Manon eyed her Second and Third. “I want you both in my room for their report, too.”

   “I’ll have Lin and Vesta stand watch,” Asterin said. They ­were Manon’s fallback sentries—­Vesta for the disarming smiles, and Lin because if anyone ever called her by her full name, Linnea—­the name her softhearted mother had given her before Lin’s grandmother tore out her heart—­that person wound up with missing teeth at best. A missing face at worst.

   Manon was about to turn away when she caught her Second and Third watching her. She knew the question they didn’t dare ask, and said, “I’ll be airborne with Abraxos in a week, and then we’ll be flying as one.”

   It was a lie, but they believed her anyway.

   28

   Days passed, and not all of them ­were awful. Out of nowhere, Rowan decided to take Celaena to the commune of healers fifteen miles away, where the finest healers in the world learned, taught, and worked. Situated on the border between the Fae and mortal world, they ­were accessible to anyone who could reach them. It was one of the few good things Maeve had done.

   As a child, Celaena had begged her mother to bring her. But the answer had always been no, accompanied by a vague promise that they would someday take a trip to the Torre Cesme in the southern continent, where many of the teachers had been taught by the Fae. Her mother had done everything she could to keep her from Maeve’s clutches. The irony of it ­wasn’t wasted on her.

   So Rowan took her. She could have spent all day—­all month—­wandering the grounds under the clever, kind eyes of the Head Healer. But her time there was halved thanks to the distance and her inability to shift, and Rowan wanted to be home before nightfall. Honestly, while she’d actually enjoyed herself at the peaceful riverside compound, she wondered whether Rowan had just brought her there to make her feel bad about the life she’d fallen into. It had made her quiet on the long hike back.

   And he didn’t give her a moment’s rest: they ­were to set out the following dawn on an overnight trip, but he ­wouldn’t say where. Fantastic.

   Already making the day’s bread, Emrys only looked faintly amused as Celaena hurried in, stuffed her face with food and guzzled down tea, and hurried back out.

   Rowan was waiting by her rooms, a small pack dangling from his hands. He held it open for her. “Clothes,” he said, and she stuffed the extra shirt and underclothes she’d laid out into the bag. He shouldered it—­which she supposed meant he was in a good mood, as she’d fully expected to play pack mule on their way to wherever they ­were going. He didn’t say anything until they ­were in the mist-­shrouded trees, again heading west. When the fortress walls had vanished behind them, the ward-­stones zinging against her skin as they passed through, he stopped at last, throwing back the heavy hood of his jacket. She did the same, the cool air biting her warm cheeks.

   “Shift, and let’s go,” he said. His second words to her this morning.

   “And ­here I was, thinking we’d become friends.”

   He raised his brows and gestured with a hand for her to shift. “It’s twenty miles,” he said by way of encouragement, and gave her a wicked grin. “We’re running. Each way.”

   Her knees trembled at the thought of it. Of course he’d make this into some sort of torture session. Of course. “And where are we going?”

   He clenched his jaw, the tattoo stretching. “There was another body—­a demi-­Fae from a neighboring fortress. Dumped in the same area, same patterns. I want to go to the nearby town to question the citizens, but . . .” His mouth twisted to the side, then he shook his head at some silent conversation with himself. “But I need your help. It’ll be easier for the mortals to talk to you.”

   “Is that a compliment?” He rolled his eyes.

   Perhaps yesterday’s outing to the healers’ compound hadn’t been out of spite. Maybe he’d . . . been trying to do something nice for her. “Shift, or it’ll take us twice as long.”

   “I ­can’t. You know it ­doesn’t work like that.”

   “Don’t you want to see how fast you can run?”

   “I ­can’t use my other form in Adarlan anyway, so what’s the point?” Which was the start of a ­whole massive issue she hadn’t yet let herself contemplate.

   “The point is that you’re ­here now, and you ­haven’t properly tested your limits.” It was true. She hadn’t really seen what she was capable of. “The point is, another husk of a body was found, and I consider that to be unacceptable.”

   Another body—­from that creature. A horrible, wretched death. It was unacceptable.

   He gave her braid a sharp, painful tug. “Unless you’re still frightened.”

   Her nostrils flared. “The only thing that frightens me is how very much I want to throttle you.” More than that, she wanted to find the creature and destroy it, for those it had murdered and for what it had made her walk through. She would kill it—­slowly. A miserable sort of pressure and heat began building under her skin.

   Rowan murmured, “Hone it—­the anger.”

   Was that why he’d told her about the body? Bastard—­bastard for manipulating her, for making her pull double duty in the kitchen. But his face was unreadable as he said, “Let it be a blade, Aelin. If you cannot find the peace, then at least hone the anger that guides you to the shift. Embrace and control it—­it is not your enemy.”

   Arobynn had done everything he could to make her hate her heritage, to fear it. What he’d done to her, what she’d allowed herself to become . . . “This will not end well,” she breathed.

   He didn’t back down. “See what you want, Aelin, and seize it. Don’t ask for it; don’t wish for it. Take it.”

   “I’m certain the average magic instructor would not recommend this to most people.”

   “You are not most people, and I think you like it that way. If it’s a darker set of emotions that will help you shift on command, then that’s what we’ll use. There might come a day when you find that anger ­doesn’t work, or when it is a crutch, but for now . . .” A contemplative look. “It was the common denominator those times you shifted—­anger of varying kinds. So own it.”

   He was right—­and she didn’t want to think on it any more than that, or let herself get that enraged, not when she had been so angry for so long. For now . . .

   Celaena took a long breath. Then another. She let the anger anchor her, a knife slicing past the usual hesitation and doubt and emptiness.

   She brushed up against that familiar inner wall—­no, a veil, shimmering with a soft light. All this time, she thought she’d been reaching down for the power, but this was more of a reach in. Not a wish, but a command. She would shift—­because there was a creature prowling these lands, and it deserved to pay. With a silent growl, she punched herself through the veil, pain shooting along every inch and pore as she shifted.