Fighting to keep her breathing steady, Celaena positioned her hands within easy reach of her blades as she pushed back against the claws in her mind. Maeve let out a low laugh, and the pressure in her head ceased.

   “Your mother hid you from me for years,” Maeve said. “She and your father always had a remarkable talent for knowing when my eyes ­were searching for you. Such a rare gift—­the ability to summon and manipulate flame. So few exist who possess more than an ember of it; fewer still who can master its wildness. And yet your mother wanted you to stifle your power—­though she knew that I only wanted you to submit to it.”

   Celaena’s breath burned her throat. Another flicker of memory—­of lessons not about starting fires but putting them out.

   Maeve went on, “Look at how well that turned out for them.”

   Celaena’s blood froze. Every self-­preserving instinct went right out of her head. “And where ­were you ten years ago?” She spoke so low, from so deep in her shredded soul, that the words ­were barely more than a growl.

   Maeve angled her head slightly. “I do not take kindly to being lied to.”

   The snarl on Celaena’s face faltered. Dropped right into her gut. Aid had never come for Terrasen from the Fae. From Wendlyn. And it was all because . . . because . . .

   “I do not have more time to spare you,” Maeve said. “So let me be brief: my eyes have told me that you have questions. Questions that no mortal has the right to ask—­about the keys.”

   Legend said Maeve could commune with the spirit world—­had Elena, or Nehemia, told her? Celaena opened her mouth, but Maeve held up a hand. “I will give you those answers. You may come to me in Doranelle to receive them.”

   “Why not—”

   A growl from Rowan at the interruption.

   “Because they are answers that require time,” Maeve said, then slowly added, as if she savored every word, “and answers you have not yet earned.”

   “Tell me what I can do to earn them and I will do it.” Fool. A damned fool’s response.

   “A dangerous thing to offer without hearing the price.”

   “You want me to show you my magic? I’ll show it to you. But not ­here—­not—”

   “I have no interest in seeing you drop your magic at my feet like a sack of grain. I want to see what you can do with it, Aelin Galathynius—which currently seems like not very much at all.” Celaena’s stomach tightened at that cursed name. “I want to see what you will become under the right circumstances.”

   “I don’t—”

   “I do not permit mortals or half-­breeds into Doranelle. For a half-­breed to enter my realm, she must prove herself both gifted and worthy. Mistward, this fortress”—­she waved a hand to encompass the room—“is one of several proving grounds. And a place where those who do not pass the test can spend their days.”

   Beneath the growing fear, a flicker of disgust went through her. Half-­breed—Maeve said it with such disdain. “And what manner of test might I expect before I am deemed worthy?”

   Maeve gestured to Rowan, who had not moved from the door. “You shall come to me once Prince Rowan decides that you have mastered your gifts. He shall train you here. And you shall not set foot in Doranelle until he deems your training complete.”

   After facing the ­horse­shit she’d seen in the glass castle—­demons, witches, the king—­training with Rowan, even in magic, seemed rather anticlimactic.

   But—but it could take weeks. Months. Years. The familiar fog of nothing crept in, threatening to smother her once again. She pushed it back long enough to say, “What I need to know isn’t something that can wait—”

   “You want answers regarding the keys, heir of Terrasen? Then they shall be waiting for you in Doranelle. The rest is up to you.”

   “Truthfully,” Celaena blurted. “You will truthfully answer my questions about the keys.”

   Maeve smiled, and it was not a thing of beauty. “You ­haven’t forgotten all of our ways, then.” When Celaena didn’t react, Maeve added, “I will truthfully answer all your questions about the keys.”

   It might be easier to walk away. Go find some other ancient being to pester for the truth. Celaena breathed in and out, in and out. But Maeve had been there—­had been there at the dawn of this world during the Valg wars. She had held the Wyrdkeys. She knew what they looked like, how they felt. Maybe she even knew where Brannon had hidden them—­especially the last, unnamed key. And if Celaena could find a way to steal the keys from the king, to destroy him, to stop his armies and free Eyllwe, even if she could find just one Wyrdkey . . . “What manner of training—”

   “Prince Rowan shall explain the specifics. For now, he will escort you to your chamber to rest.”

   Celaena looked Maeve straight in her death-­dealing eyes. “You swear you’ll tell me what I need to know?”

   “I do not break my promises. And I have the feeling that you are unlike your mother in that regard, too.”

   Bitch. Bitch, she wanted to hiss. But then Maeve’s eyes flicked to Celaena’s right palm. She knew everything. Through what­ever spies or power or guesswork, Maeve knew everything about her and the vow to Nehemia.

   “To what end?” Celaena asked softly, the anger and the fear dragging her down into an inescapable exhaustion. “You want me to train only so I can make a spectacle of my talents?”

   Maeve ran a moon-­white finger down the owl’s head. “I wish you to become who you ­were born to be. To become queen.”

   •

   Become queen.

   The words haunted Celaena that night—­kept her from sleeping, even though she was so exhausted she could have wept for the dark-­eyed Silba to put her out of her misery. Queen. The word throbbed right along with the fresh split lip that also made sleeping very uncomfortable.

   She could thank Rowan for that.

   After Maeve’s command, Celaena hadn’t bothered with good-­byes before walking out. Rowan had only cleared the way because Maeve gave him a nod, and he followed Celaena into a narrow hallway that smelled of roasting meat and garlic. Her stomach grumbled, but she’d probably hurl her guts up the second she swallowed anything. So she trailed Rowan down the corridor, down the stairs, each footstep alternating between iron-­willed control and growing rage.

   Left. Nehemia.

   Right. You made a vow, and you will keep it, by what­ever means necessary.

   Left. Training. Queen.

   Right. Bitch. Manipulative, cold-­blooded, sadistic bitch.