Heir of Fire

She glanced out in time to see him step toward her tree, the movement deadly elegant and promising a long, painful end. He had not had his mind broken; he still retained the ability to think, to calculate. These things ­were so good at their work, it seemed that the king had thought only three ­were necessary ­here. How many others remained hidden on her continent?

The forest had fallen so still that she could hear a huffing sound. He was scenting her. Her magic flared, and she shoved it down. She didn’t want her magic touching this thing, with or without Rowan’s command. The creature sniffed again—­and took another step in her direction. Just like that day at the barrows, the air began to hollow out, pulsing against her ears. Her other nostril began to bleed. Shit.

The thought hit her then, and the world stumbled. What if it had gotten to Rowan first? She dared another glance around the tree.

The creature was gone.

47

Celaena silently swore, scanning the trees. Where in hell had the creature gone? The rain began again, but the dead scent still clung to everything. She lifted her long dagger to angle it in Rowan’s direction—­to signal him to indicate whether he was breathing. He had to be; she would accept no other alternative. The blade was so clean she could see her face in it, see the trees and the sky and—

And the creature now standing behind her.

Celaena pivoted, swiping for its exposed side, one blade angled to sink straight into its ribs, the other slashing for the throat. A move she’d practiced for years and years, as easy as breathing.

But its black, depthless eyes met hers, and Celaena froze. In her body, her mind, her soul. Her magic sputtered and went out.

She scarcely heard the damp thud of her blades hitting the earth. The rain on her face dulled to a distant sensation.

The darkness around them spread, welcoming, embracing. Comforting. The creature pulled back the cowl of its cloak.

The face was young and male—­unearthly perfection. Around his neck, a torque of dark stone—­Wyrdstone, she vaguely recalled—­gleamed in the rain. This was the god of death incarnate. It was not with any mortal man’s expression or voice that he smiled and said, “You.”

She ­couldn’t look away. There ­were screams in the darkness—­screams she had drowned out for so many years. But now they ­beckoned.

His smile widened, revealing too-­white teeth, and he reached a hand for her throat.

So gentle, those icy fingers, as his thumb brushed her neck, as he tilted her face up to better stare into her eyes. “Your agony tasted like wine,” he murmured, peering into the core of her.

Wind was tearing at her face, her arms, her stomach, roaring her name. But there was eternity and calm in his eyes, a promise of such sweet darkness, and she could not look away. It would be a blessed relief to let go. She need only surrender to the dark, just as he asked. Take it, she wanted to say, tried to say. Take everything.

A flash of silver and steel pierced the inky veil, and another creature—a monster made of fangs and rage and wind—­was there, ripping her away. She clawed at him, but he was ice—­he was . . . Rowan.

Rowan was hauling her away, shouting her name, but she ­couldn’t reach him, ­couldn’t stop that pull toward the other creature.

Teeth pierced the spot between her neck and shoulder, and she jerked, latching on to the pain as if it ­were a rope yanking her out of that sea of stupor, up, up, until—

Rowan crushed her against him with one arm, sword out, her blood dripping down his chin as he backed away from the creature that lingered by the tree. Pain—­that was why the body that morning had been marred. The demi-­Fae had tried to use physical pain to break free of these things, to remind the body of what was real and not real.

The creature huffed a laugh. Oh gods. It had placed her in its thrall. That swiftly, that easily. She hadn’t stood a chance, and Rowan ­wasn’t attacking because—

Because in the dark, with limited weapons against an enemy who did not need blades to kill them, even Rowan was outmatched. A true warrior knew when to walk away from a fight. Rowan breathed, “We have to run.”

There was another low laugh from the creature, who stepped closer. Rowan pulled them farther back. “You can try,” it said in that voice that did not come from her world.

That was all Celaena needed to hear. She flung out her magic.

A wall of flame sprang up as she and Rowan sprinted away, a shield into which she poured every ounce of will and horror and shame, damning the consequences. The creature hissed, but she didn’t know if it was due to the light stinging its eyes or merely frustration.

She didn’t care. It bought them time, a ­whole minute hurtling uphill through the trees. Then crashing came from behind, that reeking stain of darkness spreading like a web.

Rowan knew the woods, knew how to hide their trail. It bought them more time and distance. The creature stalked them, even as Rowan used his wind to blow their scent away.

Mile after mile they ran, until her breath was like shards of glass in her lungs and even Rowan seemed to be tiring. They ­weren’t going to the fortress—­no, they ­wouldn’t lead this thing within ten miles of there. Rather, they headed into the Cambrian Mountains, the air growing chilled, the hills steeper. Still the creature followed.

“He won’t stop,” Celaena panted as they hauled themselves up a harrowing incline, almost on all fours. She pushed against the urge to fall to her knees and vomit. “He’s like a hound on a scent.” Her scent. Far below, the thing prowled after them.

Rowan bared his teeth, rain sluicing down his face. “Then I’ll run him down until he drops dead.”

Lightning illuminated a deer path atop the hill. “Rowan,” she panted. “Rowan, I have an idea.”

•

Celaena wondered if she still had a death wish.

Or perhaps the god of death just liked to play with her too much.

It was another uphill trek to the trees whose bark had been skinned off. And then she made herself a merry fire and burned a torch beside a forgotten road, the light shining through those skinless trees.

Far below, she prayed that Rowan was keeping the creature occupied the way she’d told him to—­leading it in circles with the scent on her tunic.

Screee went the whetting stone down her dagger as she perched atop a large rock. Despite her incessant trembling, she hummed as she sharpened, a symphony she’d gone to see performed in Rifthold every year until her enslavement. She controlled her breathing and focused on counting the minutes, wondering how long she could remain before she had to find another way. Screee.