Vincent grinned. “There you are.” Blood—her blood—was on his teeth, on his mouth and chin. And those dead eyes glowed as he spat her blood onto the earth. She probably tasted like a sewer to him. There was a shrieking in her ears, and Jane lunged at him. Lunged, and then stopped as she took in the world with stunning clarity, smelled it and tasted it and breathed it like the finest wine. Gods, this place, this kingdom smelled divine, smelled like— She had shifted. She panted, even though her lungs were telling her she was no longer winded and did not need as many breaths in this body. There was a tickling at her neck—her skin slowly beginning to stitch itself together. She was a faster healer in this form. Because of the magic … Breathe. Breathe. But there it was, rising up, wildfire crackling in her veins, in her fingertips, the forest around them so much kindling, and then— She shoved back. Took the fear and used it like a battering ram inside herself, against the power, shov
It was far too easy to lie to his men about the bruises and cuts on his face when Saul returned to the castle—an unfortunate incident with a drunk vagrant in Rifthold. Enduring the lies and the injuries was better than being carrion. Chaol’s bargain with Aiden and the rebels had been simple: information for information.He’d promised more information about their queen, as well as about the king’s black rings, in exchange for what they knew regarding the king’s power. It had kept him alive that night, and every night afterward, when he’d waited for them to change their minds. But they never came for him, and tonight, he and Aiden waited until well past twelve before slipping into Jane ’s old rooms.It was the first time he’d dared return to the tomb since that night with Jane and Vincent , and the skull-shaped bronze knocker, Mort, didn’t move or speak at all. Even though Saul wore the Elena at his throat, the knocker remained frozen. Perhaps Mort only answered to those with Branno
The black eye was still gruesome, but it improved over the next week as Jane worked in the kitchens, tried and failed to shift with Vincent , and generally avoided everyone. The spring rains had come to stay and the kitchen was packed every night, so Jane took to eating dinner on the shadowed steps, arriving just before the Story Keeper began speaking. Story Keeper—that’s what Emmy was, a title of honor amongst both Fae and humans in Wendlyn. What it meant was that when he began telling a story, you sat down and shut up. It also meant that he was a walking library of the kingdom’s legends and myths. By that time, Jane knew most of the fortress’s residents, if only in the sense that she could put names to faces. She’d observed them out of instinct, to learn her surroundings, her potential enemies and threats. She knew they observed her, too, when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. And any shred of regret she felt at not approaching them was burned up by the fact that no one bo
Jane's fire was still crackling, the rain still pounding beyond the cave mouth. But the forest had gone quiet. Those little watching eyes had vanished.She uncoiled to her feet, spear in one hand and a stake in the other, and crept to the narrow cave entrance. With the rain and the fire, she couldn’t make out anything. But every hair on her body was standing, and a growing reek was slithering in from the forest beyond. Like leather and carrion. Different from what she’d whiffed at the barrows. Older and earthier and … hungrier.Suddenly, the fire seemed like the stupidest thing she had ever done.No fires. That had been Vincent ’s only rule while trekking to the fortress. And they had stayed off the roads—veering away entirely from the forgotten, overgrown ones. Ones like the path she’d spied nearby.The silence deepened.She slipped into the drenched forest, stubbing her toes on rocks and roots as her eyes adjusted to the dark. But she kept moving ahead—curving down and away from th
It was two weeks of training for Jane and her Thirteen. Two weeks of waking up before the sun to fly each canyon run, to master it as one unit. Two weeks of scratches and sprained limbs, of near deaths from falls or the Owl gang s squabbling or just stupid miscalculation.But slowly, they developed instincts—not just as a fighting unit, but as individual riders and mounts. Jane didn’t like the thought of the mounts eating the foultasting meat raised within the mountain, so twice a day they hunted the mountain goats, swooping to pluck them off the mountainsides. It wasn’t long before the witches started eating the goats themselves, building hasty fires in the mountain passes to cook their breakfast and evening meals. Jane didn’t want any of them—mounts or riders—taking another bite of the food given to them by the king’s men, or tasting the men themselves. If it smelled and tasted strange, odds were something was wrong with it.She didn’t know if it was the fresh meat or the extra l
“Tell me about how you learned to tattoo.” “No.”Hunched over the wooden table in Rowan’s room a night after their encounter with the creature in the lake, Jane looked up from where she held the bone-handled needle over his wrist. “If you don’t answer my questions, I might very well make a mistake, and…” She lowered the tattooing needle to his tan, muscled arm for emphasis. Rowan, to her surprise, let out a huff that might have been a laugh. She figured it was a good sign that he’d asked her to help shade in the parts of his arm he couldn’t reach himself; the tattoo around his wrist needed to be re-inked now that the wounds from her burning him had faded. “Did you learn from someone? Master and apprentice and all that?”He gave her a rather incredulous look. “Yes, master and apprentice and all that. In the war camps, we had a commander who used to tattoo the number of enemies he’d killed on his flesh—sometimes he’d write the whole story of a battle. All the young soldiers were enamor
It was selfish and horrible, but it was true. Nehemia, long ago, had once said as much—it was her most ardent and selfish wish to be ordinary, without the weight of her crown. Had her friend known how deeply those words had echoed in her?She waited for the scolding, saw it simmering in Rowan’s eyes. But then he quietly said, “What do you mean, another set of shackles?”He loosened his grip to reveal the two thin bands of scars that wrapped around her wrist. His mouth tightened, and she yanked her wrist back hard enough that he let go.“Nothing,” she said. “Arobynn, my master, liked to use them for training every now and then.” Arobynn had chained her to make her learn how to get free. But the shackles at Endovier had been crafted with people like her in mind. It wasn’t until Chaol had removed them that she’d gotten out.She didn’t want Rowan knowing that—any of it. Anger and hatred she could handle, but pity … And she couldn’t talk about Chaol, couldn’t explain just how much he had r
As one the Thirteen flew; as one the Thirteen led the other Skull covens in the skies. Drill after drill, through rain and sun and wind, until they were all tanned and freckled. Even though Abram had yet to make the Crossing, the Spidersilk patching on his wings improved his flying significantly.It was all going beautifully. Abram had gotten into a brawl for dominance with Lin’s bull and emerged victorious, and after that, none in her coven or any other challenged him. The War Games were fast approaching, and though Iskra hadn’t been any trouble since the night Jane had half killed her, they watched their backs: in the baths, around every dark corner, double-checking every rein and strap before they mounted their wyverns.Yes, it was all going beautifully, until Jane was summoned to her grandmother’s room.“Why is it,” her grandmother said by way of greeting, pacing the room, teeth always out, “that I have to hear from gods-damned Cresseida that your runty, useless wyvern hasn’t