Heir of Fire(212)

            She had to get it back. She had to get it away from him and make sure that no one knew what lay inside. And if she had it . . . She didn’t let herself think that far.

            She had to hurry to Maeve, retrieve the information she needed, and go home. Not to Terrasen, but to Rifthold. She had to face the man who had made her into a weapon, who had destroyed another part of her life, and who could prove to be her greatest threat.

            Rowan said, “What is it?”

            “The third Wyrdkey.” She swore. She could tell no one, because if anyone knew . . . they would head straight to Rifthold. Straight to the Assassins’ Keep.

            “Aelin.” Was it fear, pain, or both in his eyes? “Tell me what you learned.”

            “Not while you are bound to her.”

            “I am bound to her forever.”

            “I know.” He was Maeve’s slave—­worse than a slave. He had to obey every command, no matter how wretched.

            He leaned over his knees, dipping a large hand in the water. “You’re right. I don’t want you to tell me. Any of it.”

            “I hate that,” she breathed. “I hate her.”

            He looked away, toward Goldryn, discarded behind them on the rock. She’d told him its history this morning as she scarfed down enough food for three full-­grown Fae warriors. He hadn’t seemed particularly impressed, and when she showed him the ring she’d found in the scabbard, he had nothing to say other than “I hope you find a good use for it.” Indeed.

            But the silence that was building between them was unacceptable. She cleared her throat. Perhaps she ­couldn’t tell him the truth about the third Wyrdkey, but she could offer him another.

            The truth. The truth of her, undiluted and complete. And after all that they had been through, all that she still wanted to do . . .

            So she steeled herself. “I have never told anyone this story. No one in the world knows it. But it’s mine,” she said, blinking past the burning in her eyes, “and it’s time for me to tell it.”

            Rowan leaned back on the rock, bracing his palms behind him.

            “Once upon a time,” she said to him, to the world, to herself, “in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom . . . very much.”

            And then she told him of the princess whose heart had burned with wildfire, of the mighty kingdom in the north, of its downfall and of the sacrifice of Lady Marion. It was a long story, and sometimes she grew quiet and cried—­and during those times he leaned over to wipe away her tears.

            When she finished, Rowan merely passed her more of the tonic. She smiled at him, and he looked at her for a while before he smiled back, a different smile than all the others he’d given her before.

            They ­were quiet for some time, and she didn’t know why she did it, but she held out a hand in front of her, palm facing the pool beneath.

            And slowly, wobbling, a droplet of water the size of a marble ­rose from the surface to her cupped palm.

            “No wonder your sense of self-­preservation is so pathetic, if that’s all the water you can conjure.” But Rowan flicked her chin, and she knew he understood what it meant, to have summoned even a droplet to her hand. To feel her mother smiling at her from realms away.

            She grinned at Rowan through her tears, and sent the droplet splashing onto his face.

            Rowan tossed her into the pool. A moment later, laughing, he jumped in himself.

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