Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(39)

Her grandmother scribbled something down. “I want you and the Thirteen to be Wing Leader—­I want you leading all the Clans.” The witch twisted to look at Manon, her face unreadable. “There are to be war games in a few months to decide the ranks. I don’t care how you do it, but I expect to crown you victor.”

Manon didn’t need to ask why.

Her grandmother’s eyes fell on Manon’s red cloak and she smiled faintly. “We don’t yet know who our enemies will be, but once we are done with the king’s war and reclaim the Wastes, it will not be a Blueblood or Yellowlegs sitting on the Ironteeth throne. Understand?”

Become Wing Leader, command the Ironteeth armies, and keep control of those armies once the Matrons eventually turned on one another. Manon nodded. It would be done.

“I suspect the other Matrons will give similar orders to their heirs. Make sure your Second keeps close to you.”

Asterin was already outside, guarding the door, but Manon said, “I can look after myself.”

Her grandmother hissed. “Baba Yellowlegs was seven hundred years old. She tore down the walls of the Crochan capital with her bare hands. And yet someone slipped into her wagon and murdered her. Even if you live to be a thousand, you’ll be lucky to be half the witch she was.” Manon kept her chin high. “Watch your back. I will not be pleased if I have to find myself another heir.”

Manon bowed her head. “As you will it, Grandmother.”

17

Celaena awoke, freezing and groaning from a relentless headache. That, she knew, was from hitting her head on the temple stones. She hissed as she sat up, and every inch of her body, from her ears to her toes to her teeth, gave a collective burst of pain. It felt as if she’d been pummeled by a thousand iron fists and left to rot in the cold. That was from the uncontrolled shifting she’d done yesterday. The gods knew how many times she’d shuddered between one form and the other. From the tenderness of her muscles, it had to have been dozens.

But she hadn’t lost control of the magic, she reminded herself as she ­rose, gripping the chipped bedpost. She pulled the pale robe tighter around her as she shuffled for the dresser and basin. After the bath, she’d realized she had nothing to change into and had stolen one of the many robes, leaving her reeking clothes heaped by the door. She’d barely made it to her room before she collapsed on the bed, pulled the scrap of blanket over her, and slept.

And slept. And slept. She didn’t feel like talking with anyone. And no one came for her, anyway.

Celaena braced her hands on the dresser and grimaced at her reflection. She looked like shit, felt like shit. Even more grim and gaunt than yesterday. She picked up the tin of salve Rowan had given her, but then decided he should see what he’d done. And she’d looked worse—­two years ago, when Arobynn had beaten her to a bloody pulp for disobeying his orders. This was nothing compared to how mangled she’d been then.

She opened the door to find that someone had left clothes—­the same as yesterday, but fresh. Her boots had been cleaned of mud and dust. Either Rowan had left them, or someone ­else had noticed her filthy clothing. Gods—­she’d soiled herself in front of him.

She didn’t let herself wallow in the humiliation as she dressed and went to the kitchens, the halls dark in the moments before dawn. Already, Luca was prattling about the fighting knife a sentry had loaned him for his training, and on and on and on.

Apparently she had underestimated how horrific her face was, because Luca stopped his chattering midsentence to swear. Whirling, Emrys took one look at her and dropped his earthenware bowl before the hearth. “Great Mother and all her children.”

Celaena went to the heap of garlic cloves on the worktable and picked up a knife. “It looks worse than it feels.” A lie. Her head was still pounding from the cut on her brow, and her eye was deeply bruised beneath.

“I’ve got some salve in my room—” Luca started from where he was already washing dishes, but she gave him a long look.

She began peeling the cloves, her fingers instantly sticky. They ­were still staring, so she flatly said, “It’s none of your business.”

Emrys left his shattered bowl on the hearthstones and hobbled over, anger dancing in those bright, clever eyes. “It’s my business when you come into my kitchen.”

“I’ve been through worse,” she said.

Luca said, “What do you mean?” He eyed her mangled hands, her black eye, and the ring of scars around her neck, courtesy of Baba Yellowlegs. She silently invited him to do the calculations: a life in Adarlan with Fae blood, a life in Adarlan as a woman . . . His face paled.

After a long moment, Emrys said, “Leave it alone, Luca,” and stooped to pick up the fragments of the bowl.

Celaena went back to the garlic, Luca markedly quieter as he worked. Breakfast was made and sent upstairs in the same chaotic rush as yesterday, but a few more demi-­Fae noticed her today. She either ignored them or stared them down, marking their faces. Many had pointed ears, but most seemed human. Some wore civilian clothing—­tunics and simple gowns—­while the sentries wore light leather armor and heavy gray cloaks with an array of weapons (many the worse for wear). The warriors looked her way the most, men and women both, wariness and curiosity mingling.

She was busy wiping down a copper pot when someone let out a low, appreciative whistle in her direction. “Now that is one of the most glorious black eyes I’ve ever beheld.” A tall old man—­handsome despite being around Emrys’s age—­strode through the kitchen, empty platter in his hands.