Free Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas Page A

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 fi nd a way to steal the keys from the king, to destroy him, to stop his armies and free Eyllwe, even if she could fi nd just one Wyrdkey . . . “What manner of training—”
    â€œPrince Rowan shall explain the speci fi cs. 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?”
    â€œI 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 fl icked to Celaena’s right palm. She knew everything. Th rough what­ever spies or power or guesswork, Maeve knew everything about her and the vow to Nehemia.
    â€œTo what end?” Celaena asked so ft ly, 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 fi nger down the owl’s head. “I wish you to become who you ­were born to be. To become queen.”
    â€¢
    Become queen.
    Th e 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. Th e word throbbed right along with the fresh split lip that also made sleeping very uncomfortable.
    She could thank Rowan for that.
    A ft er 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.
    Le ft . Nehemia.
    Right. You made a vow, and you will keep it, by what­ever means neces sary.
    Le ft . 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. Th e 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 o ff 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 fi ngers into fi sts.
    Th ey 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 o ff 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 fi nally opened up her mouth.
    â€œYou must be very important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty.”
    â€œGiven your history, she didn’t trust anyone but her best to keep you in line.”
    Oh, the prince wanted to tangle.