Free Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas

submit to it.”
    Celaena’s breath burned her throat. Another fl icker of memory—­of lessons not about starting fi res but putting them out.
    Maeve went on, “Look at how well that turned out for them.”
    Celaena’s blood froze. Every self-­preserving instinct went right out of her head. “And where ­were you ten years ago?” She spoke so low, from so deep in her shredded soul, that the words ­were barely more than a growl.
    Maeve angled her head slightly. “I do not take kindly to being lied to.”
    Th e snarl on Celaena’s face faltered. Dropped right into her gut. Aid had never come for Terrasen from the Fae. From Wendlyn. And it was all because . . . because . . .
    â€œI do not have more time to spare you,” Maeve said. “So let me be brief: my eyes have told me that you have questions. Questions that no mortal has the right to ask—­about the keys.”
    Legend said Maeve could commune with the spirit world—­had Elena, or Nehemia, told her? Celaena opened her mouth, but Maeve held up a hand. “I will give you those answers. You may come to me in Doranelle to receive them.”
    â€œWhy not—”
    A growl from Rowan at the interruption.
    â€œBecause they are answers that require time,” Maeve said, then slowly added, as if she savored every word, “and answers you have not yet earned.”
    â€œTell me what I can do to earn them and I will do it.” Fool. A damned fool’s response.
    â€œA dangerous thing to o ff er without hearing the price.”
    â€œYou want me to show you my magic? I’ll show it to you. But not ­here—­not—”
    â€œI have no interest in seeing you drop your magic at my feet like a sack of grain. I want to see what you can do with it, Aelin Galathynius—which currently seems like not very much at all.” Celaena’s stomach tightened at that cursed name. “I want to see what you will become under the right circumstances.”
    â€œI don’t—”
    â€œI do not permit mortals or half-­breeds into Doranelle. For a half-­breed to enter my realm, she must prove herself both gi ft ed and worthy. Mistward, this fortress”—­she waved a hand to encompass the room—“is one of several proving grounds. And a place where those who do not pass the test can spend their days.”
    Beneath the growing fear, a fl icker of disgust went through her. Half-­breed —Maeve said it with such disdain. “And what manner of test might I expect before I am deemed worthy?”
    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 gi ft s. He shall train you here. And you shall not set foot in Doranelle until he deems your training complete.”
    A ft er 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. Th e 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 —”
    â€œYou want answers regarding the keys, heir of Terrasen? Th en they shall be waiting for you in Doranelle. Th e rest is up to you.”
    â€œTruthfully,” 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 fi nd 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