Heir of Fire(194)

            Nehemia’s corpse, mangled and mutilated. Because she had been too late, and because she had been a coward.

            And her parents, throats slit from ear to ear, gray and lifeless. Dead from an attack they should have sensed. An attack she should have sensed. Maybe she had sensed it, and that was why she had crept in that night. But she had been too late then as well.

            Two beds. Two fractures in her soul, cracks through which the abyss had come pouring in long before the Valg princes had ever seized her. A claw scraped along her neck and she jerked away, stumbling toward her parents’ corpses.

            The moment that darkness had swept around her, snuffing out her exhausted flame, it began eating away at the reckless rage that had compelled her to step out of the barrier. ­Here in the dark, the silence was complete—­eternal. She could feel the Valg slinking around her, hungry and eager and full of cold, ancient malice. She’d expected to have the life sucked from her instantly, but they had just stayed close in the dark, brushing up against her like cats, until a faint light had formed and she’d found herself between these two beds. She was unable to look away, unable to do anything but feel her nausea and panic rise bit by bit. And now . . . Now . . .

            Though her body remained unmoving on the bed, Nehemia’s voice whispered, Coward.

            Celaena vomited. A faint, hoarse laugh sounded behind her.

            She backed up, farther and farther from the bed where Nehemia lay. Then she was standing in a sea of red—­red and white and gray, and—

            She now stood like a wraith in her parents’ bed, where she had lain ten years ago, awakening between their corpses to the servant woman’s screaming. It was those screams she could hear now, high and endless, and—Coward.

            Celaena fell against the headboard, as real and smooth and cold as she remembered it. There was nowhere ­else for her to go. It was a memory—­these ­were not real things.

            She pressed her palms against the wood, fighting her building scream. Coward. Nehemia’s voice again filled the room. Celaena squeezed her eyes shut and said into the wall, “I know. I know.”

            She did not fight as cold, claw-­tipped fingers stroked at her cheeks, at her brow, at her shoulders. One of the claws severed clean through her long braid as it whipped her around. She did not fight as darkness swallowed her ­whole and dragged her down deep.

            •

            The darkness had no end and no beginning.

            It was the abyss that had haunted her steps for ten years, and she free-fell into it, welcomed it.

            There was no sound, only the vague sense of going toward a bottom that might not exist, or that might mean her true end. Maybe the Valg princes had devoured her, turning her into a husk. Maybe her soul was forever trapped ­here, in this plunging darkness.

            Perhaps this was hell.

            •

            The blackness was rippling now, shifting with sound and color that she passed through. She lived through each image, each memory worse than the next. Chaol’s face as he saw what she truly was; Nehemia’s mutilated body; her final conversation with her friend, the damning things she’d said. When your people are lying dead around you, don’t come crying to me.

            It had come true—­now thousands of slaves from Eyllwe had been slaughtered for their bravery.

            She tumbled through a maelstrom of the moments when she had proved her friend right. She was a waste of space and breath, a stain on the world. Unworthy of her birthright.

            This was hell—­and looked like hell, as she saw the bloodbath she’d created on the day she rampaged through Endovier. The screams of the dying—­the men she’d cut apart—­tore at her like phantom hands.