Heir of Fire (11 page)

With all the things she had done, all the places and things and people she had seen, she had to say no.

“Well, I hope you're a fast learner and quick on your feet,” he said.

“I'll do my best.” Apparently that was all Rowan needed to hear before he stalked o
ff
, his footsteps silent, every movement smooth and laced with power. Just watching him, she knew he'd held back last night when punching her. If he'd wanted to, he could have shattered her jaw.

“I'm Emrys,” the old man said. He hurried to the oven, grabbing a long,
fl
at wooden shovel from the wall to pull a brown loaf out of the oven. Introduction over. Good. No wishy-­washy nonsense or smiling or any of that. But his ears—

Half-­breeds
. Peeking up from Emrys's white hair ­were the markers of his Fae heritage.

“And this is Luca,” the old man said, pointing to the youth at the worktable. Even though a rack of iron pots and pans hanging from the ceiling partially blocked her view of him, he gave Celaena a broad smile, his mop of tawny curls sticking up this way and that. He had to be a few years younger than her at least, and hadn't yet grown into his tall frame or broad shoulders. He didn't have properly
fi
tting clothes, either, given how short the sleeves of his ordinary brown tunic ­were. “You and he will be sharing a lot of the scullery work, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, it's absolutely miserable,” Luca chirped, sni
ffl
ing loudly at the reek of the onions he was chopping, “but you'll get used to it.
Th
ough maybe not the waking up before dawn part.” Emrys shot the young man a glare, and Luca amended, “At least the company's good.”

She gave him her best attempt at a civilized nod and took in the layout again. Behind Luca, a second stone staircase spiraled up and out of sight, and the two towering cupboards on either side of it ­were crammed with well-­worn, if not cracked, dishes and cutlery.
Th
e top half of a wooden door by the windows was wide open, a wall of trees and mist swirling beyond a small clearing of grass. Past them, the ring of megaliths towered like eternal guardians.

She caught Emrys studying her hands and held them out, scars and all. “Already mangled and ruined, so you won't
fi
nd me weeping over broken nails.”

“Mother keep me. What happened?” But even as the old man spoke, she could see him putting the pieces together—­see him deciphering Celaena's accent, taking in her swollen lip and the shadows under her eyes.

“Adarlan will do that to a person.” Luca's knife thudded on the table, but Celaena kept her eyes on the old man. “Give me what­ever work you want. Any work.”

Let Rowan think she was spoiled and sel
fi
sh. She was, but she wanted sore muscles and blistered hands and to fall into bed so exhausted she ­wouldn't dream, ­wouldn't think, ­wouldn't feel much of anything.

Emrys clicked his tongue.
Th
ere was enough pity in the man's eyes that for a heartbeat, Celaena contemplated biting his head o
ff
.
Th
en he said, “Just
fi
nish the onions. Luca, you mind the bread. I've got to start on the casseroles.”

Celaena took up the spot that Luca had already vacated at the end of the table, passing the giant hearth as she did so—­a mammoth thing of ancient stone, carved with symbols and odd faces. Even the posts of the brazier had been fashioned into standing
fi
gures, and displayed atop the thin mantel was a set of nine iron
fi
gurines. Gods and goddesses.

Celaena quickly looked away from the two females in the center—­one crowned with a star and armed with a bow and quiver, the other bearing a polished bronze disk upheld between her raised hands. She could have sworn she felt them watching her.

•

Breakfast was a mad­house.

As dawn
fi
lled the windows with golden light, chaos descended on the kitchen, people rushing in and out.
Th
ere ­weren't any servants, just weathered people doing their chores or even helping because they felt like it. Great tubs of eggs and potatoes and vegetables vanished as soon as they ­were placed on the table, whisked up the stairs and into what had to be the dining hall. Jugs of water, of milk, of the gods knew what ­were hauled up. Celaena was introduced to some of the people, but most didn't cast a look in her direction.

And ­wasn't that a lovely change from the usual stares and terror and whispers that had marked the past ten years of her life. She had a feeling Rowan would keep his mouth shut about her identity, if only because he seemed to hate talking to others as much as she did. In the kitchen, chopping vegetables and washing pans, she was absolutely, gloriously nobody.

Her dull knife was a nightmare when it came to chopping mushrooms, scallions, and an endless avalanche of potatoes. No one, except perhaps Emrys with his all-­seeing eyes, seemed to notice her perfect slices. Someone merely scooped them up and tossed them in a pot, then told her to cut something ­else.

Th
en—nothing. Everyone but her two companions vanished upstairs, and sleepy laughter, grumbling, and clinking silverware echoed down the stairwell. Famished, Celaena looked longingly at the food le
ft
on the worktable just as she caught Luca staring at her.

“Go ahead,” he said with a grin before moving to help Emrys haul a massive iron cauldron over toward the sink. Even with the insanity of the past hour, Luca had managed to chat up almost every person who came into the kitchen, his voice and laughter
fl
oating over the clanging pots and barked orders. “You'll be at those dishes for a while and might as well eat now.”

Indeed, there was a
tower
of dishes and pots already by the sinks.
Th
e cauldron alone would take forever. So Celaena plunked down at the table, served herself some eggs and potatoes, poured a cup of tea, and dug in.

Devouring was a better word for what she did. Holy gods, it was delicious. Within moments, she'd consumed two pieces of toast laden with eggs, then started on the fried potatoes. Which ­were as absurdly good as the eggs. She ditched the tea in favor of downing a glass of the richest milk she'd ever tasted. Not that she ever really drank milk, since she'd had her pick of exotic juices in Ri
ft
hold, but . . . She looked up from her plate to
fi
nd Emrys and Luca gaping from the hearth. “Gods above,” the old man said, moving to sit at the table. “When was the last time you ate?”

Good food like this? A while. And if Rowan was coming back at some point, she didn't want to be swaying from hunger. She needed her strength for training. Magic training. Which was sure to be horri
fi
c, but she would do it—­to ful
fi
ll her bargain with Maeve and honor her vow to Nehemia. Suddenly not very hungry, she set down her fork. “Sorry,” she said.

“Oh, eat all you like,” Emrys said. “
Th
ere's nothing more satisfying to a cook than seeing someone enjoy his food.” He said it with enough humor and kindness that it chafed.

How would they react if they knew the things she'd done? What would they do if they knew about the blood she'd spilled, how she'd tortured Grave and taken him apart piece by piece, the way she'd gutted Archer in that sewer?
Th
e way she'd failed her friend. Failed a lot of people.

Th
ey ­were noticeably quieter as they sat down.
Th
ey didn't ask her any questions. Which was perfect, because she didn't really want to start a conversation. She ­wouldn't be ­here for long, anyway. Emrys and Luca kept to themselves, chatting about the training Luca was to do with some of the sentries on the battlements that day, the meat pies Emrys would make for lunch, the oncoming spring rains that might ruin the Beltane festival like last year. Such ordinary things to talk about, worry about. And they ­were so easy with each other—­a family in their own way.

Uncorrupted by a wicked empire, by years of brutality and slavery and bloodshed. She could almost see the three souls in the kitchen lined up beside each other: theirs bright and clear, hers a
fl
ickering black
fl
ame.

Do not let that light go out
. Nehemia's last words to her that night in the tunnels. Celaena pushed around the food on her plate. She'd never known anyone whose life hadn't been overshadowed by Adarlan. She could barely remember her brief years before the continent had been enslaved, when Terrasen had still been free.

She could not remember what it was like to be free.

A pit yawned open beneath her feet, so deep that she had to move lest it swallow her ­whole.

She was about to get started on the dishes when Luca said from down the table, “So you either have to be very important or very unlucky to have Rowan training you to enter Doranelle.”
Damned
was more like it, but she kept her mouth shut. Emrys was looking on with cautious interest. “
Th
at
is
what you're training for, right?”

“Isn't that why you're all ­here?”
Th
e words came out
fl
atter than even she expected.

Luca said, “Yes, but I've got years until I learn whether I've met their quali
fi
cations.”

Years.
Years?
Maeve ­couldn't mean for her to be ­here that long. She looked at Emrys. “How long have you been training?”

Th
e old man snorted. “Oh, I was about
fift
een when I came ­here, and worked for them for about . . . ten years, and I was never worthy enough. Too ordinary.
Th
en I decided I'd rather have a home and my own kitchen ­here than be looked down upon in Doranelle for the rest of my days. It didn't hurt that my mate felt the same way. You'll meet him soon enough. He's always popping in to steal food for himself and his men.” He chuckled, and Luca grinned.

Mate—not husband.
Th
e Fae had mates: an unbreakable bond, deeper than marriage, that lasted beyond death. Celaena asked, “So you're all—half-­breeds?”

Luca sti
ff
ened, but
fl
ashed a smile as he said, “Only the pure-­blooded Fae call us that. We prefer demi-­Fae. But yes, most of us ­were born to mortal mothers, with the fathers unaware they'd sired us.
Th
e gi
ft
ed ones usually get snatched away to Doranelle, but for us
common
o
ff
spring, the humans still aren't comfortable with us, so . . . we go ­here, we come to Mistward. Or to the other border outposts. Few enough get permission to go to Doranelle that most just come ­here to live among their own kind.” Luca's eyes narrowed on her ears. “Looks like you got more human in you than Fae.”

“Because I'm not half.” She didn't want to share any more details than that.

“Can you shi
ft
?” Luca asked. Emrys shot him a warning look.

“Can
you
?” she asked.

“Oh, no. Neither of us can. If we could, we'd probably be in Doranelle with the other ‘gi
ft
ed' o
ff
spring that Maeve likes to collect.”

Emrys growled. “Careful, Luca.”

“Maeve ­doesn't deny it, so why should I?
Th
at's what Bas and the others are saying, too. Anyway, there are a few sentries ­here who have secondary forms, like Malakai—­Emrys's mate. And they're ­here because they want to be.”

She ­wasn't at all surprised that Maeve took an interest in the gi
ft
ed ones—­or that Maeve locked all the useless ones out. “And do either of you have—­gi
ft
s?”

“You mean magic?” Luca said, his mouth quirking to the side. “Oh, no—­neither of us got a lick of it. I heard your continent always had more wielders than we did, anyway, and more variety. Say, is it true that it's all gone over there?”

She nodded. Luca let out a low whistle. He opened his mouth to ask more, but she ­wasn't particularly in the mood to talk about it so she said, “Does anyone at this fortress have magic?” Maybe they'd be able to tell her what to expect with Rowan—­and Maeve.

Luca shrugged. “Some.
Th
ey've only got a hint of boring stu
ff
, like encouraging plants to grow or
fi
nding water or convincing rain to come. Not that we need it ­here.”

Th
ey'd be of no assistance with Rowan or Maeve, then. Wonderful.

“But,” Luca chattered on, “no one ­here has any exciting or rare abilities. Like shape-­shi
ft
ing into what­ever form they want, or controlling
fi
re”—­her stomach clenched at that—“or oracular sight. We
did
have a female wander in with raw magic two years ago—­she could do anything she wanted, summon any element, and she was ­here a week before Maeve called her to Doranelle and we never heard from her again. A shame—­she was so pretty, too. But it's the same ­here as it is everywhere ­else: a few people with a pathetic trace of elemental powers that are really only fun for farmers.”

Emrys clicked his tongue. “You should pray the gods don't strike you with lightning for speaking like that.” Luca groaned, rolling his eyes, but Emrys continued his lecture, gesturing at the youth with his teacup. “
Th
ose powers ­were gi
ft
s given to us by them long ago—­gi
ft
s we needed to survive—­and ­were passed down through the generations. Of course they'd be aligned with the elements, and of course they'd be watered down a
ft
er so long.”