His eyes narrowed, and they had yet another of their wordless conversations. The more you talk, the more I’m going to make you pay in a moment.
She smiled slightly. Apologies, master. I am yours to instruct.
Brat. He jerked his chin at her. “Your fire can take whatever form you wish—the only limit being your imagination. And considering your upbringing, should you go on the offensive—”
“You want me to make a sword out of fire?”
“Arrows, daggers—you direct the power. Visualize it, and use it as you would a mortal weapon.”
She swallowed.
He smirked. Afraid to play with fire, Princess?
You won’t be happy if I singe your eyebrows off.
Try me. “When you trained as an assassin, what was the first thing you learned?”
“How to defend myself.”
She understood why he’d looked so amused for the past few minutes when he said, “Good.”
•
Not surprisingly, having ice daggers thrown at her was miserable.
Rowan hurled dagger after magical dagger at her—and every damn time, the shield of fire that she tried (and failed) to imagine did nothing. If it appeared at all, it always manifested too far to the left or right.
Rowan didn’t want a wall of flame. No—he wanted a small, controlled shield. And it didn’t matter how many times he nicked her hands or arms or face, it didn’t matter that dried blood was now itching down her cheeks. One shield—that was all she had to craft and he would stop.
Sweating and panting, Celaena was beginning to wonder if she should step directly into the path of his next dagger and put herself out of her suffering when Rowan growled. “Try harder.”
“I am trying,” she snapped, rolling aside as he sent two gleaming ice daggers at her head.
“You’re acting like you’re on the verge of a burnout.”
“Maybe I am.”
“If you believe for one moment that you’re close to a burnout after an hour of practicing—”
“It happened that quickly on Beltane.”
“That was not the end of your power.” His next ice dagger hovered in the air beside his head. “You fell into the lure of the magic and let it do what it wanted—let it consume you. Had you kept your head, you could have had those fires burning for weeks—months.”
“No.” She didn’t have any better answer than that.
His nostrils flared slightly. “I knew it. You wanted your power to be insignificant—you were relieved when you thought that was all you had.”
Without warning, he sent the dagger, then the next, then the next at her. She raised her left arm as she would raise a shield, picturing the flame surrounding her arm, blocking those daggers, obliterating them, but—
She cursed so loudly that the birds stopped their chatter. She clutched her forearm as blood welled and soaked into her tunic. “Stop hitting me! I get the point!”
But another dagger came. And another.
Ducking and dodging, raising her bloodied arm again and again, she gritted her teeth and swore at him. He sent a dagger twirling with deadly efficiency—and she couldn’t move fast enough to avoid the thin scratch along her cheekbone. She hissed.
He was right—he was always right, and she hated that. Almost as much as she hated the power that flooded her and did what it wanted. It was hers to command—not the other way around. She was not its slave. She was no one’s slave anymore. And if Rowan threw one more damned dagger at her face—
He did.
The ice crystal didn’t make it past her upraised forearm before it vanished in a hiss of steam.
Celaena gazed over the flickering edge of the compact red-burning flame before her arm. Shaped like—a shield.
Rowan smiled slowly. “We’re done for today. Go eat something.”
The circular shield did not burn her, though its flames swirled and sizzled. As she’d commanded. It had . . . worked.
So she raised her eyes to Rowan. “No. Again.”
•
After a week of making shields of various sizes and temperatures, Celaena could have multiple defenses burning at once, and encircle the entire glen with half a thought to protect it from outside assault. And when she awoke one morning before dawn, she couldn’t say why she did it, but she slipped from the room she shared with Rowan and went down to the ward-stones.
She shivered from more than the early morning cold as the power of the curving gate-stones zinged against her skin when she passed through. But none of the sentries
on the battlements ordered her to stop as she walked along the line of towering, carved rocks until she found a bit of even ground and began to practice.
44
As one the Thirteen flew; as one the Thirteen led the other Blackbeak covens in the skies. Drill after drill, through rain and sun and wind, until they were all tanned and freckled. Even though Abraxos had yet to make the Crossing, the Spidersilk patching on his wings improved his flying significantly.
It was all going beautifully. Abraxos had gotten into a brawl for dominance with Lin’s bull and emerged victorious, and after that, none in her coven or any other challenged him. The War Games were fast approaching, and though Iskra hadn’t been any trouble since the night Manon had half killed her, they watched their backs: in the baths, around every dark corner, double-checking every rein and strap before they mounted their wyverns.
Yes, it was all going beautifully, until Manon was summoned to her grandmother’s room.
“Why is it,” her grandmother said by way of greeting, pacing the room, teeth always out, “that I have to hear from gods-damned Cresseida that your runty, useless wyvern hasn’t made the Crossing? Why is it that I am in the middle of a meeting, planning these War Games so you can win, and the other Matrons tell me that you aren’t allowed to participate because your mount will not make the Crossing and therefore isn’t allowed to fly in the host?”
Manon glimpsed the flash of nails before they raked down her cheek. Not hard enough to scar, but enough to bleed.
“You and that beast are an embarrassment,” her grandmother hissed, teeth snapping in her face. “All I want is for you to win these Games—so we can take our rightful place as queens, not High Witches. Queens of the Waste, Manon. And you are doing your best to ruin it.” Manon kept her eyes on the ground. Her grandmother dug a nail into her chest, cutting through her red cloak, piercing the flesh right above her heart. “Has your heart melted?”
“No.”
“No,” her grandmother sneered. “No, it cannot melt, because you do not have a heart, Manon. We are not born with them, and we are glad of it.” She pointed to the stone floor. “Why is it that I am informed today that Iskra caught a gods-damned Crochan spying on us? Why am I the last to know that she is in our dungeons and that they have been interrogating her for two days?”