Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(62)

A vague nod. She put a hand on one of the massive stones. If she felt like admitting it, she could almost sense the echoes of the power that had dwelled ­here long ago, a delicious heat kissing its way up her neck, down her spine, as if some piece of that goddess were still curled up in the corner. It explained why today, in the sun, the temple felt different. Why her magic was jumpy. Mala, Sun Goddess and Light-­Bringer, was sister and eternal rival to Deanna, Keeper of the Moon.

“Mab was immortalized into godhood thanks to Maeve,” Celaena mused as she ran a hand down the jagged block. “But that was over five hundred years ago. Mala had a sister in the moon long before Mab took her place.”

“Deanna was the original sister’s name. But you humans gave her some of Mab’s traits. The hunting, the hounds.”

“Perhaps Deanna and Mala ­weren’t always rivals.”

“What are you getting at?”

She shrugged and kept running her hands along the stone, feeling, breathing, smelling. “Did you ever know Mab?”

Rowan was quiet for a long moment—­contemplating the usefulness of telling her, no doubt. “No,” he said at last. “I am old, but not that old.”

Fine—if he didn’t want to give her an actual number . . . “Do you feel old?”

He gazed into the distance. “I am still considered young by the standards of my kind.”

It ­wasn’t an answer. “You said that you once campaigned in a kingdom that no longer exists. You’ve been off to war several times, it seems, and seen the world. That would leave its mark. Age you on the inside.”

“Do you feel old?” His gaze was unflinching. A child—­a girl, he’d called her.

She was a girl to him. Even when she became an old woman—­if she lived that long—­she’d still be a child in comparison to his life span. Her mission depended upon his seeing her otherwise, but she still said, “These days, I am very glad to be a mortal, and to only have to endure this life once. These days, I don’t envy you at all.”

“And before?”

It was her turn to stare toward the horizon. “I used to wish I had a chance to see it all—­and hated that I never would.”

She could feel him forming a question, but she started moving again, examining the stones. As she dusted the block off, an image emerged of a stag with a glowing star between its antlers, so like the one in Terrasen. She’d heard Emrys tell the story of the sun stags, who held an immortal flame between their massive antlers and who had once been stolen from a temple in this land . . . “Is this where the stags ­were kept—­before this place was destroyed?”

“I don’t know. This temple ­wasn’t destroyed; it was abandoned when the Fae moved to Doranelle, and then ruined by time and weather.”

“Emrys’s stories said destroyed, not abandoned.”

“Again, what are you getting at?”

But she didn’t know, not yet, so she just shook her head and said, “The Fae on my continent—­in Terrasen . . . they ­weren’t like you. At least, I don’t remember them being that way. There ­weren’t many, but . . .” She swallowed hard. “The King of Adarlan hunted and killed them, so easily. Yet when I look at you, I don’t understand how he did it.” Even with the Wyrdkeys, the Fae had been stronger, faster. More should have survived, even if some had been trapped in their animal forms when magic vanished.

She looked over her shoulder at him, one hand still pressed against the warm carving. A muscle flickered in Rowan’s jaw before he said, “I’ve never been to your continent, but I heard that the Fae there ­were gentler—­less aggressive, very few trained in combat—­and they relied heavily on magic. Once magic was gone from your lands, many of them might not have known what to do against trained soldiers.”

“And yet Maeve ­wouldn’t send aid.”

“The Fae of your continent long ago severed ties with Maeve.” He paused again. “But there ­were some in Doranelle who argued in favor of helping. My queen wound up offering sanctuary to any who could make it ­here.”

She didn’t want to know more—­didn’t want to know how many had made it, and whether he had been one of the few who argued to save their western brethren. So she moved away from the carving of the mythical stag, instantly cold as she severed contact with the delightful heat living within the stone. Part of her could have sworn that ancient, strange power was sad to see her go.

The next day, Celaena finished her breakfast shift in the kitchens achy and more drained than usual, as Luca hadn’t been there to help, which meant she’d spent the morning chopping, washing, and then running the food upstairs.

Celaena passed a sentry she’d marked as Luca’s friend and a frequent listener to Emrys’s stories—­young, leanly muscled, with no evidence of Fae ears or grace. Bas, the leader of the fortress scouts. Luca prattled about him endlessly. Celaena gave him a small smile and nod. Bas blinked a few times, gave a tentative smile back, and sauntered on, probably to his watch on the wall. She frowned. She’d said a civilized hello to plenty of them by now, but . . . She was still puzzling over his reaction when she reached her room and shrugged on her jacket.

“You’re already late,” Rowan said from the doorway.