Heir of Fire(211)
Rowan was frowning when she caught up to him, but said nothing. As they walked away, Gavriel murmured, “Good luck, Rowan.”
•
Rowan brought her to a forest pool she’d never seen before, the clear water fed by a lovely waterfall that seemed to dance in the sunlight. He took a seat on a broad, flat, sun-warmed rock, pulling off his boots and rolling up his pants to dip his feet in the water. She winced at every sore muscle and bone in her body as she sat. Rowan scowled, but she gave him a look that dared him to order her back to bed rest.
When her own feet were in the pool and they had let the music of the forest sink into them, Rowan spoke. “There is no undoing what happened with Narrok. Once the world hears that Aelin Galathynius fought against Adarlan, they will know you are alive. He will know you are alive, and where you are, and that you do not plan to cower. He will hunt you for the rest of your life.”
“I accepted that fate from the moment I stepped outside the barrier,” she said quietly. She kicked at the water, the ripples spreading out across the pool. The movement sent shuddering pain through her magic-ravaged body, and she hissed.
Rowan handed her the skein of water he’d brought with him but hadn’t touched. She took a sip and found it contained the pain-killing tonic she’d been guzzling since she’d awoken that morning.
Good luck, Rowan, Gavriel had said to his friend. There was a day coming, all too soon, when she would also have to bid him farewell. What would her parting words be? Would she be able to offer him only a blessing for luck? She wished she had something to give him—some kind of protection against the queen who held his leash. The Eye of Elena was with Chaol. The Amulet of Orynth—she would have offered him that, if she hadn’t lost it. Heirloom or no, she would rest easier if she knew it was protecting him.
The amulet, decorated with the sacred stag on one side . . . and Wyrdmarks on the other.
Celaena stopped breathing. Stopped seeing the prince beside her, hearing the forest humming around her. Terrasen had been the greatest court in the world. They had never been invaded, had never been conquered, but they had prospered and become so powerful that every kingdom knew to provoke them was folly. A line of uncorrupted rulers, who had amassed all the knowledge of Erilea in their great library. They had been a beacon that drew the brightest and boldest to them.
She knew where it was—the third and final Wyrdkey.
It had been around her neck the night she fell into the river.
And around the neck of every one of her ancestors, going back to Brannon himself, when he stopped at the Sun Goddess’s temple to take a medallion from Mala’s High Priestess—and then destroyed the entire site to prevent anyone from tracing his steps.
The medallion of cerulean blue, with the gold sun-stag crowned with immortal flame—the stag of Mala Fire-Bringer. Upon leaving Wendlyn’s shores, Brannon had stolen those same stags away to Terrasen and installed them in Oakwald. Brannon had placed the third sliver of Wyrdkey inside the amulet and never told a soul what he had done with it.
The Wyrdkeys weren’t inherently bad or good. What they were depended on how their bearers used them. Around the necks of the kings and queens of Terrasen, one of them had been unknowingly used for good, and had protected its bearers for millennia.
It had protected her, that night she fell into the river. For it had been Wyrdmarks she’d seen glowing in the frozen depths, as if she had summoned them with her watery cries for help. But she had lost the Amulet of Orynth. It had fallen into that river and—no.
No. It couldn’t have, because she wouldn’t have made it to the riverbank, let alone survived the hours she lay here. The cold would have claimed her. Which meant she’d had it when . . . when . . . Arobynn Hamel had taken it from her and kept it all these years, a prize whose power he had never guessed the depth of.