skin.
Wardsâmagic wards. Her stomach turned. If they didnât keep out enemies, they certainly served as an alarm. Which meant the three fi gures patrolling each of the three towers, the six on the outer retaining wall, and the three at the wooden gates would now know they Âwere approaching. Men and women in light leather armor and bearing swords, daggers, and bows monitored their approach.
âI think Iâd rather stay in the woods,â she said, her fi rst words in days. Rowan ignored her.
He didnât even li ft an arm in greeting to the sentries. He must be familiar with this place if he didnât stoop to hellos. As they drew closer to the ancient fortressâÂwhich was little more than a few watchtowers woven together by a large connecting building, splattered with lichen and mossâÂshe did the calculations. It had to be some border outpost, a halfway point between the mortal realm and Doranelle. Perhaps sheâd fi nally have a warm place to sleep, even if just for the night.
Th e guards saluted Rowan, who didnât spare them a passing glance. Th ey all wore hoods, masking any signs of their heritage. ÂWere they Fae? Rowan might not have spoken to her for most of their journeyâÂheâd shown as much interest in her as he would in a pile of shit on the roadâÂbut if she Âwere staying with the Fae . . . others might have questions.
She took in every detail, every exit, every weakness as they entered the large courtyard beyond the wall, two rather mortal-Âlooking stable hands rushing to help them dismount. It was so still. As if everything, even the stones, was holding its breath. As if it had been waiting. Th e sensation only worsened when Rowan wordlessly led her into the dim interior of the main building, up a narrow set of stone stairs, and into what looked to be a small o ffi ce.
It Âwasnât the carved oak furniture, or the faded green drapes, or the warmth of the fi re that made her stop dead. It was the dark-Âhaired woman seated behind the desk. Maeve, Queen of the Fae.
Her aunt.
And then came the words she had been dreading for ten years.
âHello, Aelin Galathynius.â
8
Celaena backed away, knowing exactly how many steps it would take to get into the hall, but slammed into a hard, unyielding body just as the door shut behind them. Her hands Âwere shaking so badly she didnât bother going for her weaponsâÂor Rowanâs. Heâd cut her down the instant Maeve gave the order.
Th e blood rushed from Celaenaâs head. She forced herself to take a breath. And another. Th en she said in a too-Âquiet voice, âAelin Galathynius is dead .â Just speaking her name aloudâÂthe damned name she had dreaded and hated and tried to forget . . .
Maeve smiled, revealing sharp little canines. âLet us not bother with lies.â
It Âwasnât a lie. Th at girl, that princess had died in a river a deÂcade ago. Celaena was no more Aelin Galathynius than she was any other person.
Th e room was too hotâÂtoo small, Rowan a brooding force of nature behind her.
She was not to have time to gather herself, to make up excuses and half truths, as she should have been doing these past few days instead of free-Âfalling into silence and the misty cold. She was to face the Queen of the Fae as Maeve wanted to be faced. And in some fortress that seemed far, far beneath the raven-Âhaired beauty watching her with black, depthless eyes.
Gods. Gods.
Maeve was fearsome in her perfection, utterly still, eternal and calm and radiating ancient grace. Th e dark sister to the fair-Âhaired Mab.
Celaena had been fooling herself into thinking this would be easy. She was still pressed against Rowan as though he were a wall. An impenetrable wall, as old as the ward-Âstones surrounding the fortress. Rowan stepped away from her with his powerful, predatory ease and leaned against the door. She
Wardsâmagic wards. Her stomach turned. If they didnât keep out enemies, they certainly served as an alarm. Which meant the three fi gures patrolling each of the three towers, the six on the outer retaining wall, and the three at the wooden gates would now know they Âwere approaching. Men and women in light leather armor and bearing swords, daggers, and bows monitored their approach.
âI think Iâd rather stay in the woods,â she said, her fi rst words in days. Rowan ignored her.
He didnât even li ft an arm in greeting to the sentries. He must be familiar with this place if he didnât stoop to hellos. As they drew closer to the ancient fortressâÂwhich was little more than a few watchtowers woven together by a large connecting building, splattered with lichen and mossâÂshe did the calculations. It had to be some border outpost, a halfway point between the mortal realm and Doranelle. Perhaps sheâd fi nally have a warm place to sleep, even if just for the night.
Th e guards saluted Rowan, who didnât spare them a passing glance. Th ey all wore hoods, masking any signs of their heritage. ÂWere they Fae? Rowan might not have spoken to her for most of their journeyâÂheâd shown as much interest in her as he would in a pile of shit on the roadâÂbut if she Âwere staying with the Fae . . . others might have questions.
She took in every detail, every exit, every weakness as they entered the large courtyard beyond the wall, two rather mortal-Âlooking stable hands rushing to help them dismount. It was so still. As if everything, even the stones, was holding its breath. As if it had been waiting. Th e sensation only worsened when Rowan wordlessly led her into the dim interior of the main building, up a narrow set of stone stairs, and into what looked to be a small o ffi ce.
It Âwasnât the carved oak furniture, or the faded green drapes, or the warmth of the fi re that made her stop dead. It was the dark-Âhaired woman seated behind the desk. Maeve, Queen of the Fae.
Her aunt.
And then came the words she had been dreading for ten years.
âHello, Aelin Galathynius.â
8
Celaena backed away, knowing exactly how many steps it would take to get into the hall, but slammed into a hard, unyielding body just as the door shut behind them. Her hands Âwere shaking so badly she didnât bother going for her weaponsâÂor Rowanâs. Heâd cut her down the instant Maeve gave the order.
Th e blood rushed from Celaenaâs head. She forced herself to take a breath. And another. Th en she said in a too-Âquiet voice, âAelin Galathynius is dead .â Just speaking her name aloudâÂthe damned name she had dreaded and hated and tried to forget . . .
Maeve smiled, revealing sharp little canines. âLet us not bother with lies.â
It Âwasnât a lie. Th at girl, that princess had died in a river a deÂcade ago. Celaena was no more Aelin Galathynius than she was any other person.
Th e room was too hotâÂtoo small, Rowan a brooding force of nature behind her.
She was not to have time to gather herself, to make up excuses and half truths, as she should have been doing these past few days instead of free-Âfalling into silence and the misty cold. She was to face the Queen of the Fae as Maeve wanted to be faced. And in some fortress that seemed far, far beneath the raven-Âhaired beauty watching her with black, depthless eyes.
Gods. Gods.
Maeve was fearsome in her perfection, utterly still, eternal and calm and radiating ancient grace. Th e dark sister to the fair-Âhaired Mab.
Celaena had been fooling herself into thinking this would be easy. She was still pressed against Rowan as though he were a wall. An impenetrable wall, as old as the ward-Âstones surrounding the fortress. Rowan stepped away from her with his powerful, predatory ease and leaned against the door. She
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