Left. Nehemia.
Right. You made a vow, and you will keep it, by whatever means necessary.
Left. Training. Queen.
Right. Bitch. Manipulative, cold-blooded, sadistic bitch.
Ahead of her, Rowan’s own steps were silent on the dark stones of the hallway. The torches hadn’t been lit yet, and in the murky interior, she could hardly tell he was there. But she knew—if only because she could almost feel the ire radiating off him. Good. At least one other person wasn’t particularly thrilled about this bargain.
Training. Training.
Her whole life had been training, from the moment she was born. Rowan could train her until he was blue in the face, and as long as it got her the answers about the Wyrdkeys, she’d play along. But it didn’t mean that, when the time came, she had to do anything. Certainly not take up her throne.
She didn’t even have a throne, or a crown, or a court. Didn’t want them. And she could bring down the king as Celaena Sardothien, thank you very much.
She tightened her fingers into fists.
They encountered no one as they descended a winding staircase and started down another corridor. Did the residents of this fortress—Mistward, Maeve had called it—know who was in that study upstairs? Maeve probably got off on terrifying them. Maybe she had all of them—half-breeds, she’d called them—enslaved through some bargain or another. Disgusting. It was disgusting, to keep them here just for having a mixed heritage that was no fault of theirs.
Celaena finally opened up her mouth.
“You must be very important to Her Immortal Majesty if she put you on nurse duty.”
“Given your history, she didn’t trust anyone but her best to keep you in line.”
Oh, the prince wanted to tangle. Whatever self-control he’d had on their trek to the fortress was hanging by a thread. Good.
“Playing warrior in the woods doesn’t seem like the greatest indicator of talent.”
“I fought on killing fields long before you, your parents, or your grand-uncle were even born.”
She bristled—exactly like he wanted. “Who’s to fight here except birds and beasts?”
Silence. Then—“The world is a far bigger and more dangerous place than you can imagine, girl. Consider yourself blessed to receive any training—to have the chance to prove yourself.”
“I’ve seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling.”
A soft, harsh laugh. “Just wait, Aelin.”
Another jab. And she let herself fall for it. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name. I’m not going to call you anything different.”
She stepped in his path, getting right near those too-sharp canines. “No one here can know who I am. Do you understand?”
His green eyes gleamed, animal-bright in the dark. “My aunt has given me a harder task than she realizes, I think.” My aunt. Not our aunt.
And then she said one of the foulest things she’d ever uttered in her life, bathing in the pure hate of it. “Fae like you make me understand the King of Adarlan’s actions a bit more, I think.”
Faster than she could sense, faster than anything had a right to be, he punched her.
She shifted enough to keep her nose from shattering but took the blow on her mouth. She hit the wall, whacked her head, and tasted blood. Good.