Heir of Fire(242)
68
It turned out that the “submission” part of a blood oath was something Rowan liked to interpret as it suited him. During their two-week trek to the nearest port in Wendlyn, he bossed Celaena around even more—seeming to believe that now he was part of her court, it entitled him to certain nonnegotiable rights regarding her safety, her movements, and her plans.
She was starting to wonder, as they approached the docks at the end of the cobblestone street, if she had made a teensy mistake in binding him to her forever. They’d been arguing for the past three days about her next move—about the ship she’d hired to take her back to Adarlan.
“This plan is absurd,” Rowan said for the hundredth time, stopping in the shadows of a tavern by the docks. The sea air was light and crisp. “Going back alone seems like suicide.”
“One, I’m going back as Celaena, not Aelin—”
“Celaena, who did not accomplish the king’s mission, and who they are now going to hunt down.”
“The King and Queen of Eyllwe should have gotten their warning by now.” She’d sent it the first time they’d gone into town while investigating the murder of those poor people. Though letters were nearly impossible to send into the empire, Wendlyn had certain ways of getting around that. And as for Chaol . . . well, that was another reason why she was here, on this dock, about to get onto this ship. She had awoken this morning and slipped the amethyst ring off her finger. It had felt like a blessed release, a final shadow lifted from her heart. But there were still words left unsaid between them, and she needed to make sure he was safe—and would remain that way.
“So you’re going to get the key from your old master, find the captain, and then what?”
Complete submission to her indeed. “Then I go north.”
“And I’m supposed to sit on my ass for the next gods know how many months?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous, Rowan. If your tattoos don’t attract attention, then the hair, the ears, the teeth . . .”
“I have another form, you know.”
“And, just like I said, magic doesn’t work there anymore. You’d be trapped in that form. Though I do hear that Rifthold rats are particularly delicious, if you want to eat them for months.”
He glared at her, then scanned the ship—even though she knew he’d snuck out of their room at the inn last night to inspect it already. “We’re stronger together than apart.”
“If I’d known you would be such a pain in the ass, I never would have let you swear that oath.”
“Aelin.” At least he wasn’t calling her “Majesty” or “My Lady.” “Either as yourself or as Celaena, they will try to find you and kill you. They are probably already tracking you down. We could go to Varese right now and approach your mother’s mortal kin, the Ashryvers. They might have a plan.”
“My chance at success in getting the Wyrdkey out of Rifthold lies in stealth as Celaena.”
“Please,” he said.
But she merely lifted her chin. “I am going, Rowan. I will gather the rest of my court—our court—and then we will raise the greatest army the world has ever witnessed. I will call in every favor, every debt owed to Celaena Sardothien, to my parents, to my bloodline. And then . . .” She looked toward the sea, toward home. “And then I am going to rattle the stars.” She put her arms around him—a promise. “Soon. I will send for you soon, when the time is right. Until then, try to make yourself useful.” He shook his head, but gripped her in a bone-crushing embrace.