Heir of Fire(165)
“Thank you for looking after me,” she said. He grunted—acceptance or dismissal, she didn’t know. Sleep tugged at her, and she followed it into oblivion.
•
Rowan kept her cooped up in his room for a few more days, and even once she told him she was feeling fine, he made her spend an extra half day in bed. She supposed it was nice, having someone, even an overbearing, snarling Fae warrior, bothering to care whether she lived or died.
Her birthday arrived—nineteen somehow felt rather dull—and her sole present was that Rowan left her alone for a few hours. He came back with the news of another demi-Fae corpse found near the coast. She asked him to let her see it, but he flat-out refused (barked at her was more like it) and said he’d already gone to see it himself. It was the same pattern: a dried nosebleed, a body drained until only a husk remained, and then a careless dumping. He’d also gone back to that town—where they had been more than happy to see him, since he’d brought gold and silver.
And he’d returned to Celaena with chocolates, since he claimed to be insulted that she considered his absence a proper birthday present. She tried to embrace him, but he would have none of that, and told her as much. Still, the next time she used the bathing room, she’d snuck behind his chair at the worktable and planted a great, smacking kiss on his cheek. He’d waved her off and wiped his face with a snarl, but she had the suspicion that he’d let her get past his defenses.
•
It was a mistake to think that finally going back outdoors would be delightful.
Celaena was standing across a mossy clearing from Rowan, her knees slightly bent, hands in loose fists. Rowan hadn’t told her to, but she’d gotten into a defensive position upon seeing the faint gleam in his eyes.
Rowan only looked like this when he was about to make her life a living hell. And since they hadn’t gone to the temple ruins, she assumed he thought she’d at least mastered one element of her power, despite the events of Beltane. Which meant they were on to mastering the next.
“Your magic lacks shape,” Rowan said at last, standing so still that she envied him for it. “And because it has no shape, you have little control. As a form of attack, a fireball or wave of flame is useful, yes. But if you are engaging a skilled combatant—if you want to be able to use your power—then you have to learn to fight with it.” She groaned. “But,” he added sharply, “you have one advantage that many magic-wielders do not: you already know how to fight with weapons.”
“First chocolates on my birthday, now an actual compliment?”
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.”