Authors: Sarah J. Maas
Celaena smiled smugly to herself as she nodded to a passing nobleman, who raised his eyebrows at the sight of her. He was immensely pale, she noticed as he opened his mouth to say something, but Celaena continued down the hall. Her steps quickened at the rumblings of arguing male voices that echoed off the stones as they neared a bend.
Hurrying farther, Celaena ignored the click of Ress’s tongue as she rounded the corner. She knew that smell all too well. The tang of blood and the stinging reek of decomposing flesh.
But she hadn’t expected the sight of it. “Half-eaten” was a pleasant way to describe what was left of Xavier’s rail-thin body.
One of her escorts cursed under his breath, and Ress stepped closer to her, a light hand on her back, encouraging her to keep walking. None of the gathered men looked at her as she passed, skirting the edge of the scene, and getting a better look at the body in the process.
Xavier’s chest cavity had been split open and his vital organs removed. Unless someone had moved them upon finding the body, there was no trace of them. And his long face, stripped of its flesh, was still contorted in a silent scream.
This was no accidental killing. There was a hole in the crown of Xavier’s head, and she could see that his brain was gone, too. The smears of blood on the wall looked like someone had been writing, and then rubbed it away. But even now, some of the writing remained, and she tried not to gape at it. Wyrdmarks. Three Wyrdmarks, forming an arcing line that had to have once been a circle near the body.
“Holy Gods,” one of her guards muttered as they left behind the throng at the crime scene.
No wonder Chaol had looked so disheveled this morning! She straightened. He’d thought
she
did this? Fool. If she wanted to knock off her competitors one by one, she’d do it quick and clean—a slit throat, a knife in the heart, a poisoned glass of wine. This was just plain tasteless. And strange; the Wyrdmarks made this something more than a brutal killing. Ritualistic, perhaps.
Someone approached from the opposite direction. It was Grave, the vicious assassin, staring at the body from a distance. His eyes, dark and still like a forest pool, met hers. She ignored his rotting teeth as she jerked her chin toward the remnants of Xavier. “Too bad,” she said, deliberately not sounding very sorry at all.
Grave chuckled, sticking his gnarled fingers into the pockets of his worn and dirty pants. Didn’t his sponsor bother to properly clothe him?
Obviously not, if his sponsor was nasty and foolish enough to pick him as a Champion.
“Such a pity,” Grave said, shrugging as she passed by him.
She nodded tersely, and despite herself, she kept her mouth shut as she continued down the hall. There were only sixteen of them left now—sixteen Champions, and four of them were to duel. The competition was getting steeper. She should thank whatever grim god had decided to end Xavier’s life. But for some reason, she couldn’t.
•
Dorian swung his sword, grunting as Chaol easily deflected the blow and parried. His muscles were sore from weeks of not practicing, and his breath was ragged in his throat as he thrust and thrust again.
“This is what comes from such idle behavior,” Chaol chuckled, stepping to the side so that Dorian stumbled forward. He remembered a time when they’d been of equal skill—though that had been long ago. Dorian, while he still enjoyed swordplay, had grown to prefer books.
“I’ve had meetings and important things to read,” Dorian said, panting. He lunged.
Chaol deflected, feigned, then thrust so hard that Dorian stepped back. His temper rose. “Meetings which you used as an excuse to start arguing with Duke Perrington.” Dorian made a wide sweep of his sword, and Chaol took up the defensive. “Or maybe you’re just too busy visiting Sardothien’s rooms in the middle of the night.” Sweat dripped from Chaol’s brow. “How long has
that
been going on?”
Dorian growled as Chaol switched to the offensive, and conceded step after step, his thighs aching. “It’s not what you think,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t spend my nights with her. Aside from last night, I’ve only visited her once, and she was less than warm, don’t worry.”
“At least one of you has some common sense.” Chaol delivered each blow with such precision that Dorian had to admire him. “Because you’ve clearly lost your mind.”
“And what about you?” Dorian demanded. “Do you want me to comment on how
you
showed up in her rooms last night—the same night another Champion died?” Dorian feinted, but Chaol didn’t fall for it. Instead, he struck strongly enough that Dorian staggered back a step, fighting to keep his footing. Dorian grimaced at the rage flickering in Chaol’s eyes. “Fine, that was a cheap shot,” he admitted, bringing his sword up to deflect another blow. “But I still want an answer.”
“Maybe I don’t have one. Like you said, it’s not what you think.” Chaol’s brown eyes gleamed, but before Dorian could debate it, his friend switched the subject with brutal aim. “How’s court?” Chaol asked, breathing hard. Dorian winced. That was why he was here. If he had to spend another moment sitting in his mother’s court, he’d go mad. “That terrible?”
“Shut up,” Dorian snarled, and slammed his sword into Chaol’s.
“It must be exceptionally awful to be you today. I bet all the ladies were begging you to protect them from the murderer inside our walls.” Chaol grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Taking the time to spar with him when there was a fresh corpse in the castle was a sacrifice Dorian was surprised Chaol had been willing to make; Dorian knew how much his position meant to him.
Dorian stopped suddenly and straightened. Chaol should be doing more important things right now. “Enough,” he said, sheathing his rapier. Not missing a step, Chaol did the same.
They walked from the sparring room in silence. “Any word from your father?” Chaol asked in a voice that indicated he knew something was amiss. “I wonder where he went off to.”
Dorian let out a long breath, calming his panting. “No. I haven’t the slightest idea. I remember him leaving like this when we were children, but it hasn’t happened for some years now. I bet he’s doing something particularly nasty.”
“Be careful what you say, Dorian.”
“Or what? You’ll throw me in the dungeons?” He didn’t mean to snap, but he’d barely gotten any sleep the night before, and this Champion winding up dead did nothing to improve his mood. When Chaol didn’t bother retorting, Dorian asked: “Do you think someone wants to kill all the Champions?”
“Perhaps. I can understand wanting to kill the competition, but to do it so viciously . . . I hope it’s not a pattern.”
Dorian’s blood went a bit cold. “You think they’ll try to kill Celaena?”
“I added some extra guards around her rooms.”
“To protect her, or to keep her in?”
They stopped at the hallway crossroads where they would part ways to their separate rooms. “What difference does it make?” Chaol said quietly. “You don’t seem to care either way. You’ll visit her no matter what I say, and the guards won’t stop you because you’re the prince.”
There was something so defeated, so bitter, underlying the captain’s words that Dorian, for a heartbeat, felt badly. He
should
stay away from Celaena—Chaol had enough to worry about. But then he thought of the list his mother made and realized he had enough, too.
“I need to inspect Xavier’s body again. I’ll see you in the hall for dinner tonight,” was all Chaol said before he headed to his rooms. Dorian watched him go. The walk back to his tower felt surprisingly long. He opened the wooden door to his rooms, peeling off his clothing as he headed to the bathing room. He had the entire tower to himself, though his chambers occupied only the upper level. They provided a haven from everyone, but today they just felt empty.
Late that afternoon, Celaena stared at the ebony clock tower. It grew darker and darker, as if it somehow absorbed the sun’s dying rays. On top of it, the gargoyles remained stationary. They hadn’t moved. Not even a finger. The Guardians, Elena had called them. But Guardians to what? They’d scared Elena enough to keep her away. Surely, if they’d been the evil Elena mentioned, she would have just said it outright. Not that Celaena was considering looking for it right now—not when it could get her into trouble. And somehow wind up killing her before she could even become the King’s Champion.
Still,
why
did Elena have to be so oblique about everything?
“What’s your obsession with these ugly things?” Nehemia asked from beside her.
Celaena turned to the princess. “Do you think they move?”
“They’re made of stone, Lillian,” the princess said in the common tongue, her Eyllwe accent slightly less thick.
“Oh!” Celaena exclaimed, smiling. “That was very good! One lesson, and you’re already putting me to shame!” Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of Celaena’s Eyllwe.
Nehemia beamed. “They do look wicked,” she said in Eyllwe.
“And I’m afraid the Wyrdmarks don’t help,” Celaena said. A Wyrdmark was at her feet, and she glanced to the others. There were twelve of them all together, forming a large circle around the solitary tower. She hadn’t the faintest idea what any of it meant. None of the marks here matched the three she’d spotted at Xavier’s murder site, but there had to be some connection. “So, you truly can’t read these?” she asked her friend.
“No,” Nehemia said curtly, and headed toward the hedges that bordered the courtyard. “And you shouldn’t try to discover what they say,” she added over her shoulder. “Nothing good will come of it.”
Celaena pulled her cloak tighter around her as she followed after the princess. Snow would start falling in a matter of days, bringing them closer to Yulemas—and the final duel, still two months away. She savored the heat from her cloak, remembering all too well the winter she’d spent in Endovier. Winter was unforgiving when you lived in the shadow of the Ruhnn Mountains. It was a miracle she hadn’t gotten frostbite. If she went back, another winter might kill her.
“You look troubled,” Nehemia said when Celaena reached her side, and put a hand on her arm.
“I’m fine,” Celaena said in Eyllwe, smiling for Nehemia’s sake. “I don’t like winter.”
“I’ve never seen snow,” Nehemia said, looking at the sky. “I wonder how long the novelty will last.”
“Hopefully long enough for you to not mind the drafty corridors, freezing mornings, and days without sunshine.”
Nehemia laughed. “You should come to Eyllwe with me when I return—and make sure you stay long enough to experience one of our blistering summers.
Then
you’ll appreciate your freezing mornings and days without sun.”
Celaena had already spent one blistering summer in the heat of the Red Desert, but to tell Nehemia that would only invite difficult questions. Instead, she said: “I’d like to see Eyllwe very much.”
Nehemia’s gaze lingered on Celaena’s brow for a moment before she grinned. “Then it shall be so.”
Celaena’s eyes brightened, and she tilted her head back so she could see the castle looming above them. “I wonder if Chaol sorted through the mess of that murder.”
“My bodyguards tell me that the man was . . . very violently killed.”
“To say the least,” Celaena murmured, watching the shifting colors of the fading sun turn the castle gold and red and blue. Despite the ostentatious nature of the glass castle, she had to admit that it
did
look rather beautiful at times.
“You saw the body? My guards weren’t allowed close enough.”
She nodded slowly. “I’m sure you don’t want to know the details.”
“Indulge me,” Nehemia pressed, smiling tightly.
Celaena raised an eyebrow. “Well—there was blood smeared everywhere. On the walls, on the floor.”
“Smeared?” Nehemia said, her voice dropping into a hush. “Not splattered?”
“I think so. Like someone had rubbed it on there. There were a few of those Wyrdmarks painted, but most had been rubbed away.” She shook her head at the image that arose. “And the man’s body was missing its vital organs—like someone had split him open from neck to navel, and—I’m sorry, you look like you’re going to be ill. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No. Keep going. What else was missing?”
Celaena paused for a moment before saying: “His brain. Someone had made a hole in the top of his head, and his brain was gone. And the skin from his face had been ripped off.”
Nehemia nodded, staring at a barren bush in front of them. The princess chewed on her bottom lip, and Celaena noted that her fingers curled and uncurled at the sides of her long, white gown. A cold breeze blew past them, making Nehemia’s multitude of fine, thin braids sway. The gold woven into her braids clinked softly.
“I’m sorry,” Celaena said. “I shouldn’t have—”
A step fell behind them, and before Celaena could whirl, a male voice said: “Look at this.”
She tensed as Cain came to stand nearby, half-hidden in the shadow of the clock tower behind them. Verin, the curly-haired loudmouth thief, was at his side. “What do you want?” she said.
Cain’s tan face twisted in a sneer. Somehow, he’d gotten bigger—or maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. “Pretending to be a lady doesn’t mean you are one,” he said. Celaena shot Nehemia a look, but the princess’s eyes remained upon Cain—narrowed, but her lips strangely slack.