Heir of Fire

by Sarah J. Maas

  By the time they strode into the red-­roofed little town, Celaena could breathe again.

  They quickly learned that it was almost impossible to get anyone to talk, especially to two Fae visitors. Celaena debated returning to her human form, but with her accent and ever-­worsening mood, she was fairly certain a woman from Adarlan ­wouldn’t be much better received than a Fae. Windows ­were shuttered as they passed, probably because of Rowan, who looked like nothing short of death incarnate. But he was surprisingly calm with the villagers they approached. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t snarl, didn’t threaten. He didn’t smile, but for Rowan, he was downright cheerful.

  Still, it got them nowhere. No, they had not heard of a missing demi-­Fae, or any other bodies. No, they had not seen any strange people lurking about. No, livestock ­were not disappearing, though there was a chicken thief a few towns away. No, they ­were perfectly safe and protected in Wendlyn, and didn’t appreciate Fae and demi-­Fae poking into their business, either.

  Celaena had given up on flirting with a pock-­faced stable boy at the inn, who had just gawked at her ears and canines as though she were one heartbeat away from eating him alive.

  She stalked down the pleasant main street, hungry and tired and annoyed that they ­were indeed going to need their bedrolls because the innkeeper had already informed them he had no vacancies. Rowan fell into step beside her, the storm clouds in his eyes saying enough about how his conversation with the taproom maid had gone.

  “I could believe it was a half-­wild creature if at least some of them knew these people had vanished,” she mused. “But consistently selecting someone who ­wouldn’t be missed or noticed? It must be sentient enough to know who to target. The demi-­Fae has to be a message—­but what? To stay away? Then why leave bodies in the first place?” She tugged at the end of her braid, stopping in front of a clothier’s window. Simple, well-­cut dresses stood on display, not at all like the elegant, intricate fashions in Rifthold.

  She noticed the wide-­eyed, pale shop­keep­er a heartbeat before the woman slashed the curtains shut. Well, then.

  Rowan snorted, and Celaena turned to him. “You’re used to this, I assume?”

  “A lot of the Fae who venture into mortal lands have earned themselves a reputation for . . . taking what they want. It went unchecked for too many years, but even though our laws are stricter now, the fear remains.” A criticism of Maeve?

  “Who enforces these laws?”

  A dark smile. “I do. When I’m not off campaigning, my aunt has me hunt down the rogues.”

  “And kill them?”

  The smile remained. “If the situation calls for it. Or I just haul them back to Doranelle and let Maeve decide what to do with them.”

  “I think I’d prefer death at your hands to death at Maeve’s.”

  “That might be the first wise thing you’ve said to me.”

  “The demi-­Fae said you have five other warrior friends. Do they hunt with you? How often do you see them?”

  “I see them whenever the situation calls for it. Maeve has them serve her as she sees fit, as she does with me.” Every word was clipped. “It is an honor to be a warrior serving in her inner circle.” Celaena hadn’t suggested otherwise, but she wondered why he felt the need to add it.

  The street around them was empty; even food carts had been abandoned. She took a long breath, sniffing, and—­was that chocolate? “Did you bring any money?”

  A hesitant lift of his brow. “Yes. They won’t take your bribes, though.”

  “Good. More for me, then.” She pointed out the pretty sign swaying in the sea breeze. Confectionery. “If we ­can’t win them with charm, we might as well win them with our business.”

  “Did you somehow not hear what I just—” But she had already reached the shop, which smelled divine and was stocked with chocolates and candies and oh gods, hazelnut truffles. Even though the confectioner blanched as the two of them overpowered the space, Celaena gave the woman her best smile.

  Over her rotting corpse was she letting these people get away with shutting curtains in her face—­or letting them think that she was ­here to plunder. Nehemia had never once let the preening, bigoted idiots in Rifthold shut her out of any store, dining room, or ­house­hold.

  And she had the sense that her friend might have been proud of the way she went from shop to shop that afternoon, head held high, and charmed the ever-­loving hell out of those villagers.

  •

  Once word spread that the two Fae strangers ­were spending silver on chocolates, then a few books, then some fresh bread and meat, the streets filled again. Vendors bearing everything from apples to spices to pocket watches ­were suddenly eager to chat, so long as they sold something. When Celaena popped in to the cramped messenger’s guild to mail a letter, she managed to ask a few novices if they’d been hired by anyone of interest. They hadn’t, but she still tipped them handsomely.

  Rowan dutifully carried every bag and box Celaena bought save the chocolates, which she ate as she strolled around, one after another after another. When she offered one to him, he claimed he didn’t eat sweets. Ever. Not surprising.

  The villagers wound up not knowing anything, which she supposed was good, because it meant that they hadn’t been lying, but the crab-­monger did say he’d found a few discarded knives—­small, sharp-­as-­death knives—­in his nets recently. He tossed them all back into the water as gifts for the Sea God. The creature had sucked these people dry, not cut them up. So it was likely that Wendlynite soldiers had somehow lost a trunk of their blades in some storm.

  At sunset, the innkeeper even approached them about a suddenly vacant suite. The very best suite in town, he claimed, but Celaena was starting to wonder whether they might attract the wrong sort of attention, and she ­wasn’t particularly in the mood to see Rowan disembowel a would-­be thief. So she politely refused, and they set out down the street, the light turning thick and golden as they entered the forest once more.

  Not a bad day, she realized as she nodded off under the forest canopy. Not bad at all.

  •

  Her mother had called her Fireheart.

  But to her court, to her people, she would one day be Queen. To them, she was the heir to two mighty bloodlines, and to a tremendous power that would keep them safe and raise their kingdom to even greater heights. A power that was a gift—­or a weapon.

  That had been the near-­constant debate for the first eight years of her life. As she grew older and it became apparent that while she’d inherited most of her mother’s looks, she’d received her father’s volatile temper and wildness, the wary questions became more frequent, asked by rulers in kingdoms far from their own.

  And on days like this, she knew that everyone would hear of the event, for better or worse.

  She was supposed to be asleep, and was wearing her favorite silk nightgown, her parents having tucked her in minutes ago. Though they had told her they ­weren’t, she knew they ­were exhausted, and frustrated. She’d seen the way the court was acting, and how her uncle had put a gentle hand on her father’s shoulder and told him to take her up to bed.

  But she ­couldn’t sleep, not when her door was cracked open, and she could hear her parents from their bedroom in the suite they shared in the upper levels of the white castle. They thought they ­were speaking quietly, but it was with an immortal’s ears that she listened in the near-­dark.

  “I don’t know what you expect me to do, Evalin,” her father said. She could almost hear him prowling before the giant bed on which she had been born. “What’s done is done.”

  “Tell them it was exaggerated, tell them the librarians ­were making a fuss over nothing,” her mother hissed. “Start a rumor that someone ­else did it, trying to pin the blame on her—”

  “This is all because of Maeve?”

  “This is bec
ause she is going to be hunted, Rhoe. For her ­whole life, Maeve and others will hunt her for this power—”

  “And you think agreeing to let those little bastards ban her from the library will prevent that? Tell me: why does our daughter love reading so much?”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “Tell me.” When her mother didn’t respond, her father growled. “She is eight—­and she has told me that her dearest friends are characters in books.”

  “She has Aedion.”

  “She has Aedion because he is the only child in this castle who isn’t petrified of her—­who hasn’t been kept away because we have been lax with her training. She needs training, Ev—­training, and friends. If she ­doesn’t have either, that’s when she’ll turn into what they’re afraid of.”

  Silence, and then—­a huff from beside her bed.

  “I’m not a child,” Aedion hissed from where he sat in a chair, arms crossed. He’d slipped in ­here after her parents had left—­to talk quietly to her, as he often did when she was upset. “And I don’t see why it’s a bad thing if I’m your only friend.”

  “Quiet,” she hissed back. Though Aedion ­couldn’t shift, his mixed blood allowed him to hear with uncanny range and accuracy, better even than hers. And though he was five years older, he was her only friend. She loved her court, yes—­loved the adults who pampered and coddled her. But the few children who lived in the castle kept away, despite their parents’ urging. Like dogs, she’d sometimes thought. The others could smell her differences.

  “She needs friends her age,” her father went on. “Maybe we should send her to school. Cal and Marion have been talking about sending Elide next year—”

  “No schools. And certainly not that so-­called magic school, when it’s so close to the border and we don’t know what Adarlan is planning.”

  Aedion loosed a breath, his legs propped on the mattress. His tan face was angled toward the cracked door, his golden hair shining faintly, but there was a crease between his brows. Neither of them took well to being separated, and the last time one of the castle boys had teased him for it, Aedion had spent a month shoveling ­horse dung for beating the boy into a pulp.

  Her father sighed. “Ev, don’t kill me for this, but—­you’re not making this easy. For us, or for her.” Her mother was quiet, and she heard a rustle of clothing and a murmur of, “I know, I know,” before her parents started speaking too quietly for even her Fae ears.

  Aedion growled again, his eyes—­their matching eyes—­gleaming in the dark. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. So what if you burned a few books? Those librarians deserve it. When ­we’re older, maybe we’ll burn it to the ground together.”

  She knew he meant it. He’d burn the library, the city, or the ­whole world to ashes if she asked him. It was their bond, marked by blood and scent and something ­else she ­couldn’t place. A tether as strong as the one that bound her to her parents. Stronger, in some ways.

  She didn’t answer him, not because she didn’t have a reply but because the door groaned, and before Aedion could hide, her bedroom flooded with light from the foyer.

  Her mother crossed her arms. Her father, however, let out a soft laugh, his brown hair illuminated by the hall light, his face in shadow. “Typical,” he said, stepping aside to clear a space for Aedion to leave. “Don’t you have to be up at dawn to train with Quinn? You ­were five minutes late this morning. Two days in a row will earn you a week on stable duty. Again.”

  In a flash, Aedion was on his feet and gone. Alone with her parents, she wished she could pretend to sleep, but she said, “I don’t want to go away to school.”

  Her father walked to her bed, every inch the warrior Aedion aspired to be. A warrior-­prince, she heard people call him—­who would one day make a mighty king. She sometimes thought her father had no interest in being king, especially on days when he took her up into the Staghorns and let her wander through Oakwald in search of the Lord of the Forest. He never seemed happier than at those times, and always seemed a little sad to go back to Orynth.

  “You’re not going away to school,” he said, looking over his broad shoulder at her mother, who lingered by the doorway, her face still in shadow. “But do you understand why the librarians acted the way they did today?”

  Of course she did. She felt horrible for burning the books. It had been an accident, and she knew her father believed her. She nodded and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” her father said, a growl in his voice.

  “I wish I was like the others,” she said.

  Her mother remained silent, unmoving, but her father gripped her hand. “I know, love. But even if you ­were not gifted, you would still be our daughter—­you would still be a Galathynius, and their queen one day.”

  “I don’t want to be queen.”

  Her father sighed. This was a conversation they’d had before. He stroked her hair. “I know,” he said again. “Sleep now—­we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  They ­wouldn’t, though. She knew they ­wouldn’t, because she knew there was no escaping her fate, even though she sometimes prayed to the gods that she could. She lay down again nonetheless, letting him kiss her head and murmur good night.

  Her mother still said nothing, but as her father walked out, Evalin remained, watching her for a long while. Just as she was drifting off, her mother left—­and as she turned, she could have sworn that tears gleamed on her pale face.

  •

  Celaena jolted awake, hardly able to move, to think. It had to be the smell—­the smell of that gods-­damned body yesterday that had triggered the dream. It was agony seeing her parents’ faces, seeing Aedion. She blinked, focusing on her breathing, until she was no longer in that beautiful, jewel box–­like room, until the scent of the pine and snow on the northern wind had vanished and she could see the morning mist weaving through the canopy of leaves above her. The cold, damp moss seeped through her clothes; the brine of the nearby sea hung thick in the air. She lifted her hand to examine the long scar carved on her palm.

  “Do you want breakfast?” Rowan asked from where he crouched over unlit logs—­the first fire she’d seen him assemble. She nodded, then rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Then start the fire,” he said.

  “You ­can’t be serious.” He didn’t deign to respond. Groaning, she rotated on her sleeping roll until she sat cross-­legged facing the logs. She held a hand toward the wood.

  “Pointing is a crutch. Your mind can direct the flames just fine.”

  “Perhaps I like the dramatics.”

  He gave her a look she interpreted to mean Light the fire. Now.

  She rubbed her eyes again and concentrated on the logs.

  “Easy,” Rowan said, and she wondered if that was approval in his voice as the wood began to smoke. “A knife, remember. You are in control.”

  A knife, carving out a small bit of magic. She could master this. Light one single fire.

  Gods, she was so heavy again. That stupid dream—­memory, what­ever it was. Today would be an effort.

  A pit yawned open inside her, the magic rupturing out before she could shout a warning.

  She incinerated the entire surrounding area.

  When the smoke and flames cleared thanks to Rowan’s wind, he merely sighed. “At least you didn’t panic and shift back into your human form.”

  She supposed that was a compliment. The magic had felt like a release—­a thrown punch. The pressure under her skin had lessened.

  So Celaena just nodded. But shifting, it seemed, was to be the least of her problems.

  29

  It had just been a kiss, Sorscha told herself every day afterward. A quick, breathless kiss that made the world spin. The iron in the treacle had worked, though it bothered Dorian enough that they starte
d to toy with the dosage . . . and ways to mask it. If he ­were caught ingesting powders at all hours of the day, it would lead to questions.

  So it became a daily contraceptive tonic. Because no one would bat an eye at that—­not with his reputation. Sorscha was still reassuring herself that the kiss had meant nothing more than a thank-­you as she reached the door to Dorian’s tower room, his daily dose in hand.

  She knocked, and the prince called her inside. The assassin’s hound was sprawled on his bed, and the prince himself was lounging on his shabby couch. He sat up, however, and smiled at her in that way of his.

  “I think I found a better combination—­the mint might go down better than the sage,” she said, holding up the glass of reddish liquid. He came toward her, but there was something in his gait—­a kind of prowl—­that made her straighten. Especially as he set down the glass and stared at her, long and deep. “What?” she breathed, backing up a step.

  He gripped her hand—­not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop her retreat. “You understand the risks, and yet you’re still helping me,” he said. “Why?”

  “It’s the right thing.”

  “My father’s laws say otherwise.”

  Her face heated. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  His hands ­were cool as he brushed her cheeks, his calluses scraping gently. “I just want to thank you,” he murmured, leaning in. “For seeing me and not running.”

  “I—” She was burning up from the inside out, and she pulled back, hard enough that he let go. Amithy was right, even if she was vicious. There ­were plenty of beautiful women ­here, and anything more than a flirtation would end poorly. He was Crown Prince, and she was nobody. She gestured to the goblet. “If it’s not too much trouble, Your Highness”—­he cringed at the title—“send word about how this one works for you.”