Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)(92)

Malakai set down his spoon and said, “Let me guess: it had something to do with that roar that sent the livestock into pandemonium.”

Though Celaena didn’t smile, her eyes crinkled. “What do you know of a creature that dwells in the lake under . . .” She glanced at Rowan to finish.

“Bald Mountain. And he ­can’t know that story,” Rowan said. “No one does.”

“I am a Story Keeper,” Emrys said, staring down at him with all the wrath of one of the iron figurines on the mantel. “And that means that the tales I collect might not come from Fae or human mouths, but I hear them anyway.” He sat down at the table, folding his hands in front of him. “I heard one story, years ago, from a fool who thought he could cross the Cambrian Mountains and enter Maeve’s realm without invitation. He was on his way back, barely clinging to life thanks to Maeve’s wild wolves in the passes, so we brought him ­here while we sent for the healers.”

Malakai murmured, “So that’s why you ­wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace.” A twinkle in those old eyes, and Emrys gave his mate a wry smile.

“He had a fierce infection, so at the time I thought it might have been a fever dream, but he told me he found a cave at the base of the Bald Mountain. He camped there, because it was raining and cold and he planned to be off at first light. Still, he felt like something was watching him from the lake. He drifted off, and awoke only because the ripples ­were lapping against the shore—­ripples from the center of the lake. And just beyond the light of his fire, out in the deep, he spied something swimming. Bigger than a tree or any beast he’d ever seen.”

“Oh, it was horrific,” Luca cut in.

“You said you ­were out with Bas and the other scouts on border patrol today!” Emrys barked, then gave Rowan a look that suggested he’d better test his next meal for poison.

Emrys cleared his throat and was soon staring at the table again, lost in thought. “What the fool learned that night was this: the creature was almost as old as the mountain itself. It claimed to have been born in another world, but had slipped into this one when the gods ­were looking elsewhere. It had preyed upon Fae and humans until a mighty Fae warrior challenged it. And before the warrior was through, he carved one of the creature’s eyes out—­for spite or sport—­and cursed the beast, so that as long as that mountain stood, the creature would be forced to live beneath it.”

A monster from another realm. Had it been let in during the Valg wars, when demons had opened and closed portals to another world at will? How many of the horrific creatures that dwelled in this land ­were only ­here because of those long-­ago battles over the Wyrdkeys?

“So it has dwelled in the labyrinth of underwater caves under the mountain. It has no name—­for it forgot what it was called long ago, and those who meet it do not return home.”

Celaena rubbed her arms, wincing as the split skin of her knuckles stretched with the movement. Rowan was staring directly at Emrys, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side. Rowan glanced at her, as if to make sure she was listening, and asked, “Who was the warrior who carved out its eye?”

“The fool didn’t know, and neither did the beast. But the language it spoke was Fae—­an archaic form of the Old Language, almost indecipherable. It could remember the gold ring he bore, but not what he looked like.”

It took every ounce of effort not to grab for her pocket and the ring she’d put in there, or to examine the sword she’d left by the door, and the ruby that might not be a ruby after all. But it was impossible—­too much of a coincidence.

She might have given in to the urge to look had Rowan not reached for his glass of water. He hid it well, and she didn’t think anyone ­else noticed, but as the sleeve of his jacket shifted, he winced, ever so slightly. From the burns she’d given him. They’d been blistering earlier—­they must be screaming in agony now.

Emrys pinned the prince with a stare. “No more adventures.”

Rowan glanced at Luca, who seemed about to explode with indignation. “Agreed.”

Emrys didn’t back down. “And no more brawling.”

Rowan met Celaena’s stare over the table. His expression yielded nothing. “We’ll try.”

Even Emrys deemed that an acceptable answer.

•

Despite the exhaustion that slammed into her like a wall, Celaena ­couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking of the creature, of the sword and the ring she’d examined for an hour without learning anything, and the control, however shaky, she’d managed to have on the ice. Yet she kept circling back to what she’d done to Rowan—­how badly she’d burned him.

His pain tolerance must be tremendous, she thought as she twisted on her cot, huddled against the cold in the room. She eyed her tin of salve. He should have gone to a healer for those burns. She tossed and turned for another five minutes before she yanked on her boots, grabbed the tin, and left. She’d probably get her head bitten off again, but she ­wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if she ­were too busy feeling guilty. Gods, she felt guilty.

She knocked softly on his door, half hoping he ­wasn’t there. But he snapped “What?” and she winced and went in.

His room was toasty and warm, if not a little old and shabby, especially the worn rugs thrown over much of the gray stone floor. A large four-­poster bed occupied much of the space, a bed that was still made—­and empty. Rowan was seated at the worktable in front of the carved fireplace, shirtless and examining what looked to be a map marked with the locations of those bodies.