Heir of Fire(223)

            With this power—­with the keys she’d attained—­what she had created for them, the armies she had made to drive out their enemies, the crops she had grown, the shadows she had chased away . . . these things ­were nothing short of a miracle. She was more than human, more than queen.

            Aelin.

            Beloved. Immortal. Blessed.

            Aelin.

            Aelin of the Wildfire. Aelin Fireheart. Aelin Light-­Bringer.

            Aelin.

            She raised her arms, tipping back her head to the sunlight, and their cries made the entirety of the White Palace tremble. On her brow, a mark—­the sacred mark of Brannon’s line—­glowed blue. She smiled at the crowd, at her people, at her world, so ripe for the taking.

            •

            Celaena pulled back from Maeve. The queen’s face was pale.

            Maeve had bought the lie. She did not see that the vision had been given to Celaena not to taunt her but as a warning—­of what she might become if she did indeed find the keys and keep them. A gift from the man Narrok had once been.

            “I suggest,” Celaena said to the Fae Queen, “that you think very, very carefully before threatening me or my own, or hurting Rowan again.”

            “Rowan belongs to me,” Maeve hissed. “I can do what I wish with him.”

            Celaena looked at the prince, who was standing so stalwart, his eyes dull with pain. Not from the wounds on his back, but from the parting that had been creeping up on them with each step that took them closer to Doranelle.

            Slowly, carefully, Celaena pulled the ring from her pocket.

            •

            It was not Chaol’s ring that she had been clutching these past few days.

            It was the simple golden ring that had been left in Goldryn’s scabbard. She had kept it safe all these weeks, asking Emrys to tell story after story about Maeve as she carefully pieced together the truth about her aunt, just for this very moment, for this very task.

            Maeve went as still as death while Celaena lifted the ring between two fingers.

            “I think you’ve been looking for this for a long time,” Celaena said.

            “That does not belong to you.”

            “Doesn’t it? I found it, after all. In Goldryn’s scabbard, where Brannon left it after grabbing it off Athril’s corpse—­the family ring Athril would have given you someday. And in the thousands of years since then, you never found it, so . . . I suppose it’s mine by chance.” Celaena closed her fist around the ring. “But who would have thought you ­were so sentimental?”

            Maeve’s lips thinned. “Give it to me.”

            Celaena barked out a laugh. “I don’t have to give you a damn thing.” Her smile faded. Beside Maeve’s throne, Rowan’s face was unreadable as he turned toward the waterfall.

            All of it—­all of it for him. For Rowan, who had known exactly what sword he was picking up that day in the mountain cave, who had thrown it to her across the ice as a future bargaining chip—­the only protection he could offer her against Maeve, if she was smart enough to figure it out.

            She had only realized what he’d done—­that he’d known all along—­when she’d mentioned the ring to him weeks ago and he’d told her he hoped she found some use for it. He didn’t yet understand that she had no interest in bargaining for power or safety or alliance.

            So Celaena said, “I’ll make a trade with you, though.” Maeve’s brows narrowed. Celaena jerked her chin. “Your beloved’s ring—­for Rowan’s freedom from his blood oath.”