Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3) by Sarah J. Maas

“It pains me to say this, but one more bite and I’ll be sick all over the place.” Oh, he was definitely fussing, and though it warmed her miserable heart, it was becoming rather irritating.

The bastard just dipped the bread into the broth and held them out to her. “You need to keep up your energy. You probably came so close to burnout because you didn’t have enough food in your stomach.”

Fine; it smelled too good to resist, anyway. She took the bread and the broth. While she ate, he made sure the room passed inspection: the fire was still high (suffocatingly hot, as it had been since morning, thanks to the chills that had racked her), only one window was cracked (to allow in the slightest of breezes when she had hot flashes), the door was shut (and locked), and yet another pot of tea was waiting (currently steeping on his worktable). When he was done ensuring all was accounted for and no threats lurked in the shadows, he looked her over with the same scrutiny: skin (wan and gleaming from the remnants of those hot flashes), lips (pale and cracked), posture (limp and useless), eyes (pain-dimmed and increasingly full of irritation). Rowan frowned again.

After handing the empty bowl to him, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger against the persistent headache between her eyebrows. “So when the magic runs out,” she said, “that’s it—either you stop or you burn out?”

Rowan leaned back in his chair. “Well, there’s the carranam.” The Old Language word was beautiful on his tongue—and if she’d had a death wish, she might have begged him to speak only in the ancient language, just to savor the exquisite sounds.

“It’s hard to explain,” Rowan went on. “I’ve only ever seen it used a handful of times on killing fields. When you’re drained, your carranam can yield their power to you, as long as you’re compatible and actively sharing a blood connection.”

She tilted her head to the side. “If we were carranam, and I gave you my power, would you still only be using wind and ice—not my fire?” He nodded gravely. “How do you know if you’re compatible with someone?”

“There’s no way of telling until you try. And the bond is so rare that the majority of Fae never meet someone who is compatible, or whom they trust enough to test it out. There’s always a threat that they could take too much—and if they’re unskilled, they could shatter your mind. Or you could both burn out completely.”

Interesting. “Could you ever just steal magic from someone?”

“Less savory Fae once attempted to do so—to win battles and add to their own power—but it never worked. And if it did, it was because the person they held hostage was coincidentally compatible. Maeve outlawed any forced bonds long before I was born, but… I’ve been sent a few times to hunt down corrupt Fae who keep their carranam as slaves. Usually, the slaves are so broken there’s no way to rehabilitate them. Putting them down is the only mercy I can offer.”

His face and voice didn’t change, but she said softly, “Doing that must be harder than all the wars and sieges you’ve ever waged.”

A shadow darted across his harsh face. “Immortality is not as much of a gift as mortals would believe. It can breed monsters that even you would be sick to learn about. Imagine the sadists you’ve encountered—and then imagine them with millennia to hone their craft and warped desires.”

Celaena shuddered. “This conversation’s become too awful to have after eating,” she said, slumping against the pillows. “Tell me which one of your little cadre is the handsomest, and if he would fancy me.”

Rowan choked. “The thought of you with any of my companions makes my blood run cold.”

“They’re that awful? Your kitty-cat friend looked decent enough.”

Rowan’s brows rose high. “I don’t think my kitty-cat friend would know what to do with you—nor would any of the others. It would likely end in bloodshed.” She kept grinning, and he crossed his arms. “They would likely have very little interest in you, as you’ll be old and decrepit soon enough and thus not worth the effort it would take to win you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Killjoy.”

Silence fell, and he looked her over again (lucid, if drained and moody), and she wasn’t that surprised when he glanced at her bare wrists—one of the few bits of skin showing thanks to all the blankets he’d piled on top of her. They hadn’t discussed it last night, but she knew he’d been working up to it.

There was no judgment in his eyes as he said, “A skilled healer could probably get rid of those scars—definitely the ones on your wrist, and most on your back.”

She clenched her jaw, but after a moment loosed a long breath. Even though she knew he would understand without much explanation, she said, “There were cells in the bowels of the mines that they used to punish slaves. Cells so dark you would wake up in them and think you’d been blinded. They locked me in there sometimes—once for three weeks straight. And the only thing that got me through it was reminding myself of my name, over and over and over—I am Celaena Sardothien.”

Rowan’s face was drawn, but she went on. “When they would let me out, so much of my mind had shut down in the darkness that the only thing I could remember was that my name was Celaena. Celaena Sardothien, arrogant and brave and skilled, Celaena who did not know fear or despair, Celaena who was a weapon honed by Death.” She ran a shaking hand through her hair. “I don’t usually let myself think about that part of Endovier,” she admitted. “After I got out, there were nights when I would wake up and think I was back in those cells, and I would have to light every candle in my room to prove I wasn’t. They don’t just kill you in the mines—they break you.