Heir of Fire

Amaroth. The other outpost, and Murtaugh’s other possible origin point for their spell. Due north from Noll. Both the same distance from Rifthold. Three towers of black stone, all three points making an equilateral triangle. It had to be part of the spell, then.

Chaol traced the rim of his glass. He had sworn to keep Dorian out of it, to leave him alone . . .

He had no way of testing out any theory, and didn’t want to get within ten feet of that clock tower. But perhaps the theory could be tested on a small scale. Just to see if they ­were right about what the king had done. Which meant . . .

He needed Dorian.

37

It was two weeks of training for Manon and her Thirteen. Two weeks of waking up before the sun to fly each canyon run, to master it as one unit. Two weeks of scratches and sprained limbs, of near deaths from falls or the wyverns squabbling or just stupid miscalculation.

But slowly, they developed instincts—­not just as a fighting unit, but as individual riders and mounts. Manon didn’t like the thought of the mounts eating the foul-­tasting meat raised within the mountain, so twice a day they hunted the mountain goats, swooping to pluck them off the mountainsides. It ­wasn’t long before the witches started eating the goats themselves, building hasty fires in the mountain passes to cook their breakfast and eve­ning meals. Manon didn’t want any of them—­mounts or riders—­taking another bite of the food given to them by the king’s men, or tasting the men themselves. If it smelled and tasted strange, odds ­were something was wrong with it.

She didn’t know if it was the fresh meat or the extra lessons, but the Thirteen ­were starting to outpace every coven. To the point where Manon ordered the Thirteen to hold back whenever the Yellowlegs gathered to watch their lessons.

Abraxos was still a problem. She hadn’t dared take the Crossing with him, as his wings, while slightly stronger, ­weren’t better by much—­at least not enough to brave the sheer plunge through the narrow pass. Manon had been chewing it over every night when the Thirteen gathered in her room to compare notes about flying, their iron nails glinting as they used their hands to demonstrate the ways they’d taught their wyverns to bank, to take off, to do some fancy maneuver.

For all the excitement, they ­were exhausted. Even the lofty-­headed Bluebloods had their tempers on tight leashes, and Manon had been called in a dozen times now to break apart brawls.

Manon used her downtime to see Abraxos—­to check on his iron claws and teeth, to take him out for extra rides when everyone ­else had passed out in their cots. He needed as much training as he could get, and she liked the quiet and stillness of the night, with the silvered mountain peaks and the river of stars above, even if it made waking up the next day difficult.

So after braving the wrath of her grandmother, Manon won two days off for the Blackbeaks, convincing her that if they didn’t rest, there would be outright war in the middle of the mess hall and the king ­wouldn’t have an aerial cavalry left to ­ride his wyverns into battle.

They got two days to sleep and eat and see to what­ever needs only the men across the mountain could provide. That was something a good number of the Thirteen ­were doing, as she’d seen Vesta, Lin, Asterin, and the demon twins stalking across the bridge.

No sleeping for Manon today or tomorrow. No eating. Or bedding men.

No, she was taking Abraxos out into the Ruhnns.

He was already saddled, and Manon ensured Wind-­Cleaver was tightly strapped to her back as she mounted him. The saddlebags ­were an unexpected weight behind her, and she made a note to start training the Thirteen and the rest of the covens with them. If they ­were to be an army, then they’d carry their supplies, as most soldiers did. And training with weights would make them faster when it came time to fly without them.

“You sure I ­can’t convince you not to go?” the overseer said as she paused at the back gates. “You know the stories as well as I do—­this won’t come without a cost.”

“His wings are weak, and so far everything ­else ­we’ve tried to reinforce them has failed,” she said. “It might be the only material that could patch up his wings and withstand the winds. As I don’t see any markets nearby, I suppose I’ll have to go directly to the source.”

The overseer frowned at the gray sky beyond. “Bad day for flying—­storm’s coming.”

“It’s the only day I have.” Even as she said it, she wished that she could take the Thirteen into the skies when the storm hit—­to train them in that, too.

“Be careful, and think through any bargain they offer you.”

“If I wanted your advice, I’d ask for it, mortal,” she said, but he was right.

Still, Manon led Abraxos out through the gates and to their usual takeoff spot. They had a long way to fly today and tomorrow—­all the way to the edge of the Ruhnn Mountains.

To find spidersilk. And the legendary Stygian spiders, large as ­horses and deadlier than poison, who wove it.

•

The storm hit right as Manon and Abraxos circled the westernmost outcropping of the Ruhnns. Through the icy rain lashing her face and soaking right through her layers of clothes, she could see that the mist hung low over the mountains, veiling much of the ash-­gray, jagged labyrinth below.

With the rising winds and lightning thrashing around them, Manon grounded Abraxos on the only open bit of land she could spot. She’d wait until the storm had passed, and then they would take to the skies and scan the area until they found the spiders. Or at least clues about their whereabouts—­mostly in the form of bones, she expected.

But the storm continued, and though she and Abraxos pressed themselves into the side of a little cliff, it did nothing to shield them. She would have preferred snow over this freezing rain, which came with so much wind that she ­couldn’t light a fire.

Night fell swiftly thanks to the storm, and Manon had to put her iron teeth away to keep them from chattering right through her lip. Her hood was useless, soaked and dripping in her eyes, and even Abraxos had curled into as tight a ball as he could against the storm.

Stupid, horrible idea. She pulled a goat leg from a saddle bag and tossed it to Abraxos, who uncurled himself long enough to chomp it down, and then went right back to shielding himself against the storm. She cursed herself for a fool as she choked down her own meal of soggy bread and a freezing apple, then gnawed on a bit of cheese.