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

When he turned to go back to the fortress, she followed him.





Chapter 23


For the past week, not much had changed for Manon and the Blackbeaks. They still flew daily to master the wyverns, and still managed to avoid outright war in the mess hall twice a day. The Yellowlegs heir tried to rile Manon whenever she could, but Manon paid her no more attention than she would a gnat buzzing about her head.

All that changed the day of the selection, when the heirs and their covens chose their mounts.

With three covens plus three Matrons, there were forty-two witches crowded around the training pit in the Northern Fang. Handlers rushed about below the viewing platform, readying themselves. The wyverns would be brought out one by one, and, using the bait beasts, would show off their qualities. Like the other witches, Manon had been sneaking by the cages every day. She still wanted Titus.

Wanted was a mortal word. Titus was hers. And if it came down to it, she’d disembowel any witch who challenged her. She’d sharpened her nails this morning in anticipation of it. All of the Thirteen had.

Claims would be settled in a civilized manner, however. The three Matrons would draw sticks if more than one claim was made on a mount. When it came to Titus, Manon knew precisely who would vie for him: Iskra and Petrah, the Yellowlegs and Blueblood heirs. She’d seen them both watching him with hungry eyes. Had Manon gotten her way, they would have fought for him in the sparring ring. She’d even suggested as much to her grandmother, but was told they didn’t need to quarrel amongst themselves any more than necessary. It would be luck of the draw.

That didn’t sit well with Manon, who stood along the open edge of the platform, Asterin flanking her. Her edginess only sharpened as the heavy grate lifted at the back of the pit. The bait beast was already chained to the bloodstained wall, a broken, scarred wyvern, half the size of the bulls, his wings tucked in tight. From the platform, she could see that the venomous spikes in his tail had been sawn off to keep him from defending himself against the invaluable mounts.

The bait beast lowered his head as the gate groaned open and the first wyvern was paraded in on tight chains held by very pale-faced men. They darted back as soon as the beast was through, dodging that deadly tail, and the grate shut behind them.

Manon loosed a breath. It wasn’t Titus, but one of the medium-sized bulls.

Three sentinels stepped forward to claim him, but the Blueblood Matron, Cresseida, held up a hand. “Let us see him in action first.”

One of the men whistled sharply. The wyvern turned on the bait beast.

Teeth and scales and claws, so fast and vicious that even Manon held her breath. Chained as he was, the bait beast didn’t stand a chance and was pinned within a second, massive jaws holding down his neck. One command, one whistle, and the wyvern would snap it.

But the man let out a lower-note whistle, and the bull backed off. Another whistle and he sat on his haunches. Two more sentinels stepped forward. Five in the running. Cresseida held out a fistful of twigs to the contenders.

It went to the Blueblood sentinel, who grinned at the others, then down at her wyvern as it was led back into the tunnel. The bait beast, bleeding from his side, heaved himself into the shadows by the wall, waiting for the next assault.

One after another, the wyverns were brought out, attacking with swift, wicked force. And one by one, the sentinels claimed them. No Titus, not yet. She had a feeling the Matrons were drawing this out as some test—to see how well the heirs could control themselves while waiting for the best mounts, to see who would hold out longest. Manon kept one eye on the beasts and another on the other heirs, who watched her in turn as each wyvern was paraded.

Yet the first truly enormous female had Petrah, the Blueblood heir, stepping forward. The female was nearly Titus’s size, and wound up taking a chunk out of the bait beast’s flank before the trainers could get her to stop. Wild, unpredictable, lethal. Magnificent.

No one challenged the Blueblood heir. Petrah’s mother only gave her a nod, as though they had already known what mount she desired.

Asterin took the fiercest stealth wyvern that came along, a cunning-eyed female. Her cousin had always been the best at scouting, and after a talk with Manon and the other sentinels that went long into the night, it had been decided that Asterin would continue that role in the Thirteen’s new duties.

So when the pale blue female was presented, Asterin claimed her, her eyes promising such brutality to anyone who got in her way that they practically glowed. No one dared challenge her.

Manon was watching the tunnel entrance when she smelled the myrrh and rosemary scent of the Blueblood heir beside her. Asterin snarled a soft warning.

“Waiting for Titus, aren’t you?” Petrah murmured, eyes also on the tunnel.

“And if I am?” Manon asked.

“I’d rather you have him than Iskra.”

The witch’s serene face was unreadable. “So would I.” She wasn’t sure what, exactly, but the conversation meant something.

Clearly, seeing them quietly talking meant something to everyone else, too. Especially Iskra, who sauntered over to Manon’s other side. “Plotting already?”

The Blueblood heir lifted her chin. “I think Titus would make a good mount for Manon.”

A line in the sand, Manon thought. What had the Blueblood Matron told Petrah about her? What schemes was she hatching?