Chapter 10

Maeve gestured to Rowan, who had not moved from the door. "You shall come to me

once Prince Rowan decides that you have mastered your gifts. He shall train you here.

And you shall not set foot in Doranelle until he deems your training complete."

After facing the horseshit she'd seen in the glass castle—demons, witches, the king—

training with Rowan, even in magic, seemed rather anticlimactic.

But—but it could take weeks. Months. Years. The familiar fog of nothing crept in,

threatening to smother her once again. She pushed it back long enough to say, "What I

need to know isn't something that can wait—"

"You want answers regarding the keys, heir of Terrasen? Then they shall be waiting for

you in Doranelle. The rest is up to you."

"Truthfully," Celaena blurted. "You will truthfully answer my questions about the

keys."

Maeve smiled, and it was not a thing of beauty. "You haven't forgotten all of our ways,

then." When Celaena didn't react, Maeve added, "I will truthfully answer all your

questions about the keys."

It might be easier to walk away. Go find some other ancient being to pester for the

truth. Celaena breathed in and out, in and out. But Maeve had been there—had been there

at the dawn of this world during the Valg wars. She had held the Wyrdkeys. She knew

what they looked like, how they felt. Maybe she even knew where Brannon had hidden

them—especially the last, unnamed key. And if Celaena could find a way to steal the keys

from the king, to destroy him, to stop his armies and free Eyllwe, even if she could find

just one Wyrdkey … "What manner of training—"

"Prince Rowan shall explain the specifics. For now, he will escort you to your chamber

to rest."

Celaena looked Maeve straight in her death-dealing eyes. "You swear you'll tell me

what I need to know?"

"I do not break my promises. And I have the feeling that you are unlike your mother in

that regard, too."

Bitch. Bitch, she wanted to hiss. But then Maeve's eyes flicked to Celaena's right palm.

She knew everything. Through whatever spies or power or guesswork, Maeve knew

everything about her and the vow to Nehemia.

"To what end?" Celaena asked softly, the anger and the fear dragging her down into an

inescapable exhaustion. "You want me to train only so I can make a spectacle of my

talents?"

Maeve ran a moon-white finger down the owl's head. "I wish you to become who you

were born to be. To become queen."

Become queen.

The words haunted Celaena that night—kept her from sleeping, even though she was so

exhausted she could have wept for the dark-eyed Silba to put her out of her misery. Queen. The word throbbed right along with the fresh split lip that also made sleeping very

uncomfortable.

She could thank Rowan for that.

After Maeve's command, Celaena hadn't bothered with good-byes before walking out.

Rowan had only cleared the way because Maeve gave him a nod, and he followed Celaena

into a narrow hallway that smelled of roasting meat and garlic. Her stomach grumbled, but

she'd probably hurl her guts up the second she swallowed anything. So she trailed Rowan

down the corridor, down the stairs, each footstep alternating between iron-willed control

and growing rage.

Left. Nehemia.

Right. You made a vow, and you will keep it, by whatever means necessary.

Left. Training. Queen.

Right. Bitch. Manipulative, cold-blooded, sadistic bitch.

Ahead of her, Rowan's own steps were silent on the dark stones of the hallway. The

torches hadn't been lit yet, and in the murky interior, she could hardly tell he was there.

But she knew—if only because she could almost feel the ire radiating off him. Good. At

least one other person wasn't particularly thrilled about this bargain.

Training. Training.

Her whole life had been training, from the moment she was born. Rowan could train

her until he was blue in the face, and as long as it got her the answers about the Wyrdkeys,

she'd play along. But it didn't mean that, when the time came, she had to do anything.

Certainly not take up her throne.

She didn't even have a throne, or a crown, or a court. Didn't want them. And she could

bring down the king as Celaena Sardothien, thank you very much.

She tightened her fingers into fists.

They encountered no one as they descended a winding staircase and started down

another corridor. Did the residents of this fortress—Mistward, Maeve had called it—know

who was in that study upstairs? Maeve probably got off on terrifying them. Maybe she had

all of them—half-breeds, she'd called them—enslaved through some bargain or another.

Disgusting. It was disgusting, to keep them here just for having a mixed heritage that was

no fault of theirs.

Celaena finally opened up her mouth.

"You must be very important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty."

"Given your history, she didn't trust anyone but her best to keep you in line."

Oh, the prince wanted to tangle. Whatever self-control he'd had on their trek to the

fortress was hanging by a thread. Good.

"Playing warrior in the woods doesn't seem like the greatest indicator of talent."

"I fought on killing fields long before you, your parents, or your grand-uncle were evenborn."

She bristled—exactly like he wanted. "Who's to fight here except birds and beasts?"

Silence. Then—"The world is a far bigger and more dangerous place than you can

imagine, girl. Consider yourself blessed to receive any training—to have the chance to

prove yourself."

"I've seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling."

A soft, harsh laugh. "Just wait, Aelin."

Another jab. And she let herself fall for it. "Don't call me that."

"It's your name. I'm not going to call you anything different."

She stepped in his path, getting right near those too-sharp canines. "No one here can

know who I am. Do you understand?"

His green eyes gleamed, animal-bright in the dark. "My aunt has given me a harder

task than she realizes, I think." My aunt. Not our aunt.

And then she said one of the foulest things she'd ever uttered in her life, bathing in the

pure hate of it. "Fae like you make me understand the King of Adarlan's actions a bit

more, I think."

Faster than she could sense, faster than anything had a right to be, he punched her.

She shifted enough to keep her nose from shattering but took the blow on her mouth.

She hit the wall, whacked her head, and tasted blood. Good.

He struck again with that immortal speed—or would have. But with equally unnerving

swiftness, he halted his second blow before it fractured her jaw and snarled in her face,

low and vicious.

Her breathing turned ragged as she purred, "Do it."

He looked more interested in ripping out her throat than in talking, but he held the line

he'd drawn. "Why should I give you what you want?"

"You're just as useless as the rest of your brethren."

He let out a soft, lethal laugh that raked claws down her temper. "If you're that

desperate to eat stone, go ahead: I'll let you try to land the next punch."

She knew better than to listen. But there was such a roar in her blood that she could no

longer see right, think right, breathe right. So she damned the consequences to hell as she

swung.

Celaena hit nothing but air—air, and then his foot hooked behind hers in an efficient

maneuver that sent her careening into the wall once more. Impossible—he'd tripped her as

if she was nothing more than a trembling novice.

He was now a few feet away, arms crossed. She spat blood and swore. He smirked. It

was enough to send her hurtling for him again, to tackle or pummel or strangle him, she

didn't know.