Celaena was about to slip back up the stairs when Malakai clapped his hands and everyone stopped talking. Celaena paused again in the shadows of the stairwell. Smiles spread, and people settled in. Seated on the floor in front of Emrys’s chair was Luca, a pretty young woman pressed into his side, his arm casually draped around her shoulders—casually, but with enough of a grip to tell every other male in the room that she was his. Celaena rolled her eyes, not at all surprised.
Still, she caught the look Luca gave the girl, the mischief in his eyes that sent a pang of jealousy right through her. She’d looked at Chaol with that same expression. But their relationship had never been as unburdened, and even if she hadn’t ended things, it never would have been like that. The ring on her finger became a weight.
Lightning flashed, revealing the grass and forest beyond. Seconds later, thunder shook the stones, triggering a few shrieks and laughs.
Emrys cleared his throat, and every eye snapped to his lined face. The ancient hearth illuminated his silver hair, casting shadows throughout the room. “Long ago,” Emrys began, his voice weaving between the drumming rain and grumbling thunder and crackling fire, “when there was no mortal king on Wendlyn’s throne, the faeries still walked among us. Some were good and fair, some were prone to little mischiefs, and some were fouler and darker than the blackest night.”
Celaena swallowed. These were words that had been spoken in front of hearths for thousands of years—spoken in kitchens like this one. Tradition.
“It was those wicked faeries,” Emrys went on, the words resonating in every crack and crevice, “that you always had to watch for on the ancient roads, or in the woods, or on nights like this, when you can hear the wind moaning your name.”
“Oh, not that one,” Luca groaned, but it wasn’t heartfelt. Some of the others laughed—a bit nervously, even. Someone else protested, “I won’t sleep for a week.”
Celaena leaned against the stone wall, shoveling food down her throat as the old man wove his tale. The hair on her neck stood on end for the duration of it, and she could see every horrific moment of the story as clearly as if she had lived it.
As Emrys finished his tale, thunder boomed, and even Celaena flinched, almost upsetting her empty plate. There were some wary laughs, some taunts and gentle pushes. Celaena frowned. If she’d heard this story—with the wretched creatures who delighted in skin-sewing and bone-crunching and lightning-crisping—before traveling here with Rowan, she never would have followed him. Not in a million years.
Rowan hadn’t lit a single fire on the journey here—hadn’t wanted to attract attention. From these sorts of creatures? He hadn’t known what that thing was the day before in the barrows. And if an immortal didn’t know . . . She used breathing exercises to calm her pounding heart. Still, she’d be lucky if she slept tonight.
Though everyone else seemed to be waiting for the next story, Celaena stood. As she turned to leave, she looked again to that half-open kitchen door, just to make sure there was nothing lurking outside. But it was not some fell creature who waited in the rain. A large white-tailed hawk was perched in the shadows.
It sat absolutely still. But the hawk’s eyes—there was something strange about them . . . She’d seen that hawk before. It had watched her for days as she’d lazed on that rooftop in Varese, watched her drink and steal and doze and brawl.
At least she now knew what Rowan’s animal form was. What she didn’t know was why he bothered to listen to these stories.
“Elentiya.” Emrys was extending a hand from where he sat before the hearth. “Would you perhaps share a story from your lands? We’d love to hear a tale, if you’d do us the honor.”
Celaena kept her eyes on the old man as everyone turned to where she stood in the shadows. Not one of them offered a word of encouragement, save for Luca, who said, “Tell us!”