her hind leg and hauled herself into the saddle at the spot where the long neck met the massive shoulders. A man approached to adjust the stirrups, but Manon leaned to do it herself. Breakfast had been bad enough. Coming close to a human throat now would only tempt her further.