Heir of Fire

  So Manon did the most foolish thing she’d ever done in her long, wicked life.

  She ran for Titus and brought Wind-­Cleaver down upon his tail. She severed clean through flesh and bone, and Titus roared, releasing his prey. The stump of his tail lashed at her, and Manon took it right in the stomach, the air knocked out of her before she even hit the ground. When she raised herself, she saw the final lunge that ended it.

  Throat exposed by his bellow of pain, Titus didn’t stand a chance as the bait beast pounced and closed its jaws around that mighty neck.

  Titus had one last thrash, one final attempt to pry himself free. The bait beast held firm, as though he’d been waiting for weeks or months or years. He clamped down and wrenched his head away, taking Titus’s throat with him.

  Silence fell. As if the world itself stopped when Titus’s body crashed to the ground, black blood spilling everywhere.

  Manon stood absolutely still. Slowly, the bait beast lifted its head from the carcass, Titus’s blood dripping from his maw. Their eyes met.

  People ­were shouting at her to run, and the gate groaned open, but Manon stared into those black eyes, one of them horribly scarred but intact. He took a step, then another toward her.

  Manon held her ground. It was impossible. Impossible. Titus was twice his size, twice his weight, and had years of training.

  The bait beast had trounced him—­not because he was bigger or stronger, but because he wanted it more. Titus had been a brute and a killer, yet this wyvern before her . . . he was a warrior.

  Men ­were rushing in with spears and swords and whips, and the bait beast growled.

  Manon held up a hand. And again, the world stopped.

  Manon, eyes still upon the beast, said, “He’s mine.”

  He had saved her life. Not by coincidence, but by choice. He’d felt the current running between them, too. “What?” her grandmother barked from above.

  Manon found herself walking toward the wyvern, and stopped with not five feet between them. “He’s mine,” Manon said, taking in the scars, the limp, the burning life in those eyes.

  The witch and the wyvern looked at each other for a moment that lasted for a heartbeat, that lasted for eternity. “You’re mine,” Manon said to him.

  The wyvern blinked at her, Titus’s blood still dripping from his cracked and broken teeth, and Manon had the feeling that he had come to the same decision. Perhaps he had known long before to­night, and his fight with Titus hadn’t been so much about survival as it had been a challenge to claim her.

  As his rider. As his mistress. As his.

  •

  Manon named her wyvern Abraxos, after the ancient serpent who held the world between his coils at the behest of the Three-­Faced Goddess. And that was about the only pleasant thing that happened that night.

  When she’d returned to the others, Abraxos taken away for cleaning and mending and Titus’s carcass hauled off by thirty men, Manon had stared down each and every witch who dared meet her eyes.

  The Yellowlegs heir was being held by Asterin in front of the Matrons. Manon gazed at Iskra for a long moment before she simply said, “Looks like I lost my footing.”

  Iskra steamed at the ears, but Manon shrugged, wiping the dirt and blood from her face before limping back to the Omega. She ­wouldn’t give Iskra the satisfaction of claiming she’d almost killed her. And Manon was in no shape to settle this in a proper fight.

  Attack or clumsiness, Asterin was punished by Mother Blackbeak that night for letting the heir fall into the pit. Manon had asked to be the one to dispense the whipping, but her grandmother ignored her. Instead, she had the Yellowlegs heir do it. As Asterin’s failure had occurred in plain sight of the other Matrons and their heirs, so would her punishment.

  Standing in the mess hall, Manon watched each brutal lash, all ten of them at full strength, as Iskra sported a bruise on her jaw courtesy of Asterin.

  To her everlasting credit, Asterin didn’t scream. Not once. It still took all of Manon’s self-­restraint to keep from grabbing the whip and using it to strangle Iskra.

  Then came the conversation with her grandmother. It ­wasn’t so much a conversation as it was a slap in the face, then a verbal beating that—­a day later—­still made Manon’s ears ring.

  She’d humiliated her grandmother and every Blackbeak in history by picking that “runty scrap of meat,” regardless of his victory. It was a fluke that he’d killed Titus, her grandmother ranted. Abraxos was the smallest of any of the mounts, and on top of that, because of his size, he had never flown a day in his life. They had never let him out of the warrens.

  They didn’t even know if he could fly after his wings had taken a beating for so long, and the handlers ­were of the opinion that should Abraxos attempt the Crossing, he’d splatter himself and Manon on the Gap floor. They claimed no other wyverns would ever accept his dominance, not as a Wing Leader. Manon had ruined all of her grandmother’s plans.

  All these facts ­were shouted at her again and again. She knew that if she even wanted to change mounts, her grandmother would force her to keep Abraxos, just to humiliate her when she failed. Even if it got her killed in the pro­cess.

  Her grandmother hadn’t been in the pit, though. She hadn’t looked into Abraxos’s eyes and seen the warrior’s heart beating in him. She hadn’t noticed that he’d fought with more cunning and ferocity than any of the others. So Manon held firm and took the slap to the face, and the lecture, and then the second slap that left her cheek throbbing.

  Manon’s face was still aching when she reached the pen in which Abraxos now made his home. He was curled by the far wall, silent and still when so many of the creatures ­were pacing or shrieking or growling.

  Her escort, the overseer, peered through the bars. Asterin lurked in the shadows. After the whipping last night, her Second ­wasn’t going to let her out of her sight anytime soon.

  Manon hadn’t apologized for the whipping. The rules ­were the rules, and her cousin had failed. Asterin deserved the lashing, just as Manon deserved the bruise on her cheek.

  “Why’s he curled up like that?” Manon asked the man.

  “Suspect it’s ’cause he’s never had a pen to himself. Not this big, anyway.”

  Manon studied the penned-­in cavern. “Where did they keep him before?”

  The man pointed at the floor. “With the other baiters in the sty. He’s the oldest of the baiters, you know. Survived the pits and the stys. But that ­doesn’t mean he’s suitable for you.”

  “If I wanted your opinion on his suitability, I’d ask for it,” Manon said, eyes still on Abraxos as she approached the bars. “How long to get him in the skies?”

  The man rubbed his head. “Could be days or weeks or months. Could be never.”

  “We begin training with our mounts this afternoon.”

  “Not going to happen.” Manon raised her brows. “This one needs to be trained alone first. I’ll get our best trainers on it, and you can use another wyvern in the meantime to—”

  “First of all, human,” Manon interrupted, “don’t give me orders.” Her iron teeth snapped out, and he flinched. “Second, I won’t be training with another wyvern. I’ll train with him.”

  The man was pale as death as he said, “All your sentinels’ mounts will attack him. And the first flight will spook him so bad that he’ll fight back. So unless you want your soldiers and their mounts to tear each other apart, I suggest you train alone.” He trembled and added, “Milady.”

  The wyvern was watching them. Waiting. “Can they understand us?”

  “No. Some spoken commands and whistles, but no more than a dog.”

  Manon didn’t believe that for one moment. It ­wasn’t that he was lying to her. He just didn’t know any better. Or maybe Abraxos was different.

  She’d use every moment until the War Games t
o train him. When she and her Thirteen ­were crowned victors, she’d make each and every one of the witches who doubted her, her grandmother included, curse themselves for fools. Because she was Manon Blackbeak, and she’d never failed at anything. And there would be nothing better than watching Abraxos bite off Iskra’s head on the battlefield.

  24

  It was far too easy to lie to his men about the bruises and cuts on his face when Chaol returned to the castle—­an unfortunate incident with a drunk vagrant in Rifthold. Enduring the lies and the injuries was better than being carrion. Chaol’s bargain with Aedion and the rebels had been simple: information for information.

  He’d promised more information about their queen, as well as about the king’s black rings, in exchange for what they knew regarding the king’s power. It had kept him alive that night, and every night afterward, when he’d waited for them to change their minds. But they never came for him, and to­night, he and Aedion waited until well past twelve before slipping into Celaena’s old rooms.

  It was the first time he’d dared return to the tomb since that night with Celaena and Dorian, and the skull-­shaped bronze knocker, Mort, didn’t move or speak at all. Even though Chaol wore the Eye of Elena at his throat, the knocker remained frozen. Perhaps Mort only answered to those with Brannon Galathynius’s blood in their veins.

  So he and Aedion combed through the tomb, the dusty halls, scouring every inch for signs of spies or ways to be discovered. When they ­were at last satisfied that no one could overhear them, Aedion said, “Tell me what I’m doing down ­here, Captain.”

  The general had shown no awe or surprise as Chaol had led him into Elena and Gavin’s resting place, though his eyes had widened slightly at Damaris. But whether or not Aedion knew what it was, he’d said nothing. For all his brashness and arrogance, Chaol had a feeling the man had many, many secrets—­and was damn good at concealing them.

  It was the other reason why he’d offered the bargain to Aedion and his companions: if the prince’s gifts ­were discovered, Dorian would need somewhere to hide, and someone to get him to safety if Chaol ­were incapacitated. Chaol said, “Are you prepared to share what­ever information you’ve gathered from your allies?”

  Aedion gave him a lazy grin. “So long as you share yours.”

  Chaol prayed to any god that would listen that he ­wasn’t making the wrong move as he pulled the Eye of Elena from his tunic. “Your Queen gave this necklace to me when she left for Wendlyn. It belonged to her ancestor—­who summoned her ­here, to give it to her.” Aedion’s eyes narrowed as he took in the amulet, the blue stone shimmering in the moonlight. “What I am about to tell you,” Chaol said, “changes everything.”

  •

  Dorian stood in the shadows of the stairwell, listening. Listening, and not quite wanting to accept that Chaol was in the tomb with Aedion Ashryver.

  That had been the first shock. For the past week, he’d been creeping down ­here to hunt for answers after his explosion with Sorscha. Especially now that she had lied through her teeth and risked everything to keep his secret—­and to help him find a way to control it.

  To­night he’d been horrified to find the secret door left slightly ajar. He shouldn’t have come, but he’d done it anyway, making up an easy list of lies to tell should he find an unfriendly face down ­here. Then he’d gotten close enough to hear the two male voices and almost fled . . . Almost, until he’d realized who was talking.

  It was impossible, because they hated each other. Yet there they ­were, in Elena’s tomb. Allies. It was enough, too much. But then he’d heard it—­heard what Chaol said to the general, so quietly it was barely audible. “Your Queen gave this necklace to me when she left for Wendlyn.”

  It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake, because . . . His chest had become too tight, too small.

  You will always be my enemy. That’s what Celaena had screamed at Chaol the night Nehemia died. And she’d said—­said that she’d lost people ten years ago, but . . .

  But.

  Dorian ­couldn’t move as Chaol launched into another story, another truth. About Dorian’s own father. About the power the king wielded. Celaena had discovered it. Celaena was trying to find a way to destroy it.

  His father had made that thing they’d fought in the library catacombs—­that monstrous thing that had seemed human. Wyrdkeys. Wyrdgates. Wyrd-­stone.

  They had lied to him, too. They had decided he ­wasn’t to be trusted. Celaena and Chaol—­they’d decided against him. Chaol had known who and what Celaena truly was.

  It was why he’d sent her to Wendlyn—­why he’d gotten her out of the castle. Dorian was still frozen on the stairs when Aedion slipped out of the tomb, sword out and looking ready to attack what­ever enemy he’d detected.

  Spotting him, Aedion swore, low and viciously, his eyes bright in the glow of his torch.

  Celaena’s eyes. Aelin Ashryver—Ashryver—Galathynius’s eyes.

  Aedion was her cousin. And he was still loyal to her—­lying through his teeth, through every action, about where his allegiance lay.

  Chaol rushed into the hall, a hand lifted beseechingly. “Dorian.”

  For a moment, he could only stare at his friend. Then he managed to say, “Why?”

  Chaol loosed a breath. “Because the fewer people who know, the safer—­for her, for everyone. For you. They have information that might help you.”

  “You think I’d run to my father?” The words ­were barely more than a strangled whisper as the temperature plummeted.

  Chaol stepped forward, putting himself between Aedion and Dorian, his palms exposed. Placating. “I ­can’t afford to guess—­to hope. Even with you.”

  “How long?” Ice coated his teeth, his tongue.

  “She told me about your father before she left. I figured out who she is soon afterward.”

  “And you’re working with him now.”

  The captain’s breath clouded in front of him. “If we can find a way to free magic, it could save you. They think they might have some answers about what happened, and how to reverse it. But if Aedion and his allies are caught, if she is caught . . . they will die. Your father will put them all down, starting with her. And right now, Dorian, we need them.”

  Dorian turned to Aedion. “Are you going to kill my father?”

  “Does he not deserve to die?” was the general’s reply.

  Dorian could see the captain wincing—­not at the general’s words, but at the cold. “Did you tell him—­about me?” Dorian ground out.

  “No,” Aedion answered for Chaol. “Though if you don’t learn to control yourself, there soon won’t be a soul in the realm who ­doesn’t know you have magic.” Aedion slid those heirloom eyes to the captain. “So that’s why you ­were so desperate to trade secrets—­you wanted the information for his sake.” A nod from Chaol. Aedion smirked at Dorian, and ice coated the stairwell. “Does your magic manifest in ice and snow, then, princeling?” the general asked.

  “Come closer and find out,” Dorian said with a faint smile. Perhaps he could throw Aedion across the hall, just as he had with that creature.

  “Aedion can be trusted, Dorian,” Chaol said.

  “He’s as two-­faced as they come. I don’t believe for one heartbeat that he ­wouldn’t sell us out if it meant furthering his own cause.”

  “He won’t,” Chaol snapped, cutting off Aedion’s reply. Chaol’s lips went blue from the cold.

  Dorian knew he was hurting him—­knew it, and didn’t quite care. “Because you want to be Aedion’s king someday?”

  Chaol’s face drained of color, from the cold or from fear, and Aedion barked a laugh. “My queen will die heirless sooner than marry a man from Adarlan.”

  Chaol tried to hide his flicker of pain, but Dorian knew his friend well enough to spot it. For a second he wondered what Celaena
would think about Aedion’s claim. Celaena, who had lied—­Celaena, who was Aelin, whom he had met ten years ago, whom he had played with in her beautiful castle. And that day in Endovier—­that first day, he had felt as if there ­were something familiar about her . . . Oh gods.

  Celaena was Aelin Galathynius. He had danced with her, kissed her, slept beside her, his mortal enemy. I’ll come back for you, she’d said her final day ­here. Even then, he’d known there was something ­else behind it. She would come back, but perhaps not as Celaena. Would it be to help him, or to kill him? Aelin Galathynius knew about his magic—­and wanted to destroy his father, his kingdom. Everything she had ever said or done . . . He’d once thought it had been a charade to win favor as his Champion, but what if it had been because she was the heir of Terrasen? Was that why she was friends with Nehemia? What if, after a year in Endovier . . .

  Aelin Galathynius had spent a year in that labor camp. A queen of their continent had been a slave, and would bear the scars of it forever. Perhaps that entitled her, and Aedion, and even Chaol who loved her, to conspire to deceive and betray his father.

  “Dorian, please,” Chaol said. “I’m doing this for you—­I swear it.”

  “I don’t care,” Dorian said, staring them down as he walked out. “I will carry your secrets to the grave—­but I want no part of them.”

  He ripped his cold magic from the air and turned it inward, wrapping it around his heart.

  •

  Aedion took the secret subterranean exit out of the castle. He’d told Chaol it was to avoid any suspicion, to lose anyone ­else trailing them as they went back to their rooms. One look from the captain told him he knew precisely where Aedion was headed.

  Aedion contemplated what the captain had told him—­and though any other man would be horrified, though Aedion should be horrified . . . he ­wasn’t surprised. He’d suspected the king was wielding some sort of deadly power from the moment he’d given him that ring all those years ago, and it seemed in line with information his spies had long been gathering.