Brannon—he had possessed all three, yet had chosen to hide them, rather than put them back. And somehow, suddenly, that became the greatest question of all: why?
“As for the locations of the three keys,” Maeve said, “I do not know where they are. They were brought across the sea, and I have not heard of them again until these past ten years. It would seem that the king has at least one, probably two. The third, however . . .” She looked her up and down, but Celaena refused to flinch. “You have some inkling of its whereabouts, don’t you?”
She opened her mouth, but Maeve’s fingers clenched the arm of her throne—just enough to make Celaena glance at the stone. So much stone here—in this palace and in the city. And that word Maeve had used earlier, taken . . .
“Don’t you?” Maeve pressed.
Stone—and not a sign of wood, save for plants and furniture . . .
“No, I don’t,” said Celaena.
Maeve cocked her head. “Rowan, rise and tell me the truth.”
His hands clenched, but he stood, his eyes on his queen as he swallowed. Twice. “She found a riddle, and she knows the King of Adarlan has at least the first key, but doesn’t know where he keeps it. She also learned what Brannon did with the third—and where it is. She refused to tell me.” There was a glimmer of horror in his eyes, and his fists were trembling, as if some invisible force had compelled him to say it. The wolves only watched.
Maeve tutted. “Keeping secrets, Aelin? From your aunt?”
“Not for all the world would I tell you where the third key is.”
“Oh, I know,” Maeve purred. She snapped her fingers, and the wolves rose to their feet, shifting in flashes of light into the most beautiful men she’d ever beheld. Warriors from the size of them, from the lethal grace with which they moved; one light and one dark, but stunning—perfect.
Celaena went for Goldryn, but the twins went for Rowan, who did nothing, didn’t even struggle as they gripped his arms, forcing him again to his knees. Two others emerged from the shadows behind them. Gavriel, his tawny eyes carefully empty, and Lorcan, face stone-cold. And in their hands . . .
At the sight of the iron-tipped whip each bore, Celaena forgot to breathe. Lorcan didn’t hesitate as he ripped Rowan’s jacket and tunic and shirt from him.
“Until she answers me,” Maeve said, as if she had just ordered a cup of tea.
Lorcan unfurled the whip, the iron tip clinking against the stones, and drew back his arm. There was nothing merciful on his rugged face, no glimmer of feeling for the friend on his knees.
“Please,” Celaena whispered. There was a crack, and the world fragmented as Rowan bowed when the whip sliced into his back. He gritted his teeth, hissing, but did not cry out.
“Please,” Celaena said. Gavriel sent his whip flying so fast Rowan had only a breath to recover. There was no remorse on Gavriel’s lovely face, no sign of the male she’d thanked weeks ago.
Across the veranda, Maeve said, “How long this lasts depends entirely on you, niece.”
Celaena did not dare drag her gaze away from Rowan, who took the whipping as if he had done this before—as if he knew how to pace himself and how much pain to expect. His friends’ eyes were dead, as if they, too, had given and received this manner of punishment.
Maeve had harmed Rowan before. How many of his scars had she given him? “Stop it,” Celaena growled.
“Not for all the world, Aelin? But what about for Prince Rowan?”
Another strike, and blood was on the stones. And the sound—that sound of the whip . . . the sound that echoed in her nightmares, the sound that made her blood run cold . . .
“Tell me where the third Wyrdkey is, Aelin.”
Crack. Rowan jerked against the twins’ iron grip. Was this why he had been praying to Mala that morning? Because he knew what to expect from Maeve?
She opened her mouth, but Rowan lifted his head, teeth bared, his face savage with pain and rage. He knew she could read the word in his eyes, but he still said, “Don’t.”
It was that word of defiance that broke the hold she’d kept on herself for the past day, the damper she’d put on her power as she secretly spiraled down to the core of her magic, pulling up as much as she could gather.
The heat spread from her, warming the stones so swiftly that Rowan’s blood turned to red steam. His companions swore and near-invisible shields rippled around them and their sovereign.
She knew the gold in her eyes had shifted to flame, because when she looked to Maeve, the queen’s face had gone bone-white.
And then Celaena set the world on fire.
60
Maeve was not burning, and neither were Rowan or his friends, whose shields Celaena tore through with half a thought. But the river was steaming around them, and shouting arose from the palace, from the city, as a flame that did not burn or hurt enveloped everything. The entire island was wreathed in wildfire.
Maeve was standing now, stalking off the dais. Celaena let a little more heat seep through her hold on the flame, warming Maeve’s skin as she moved to meet her aunt. Wide-eyed, Rowan hung from his friends’ arms, his blood fizzing on the stones.
“You wanted a demonstration,” Celaena said quietly. Sweat trickled down her back, but she gripped the magic with everything she had. “One thought from me, and your city will burn.”
“It is stone,” Maeve snapped.
Celaena smiled. “Your people aren’t.”
Maeve’s nostrils flared delicately. “Would you murder innocents, Aelin? Perhaps. You did it for years, didn’t you?”
Celaena’s smile didn’t falter. “Try me. Just try to push me, Aunt, and see what comes of it. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Not for me to master my magic, but for you to learn just how powerful I am. Not how much of your sister’s blood flows in my veins—no, you’ve known from the start that I have very little of Mab’s power. You wanted to know how much I got from Brannon.”
The flames rose higher, and the shouts—of fright, not pain—rose with them. The flames would not hurt anyone unless she willed it. She could sense other magics fighting against her own, tearing holes into her power, but the conflagration surrounding the veranda burned strong.
“You never gave the keys to Brannon. And you didn’t journey with Brannon and Athril to retrieve the keys from the Valg,” Celaena went on, a crown of fire wreathing her head. “You went to steal them for yourself. You wanted to keep them. Once Brannon and Athril realized that, they fought you. And Athril . . .” Celaena drew Goldryn, its hilt glowing bloodred. “Your beloved Athril, dearest friend of Brannon . . . when Athril fought you, you killed him. You, not the Valg. And in your grief and shame, you were weakened enough that Brannon took the keys from you. It wasn’t some enemy force who sacked the Sun Goddess’s temple. It was Brannon. He burned any last trace of himself, any clue of where he was going so you would not find him. He left only Athril’s sword to honor his friend—in the cave where Athril had first carved out the eye of that poor lake creature—and never told you. After Brannon left these shores, you did not dare follow him, not when he had the keys, not when his magic—my magic—was so strong.”
It was why Brannon had hidden the Wyrdkey in his household’s heirloom—to give them that extra ounce of power. Not against ordinary enemies, but in case Maeve ever came for them. Perhaps he had not put the keys back in the gate because he wanted to be able to call upon their power should Maeve ever decide to install herself as mistress of all lands.
“That was why you abandoned your land in the foothills and left it to rot. That was why you built a city of stone surrounded by water: so Brannon’s heirs could not return and roast you alive. That was why you wanted to see me, why you bargained with my mother. You wanted to know what manner of threat I would pose. What would happen when Brannon’s blood mixed with Mab’s line.” Celaena opened her arms wide, Goldryn burning bright in one hand. “Behold my power, Maeve. Behold what I grapple with in the deep dark, what prowls under my skin.”