Heir of Fire (16 page)

A mess. His rooms ­were a mess of books and papers and discarded weapons. And there, sitting at a table with hardly a foot of space cleared for him, was Dorian, looking rather embarrassed—­either at the mess, or at his split lip.

She managed to bow, even as that traitorous heat
fl
ooded her again, up her neck and across her face. “Your Highness summoned me?”

A cleared throat. “I—­well, I think you can see what needs repairing.”

Another injury to his hand.
Th
is one looked like it was from sparring, but the lip . . . getting that close to him would be an e
ff
ort of will. Hand
fi
rst, then. Let that distract her, anchor her.

She set down her basket of supplies and lost herself in the work of readying ointments and ban­dages. His scented soap caressed her nose, strong enough to suggest he'd just bathed. Which was a horrible thing to think about as she stood beside his chair, because she was a professional healer, and imagining her patients naked was not a—

“Aren't you going to ask what happened?” the prince said, peering up at her.

“It's not my place to ask—­and unless it's relevant to the injury, it's nothing I need to know.” It came out colder, harder than she meant. But it was true.

E
ffi
ciently, she patched up his hand.
Th
e silence didn't bother her; she'd sometimes spent days in the catacombs without speaking to anyone. She'd been a quiet child before her parents had died, and a
ft
er the massacre in the city square, she'd become even more so. It ­wasn't until she'd come to the castle that she found friends—­found that she sometimes
liked
talking. Yet now, with him . . . well, it seemed that the prince didn't like silence, because he looked up at her again and said, “Where are you from?”

Such a tricky question to answer, since the how and why of her journey to this castle ­were stained by the actions of his father. “Fenharrow,” she said, praying that would be the end of it.

“Where in Fenharrow?”

She almost cringed, but she had more self-­control than that a
ft
er
fi
ve years of tending gruesome injuries and knowing that one
fl
icker of disgust or fear on her face could shatter a patient's control. “A small village in the south. Most people have never heard of it.”

“Fenharrow is beautiful,” he said. “All that open land, stretching on forever.”

She did not remember enough of it to recall whether she had loved the
fl
at expanse of farmland, bordered on the west by mountains and on the east by the sea.

“Did you always want to be a healer?”

“Yes,” she said, because she was entrusted to heal the heir to the empire and could show nothing but absolute certainty.

A slash of a grin. “Liar.”

She didn't mean to, but she met his gaze—­those sapphire eyes so bright in the late a
ft
ernoon sun streaming through the small window. “I did not mean any o
ff
ense, Your—”

“I'm prying.” He tested the ban­dages. “I was trying to distract myself.”

She nodded, because she had nothing to say and could never come up with anything clever anyway. She drew out her tin of disinfecting salve. “For your lip, if you don't mind, Your Highness, I want to make sure there's no dirt or anything in the wound so it—”

“Sorscha.” She tried not to let it show, what it did to her to have him remember her name. Or to hear him say it. “Do what you need to do.”

She bit her lip, a stupid ner­vous habit, and nodded as she tilted his chin up so she could better see his mouth. His skin was so warm. She touched the wound and he hissed, his breath caressing her
fi
ngers, but didn't pull back or reprimand or strike her as some of the other cour­tiers did.

She applied the salve to his lip as quickly as she could. Gods, his lips ­were so
ft
.

She hadn't known he was the prince the day she
fi
rst saw him, striding through the gardens, the captain in tow.
Th
ey ­were barely into their teenage years, and she was an apprentice in hand-­me-­down clothes, but for a moment, he'd looked at her and smiled. He'd
seen
her when no one ­else had for years, so she found excuses to be in the upper levels of the castle. But she'd wept the next month when she spied him again, and two apprentices had whispered about how handsome the prince was—­Dorian, heir to the throne.

It had been secret and stupid, this infatuation with him. Because when she
fi
nally encountered him again, years later while helping Amithy with a patient, he did not look at her. She had become invisible, like many of the healers—­invisible, just as she had wanted. “Sorscha?”

Her horror achieved new depths as she realized she'd been staring at his mouth,
fi
ngers still in her tin of salve. “I'm sorry,” she said, wondering whether she should throw herself from the tower and end her humiliation. “It's been a long day.”
Th
at ­wasn't a lie.

She was acting like a fool. She'd been with a man before—­one of the guards, just once and long enough to know she ­wasn't particularly interested in letting another one touch her anytime soon. But standing so close, his legs brushing the skirt of her brown homespun dress . . .

“Why didn't you tell anyone?” he asked quietly. “About me and my friends.”

She backed away a step but held his stare, even though training and instinct told her to avert her eyes. “You ­were never cruel to the healers—­to anyone. I like to think that the world needs . . .” Saying that was too much. Because the world was his father's world.

“Needs better people,” he
fi
nished for her, standing. “And you think my father would have used your knowledge of our . . . comings and goings against us.”

So he knew that Amithy reported anything unusual. Amithy had told Sorscha to do the same, if she knew what was good for her. “I don't mean to imply that His Majesty would—”

“Does your village still exist? Are your parents still alive?”

Even years later, she ­couldn't keep the pain from her voice as she said, “No. It was burned. And no: they brought me to Ri
ft
hold and ­were killed in the city's immigrant purge.”

A shadow of grief and horror in his eyes. “So why would you ever come ­here—­work ­here?”

She gathered her supplies. “Because I had nowhere ­else to go.” Agony
fl
ickered on his face. “Your Highness, have I—”

But he was staring as if he understood—­and saw her. “I'm sorry.”

“It ­wasn't your decision. Or your soldiers who rounded up my ­parents.”

He only looked at her for a long moment before thanking her. A polite dismissal. And she wished, as she le
ft
that cluttered tower, that she'd never opened her mouth—­because perhaps he'd never call on her again for the sheer awkwardness of it. She ­wouldn't lose her position, because he ­wasn't that cruel, but if he refused her ser­vices, then it might lead to questions. So Sorscha resolved, as she lay that night in her little cot, to
fi
nd a way to apologize—­or maybe
fi
nd excuses to keep the prince from seeing her again. Tomorrow, she'd
fi
gure it out tomorrow.

Th
e following day she didn't expect the messenger who arrived a
ft
er breakfast, asking for the name of her village. And when she hesitated, he said that the Crown Prince wanted to know.

Wanted to know, so he could have it added to his personal map of the continent.

16

Of all the spaces in the Omega, the mess hall was by far the most dangerous.

Th
e three Ironteeth Clans had been divided into rotating shi
ft
s that kept them mostly separated—­training with the wyverns, training in the weapons room, and training in mortal warfare. It was smart to separate them, Manon supposed, since tensions ­were high, and would continue to run high until the wyverns ­were selected. Everyone wanted a bull.
Th
ough Manon fully expected to get one, perhaps even Titus, it didn't keep her from wanting to punch out the teeth of anyone who even whispered about coveting a bull of her own.

Th
ere ­were only a few overlapping minutes between their three-­hour rotations, and the coven leaders did their best to keep them from running into each other. At least Manon did. Her temper was on a tight leash these days, and one more sneer from the Yellowlegs heir was likely to end in bloodshed.
Th
e same could be said of her
Th
irteen, two of whom—­the green-­eyed twins Faline and Fallon, more demon than witch—­had gotten into a brawl with some Yellowlegs idiots, unsurprisingly. She'd punished them just as she'd punished Asterin: three blows each, public and humiliating. But, like clockwork,
fi
ghts still broke out between other covens whenever they ­were in close quarters.

Which was what made the mess hall so deadly.
Th
e two daily meals ­were the only time they all shared together—­and while they kept to their own tables, the tension was so thick Manon could slice it with her blade.

Manon stood in line for her bowl of slop—­that was the best name she could give the doughy goop the mess hall served—­
fl
anked by Asterin, with the last of the Blueblood witches in the line ahead of her. Somehow, the Bluebloods ­were always
fi
rst—­
fi
rst in line for food,
fi
rst to ­ride the wyverns (the
Th
irteen had yet to get airborne), and likely to get
fi
rst pick of the beasts. A growl rumbled deep in her throat, but Manon pushed her tray along the table, watching the pale-­faced server heap a grayish-­white ball of food into the bowl of the Blueblood in front of her.

She didn't bother to note the details of his features as the thick vein in his throat pulsed. Witches didn't need blood to survive, but humans didn't need wine, either.
Th
e Bluebloods ­were picky about whose blood they drank—­virgins, young men, pretty girls—­but the Blackbeaks didn't particularly care one way or another.

Th
e man's ladle began shaking, tip-­tapping along the side of the cauldron.

“Rules are rules,” drawled a voice to her le
ft
. Asterin let out a warning snarl, and Manon didn't have to look to know that the Yellowlegs heir, Iskra, lurked there. “No eating the rabble,” the dark-­haired witch added, shoving her bowl in front of the man, cutting the line. Manon took in the iron nails and teeth, the calloused hand so blatantly making a show of dominance.

“Ah. I was wondering why no one's bothered to eat you,” Manon said.

Iskra shouldered her way farther in front of Manon. Manon could feel the eyes in the room shi
ft
ing toward them, but she reined in her temper, allowing the disrespect. Mess hall posturing meant nothing. “I hear your
Th
irteen are taking to the air today,” said the Yellowlegs heir as Manon received her own ration.

“What business is it of yours?”

Iskra shrugged her toned shoulders. “
Th
ey say you ­were once the best
fl
ier in all three Clans. It would be a shame if it were just more gossip.”

It was true—­she'd earned her spot as coven leader as much as she'd inherited it.

Iskra went on, sliding her plate along to the next server, who spooned some pale root vegetable onto her slop. “
Th
ere's talk of skipping our training rotation so we can see the legendary
Th
irteen take to the skies for the
fi
rst time in a de­cade.”

Manon clicked her tongue in pretend thought. “I also heard there's talk that the Yellowlegs need all the help they can get in the sparring room. But I suppose any army needs its supply drivers.”

A low laugh from Asterin, and Iskra's brown eyes
fl
ashed.
Th
ey reached the end of the serving table, where Iskra faced Manon. With their trays in hand, neither could reach for the blades at their sides.
Th
e room had gone silent, even the high table at which the three Matrons sat.

Manon's gums stung as her iron teeth shot from their slits and snapped down. She said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Any time you need a lesson in combat, Iskra, you just let me know. I'd be happy to teach you a few things about soldiering.”

Before the heir could reply, Manon stalked across the room. Asterin gave Iskra a mocking bow of the head, followed by identical gestures from the rest of her
Th
irteen, but Iskra remained staring at Manon, simmering.

Manon plunked down at her table to
fi
nd her grandmother smiling faintly. And when all of Manon's twelve sentinels ­were seated around her,
Th
irteen from now until the Darkness embraced them, Manon allowed herself a smile, too.

Th
ey ­were going to
fl
y today.

•

As if the open cli
ff
face weren't enough to make the two gathered Blackbeak covens shi
ft
on their feet, the twenty-­six tethered wyverns in a tight space, none of them
that
docile, made even Manon twitchy.

But she showed no fear as she approached the wyvern at the center. Two lines of thirteen stood chained and ready.
Th
e
Th
irteen took the
fi
rst.
Th
e other coven took the one behind. Manon's new riding gear was heavy and awkward—­leather and fur, capped with steel shoulder-­guards and leather wrist-­braces. More than she was used to wearing, especially with her red cloak.