Authors: Sarah J. Maas
She almost knocked him to the floor. But he shot out an arm to the back of the chair and braced himself as his spare arm wrapped around her middle. She let the touch, the taste of him fill the room of her mind with water. She kissed him, hoping to steal some of his air. Her fingers entangled themselves in his hair, and as he kissed her fiercely, she let everything fade away.
•
The clock chimed three. Celaena sat on her bed, knees curled to her chest. After hours of kissing and talking and more kissing on her bed, Dorian had left only minutes before. She’d been tempted to ask him to stay—the smart thing would have been to ask him to stay—but the thought of Dorian being here when Cain or the ridderak came for her, of Dorian being hurt, made her let him go.
Too tired to read, but too awake to sleep, she just stared at the crackling fire. Every bump and footstep made her jolt, and she’d managed to swipe a few pins from Philippa’s sewing basket when she wasn’t looking. But a makeshift knife, a heavy book, and a candlestick weren’t protection against what Cain could summon.
You shouldn’t have left Damaris in the tomb.
Going back down there wasn’t an option—not while Cain lived. She hugged her knees, shivering as she recalled the utter blackness from which the thing had come.
Cain must have learned about the Wyrdmarks in the White Fang Mountains—that cursed borderland between Adarlan and the Western Wastes. They said that evil still crept out of the ruins of the Witch Kingdom—and that old women with iron teeth still wandered the lonely roads in the mountain passes.
The hair on her arms rose, and she grabbed a fur blanket from her bed to wrap around herself. If she could stay alive until the duels, she’d defeat Cain, and this would all be over. Then she could sleep soundly again—unless Elena had something else, something bigger in mind.
Celaena rested her cheek against her knee, listening to the clock
tick-tick-tick
long into the night.
•
Thundering hooves beat the frozen ground, faster and faster as the rider whipped the horse. Snow and mud lay thick on the earth, and rogue snowflakes drifted through the night sky.
Celaena ran—swifter than her young legs could manage. Everything hurt. Trees ripped at her dress and hair; stones sliced her feet. She scrambled through the woods, breathing so hard she couldn’t muster the air to cry for help. She must reach the bridge. It couldn’t cross the bridge.
Behind her, a sword shrieked as it was drawn from its sheath.
She fell, slamming into mud and rock. The sound of the approaching demon filled the air as she struggled to rise. But the mud held fast, and she could not run.
Reaching for a bush, her small hands bleeding, the horse now close behind, she—
•
Celaena gasped and awoke. She put a hand to her heart and pushed against her chest as it lifted and fell. It was a dream.
The fire had dwindled to embers; a cold gray light seeped in through her curtains. It was only a nightmare. She must have dozed off at some point during the night. She clutched her amulet, running a thumb across the stone in the center.
Some protection you were when that thing attacked me the other night.
Frowning, she gently arranged her covers around Fleetfoot, and stroked the dog’s head for a moment. Dawn was near. She’d made it through another night.
Sighing, Celaena lay back and closed her eyes.
A few hours later, when news of Nox’s departure spread, she received notice that the last Test had been canceled. She would duel against Grave, Renault, and Cain tomorrow.
Tomorrow—and then her freedom would be decided.
The forest was still and frozen around Dorian, and snow collapsed from the trees in large clumps as he passed by. His eyes darted among the branches and bushes. He’d needed to come out for a hunt today, if only to let the freezing air rush through him.
He saw her face each time he closed his eyes. She haunted his thoughts, made him wish to do grand and wonderful things in her name, made him want to be a man who deserved to wear a crown.
But Celaena—he didn’t know how she felt. She kissed him—greedily, at that—but the women he’d loved in the past had always been eager. They’d gazed at him adoringly, while she just looked at him like a cat watching a mouse. Dorian straightened, detecting nearby movement. A stag stood ten yards away, feeding on bark. He stopped his horse and drew an arrow from its quiver. But he slackened the bow.
She was to duel tomorrow.
If harm came to her . . . No, she could hold her own; she was strong and smart and quick. He’d gone too far; he should never have kissed her. Because now, no matter how he might have once envisioned his future, or who he thought he’d spend it with, he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else—wanting anyone else.
Snow began falling. Dorian glanced at the gray sky and rode on through the silent game park.
•
Celaena stood before her balcony doors, staring down at Rifthold. The roofs were still snow-covered, and lights twinkled in every home. It might have looked beautiful, had she not known what corruption and filth dwelt within it. And what monstrosity ruled over it all. She hoped Nox was far, far away. She’d told her guards she didn’t want any visitors tonight, and to turn away even Chaol and Dorian if they arrived. Someone had knocked, once, but she didn’t answer, and they had soon left without trying again. She put her hand on a pane of glass, savoring its frozen bite. The clock struck twelve.
Tomorrow—or was it today already?—she’d face Cain. She’d never sparred with him in practice. The other Champions had been too eager to get a piece of him. While Cain was strong, he wasn’t as fast as she was. But he had stamina. She’d have to dodge him for a while. She just prayed all that running with Chaol would keep her from tiring before him. If she lost—
Don’t even give yourself that option
.
She leaned her forehead against the glass. Would it be more honorable to fall in the duel than to return to Endovier? Or would it be more honorable to die than to become the King’s Champion? Who would he have her kill?
She’d had a say as Adarlan’s Assassin. Even with Arobynn Hamel running her life, she’d always had a say in what jobs she took. No children. No one from Terrasen. But the king could tell her to kill anyone. Did Elena expect her to say no to him when she was his Champion? Her stomach rose in her throat. Now wasn’t the time for this. She had to focus on Cain, on wearing him down.
But try as she might, all she could think about was that half-starved, hopeless assassin who’d been dragged out of Endovier one autumn day by a snarling Captain of the Guard. What would she have said to the prince’s bargain, had she known she would come to stand poised to lose so much? Would she have laughed if she’d known that other things—other people—would come to mean as much as her freedom?
Celaena swallowed the lump in her throat. Perhaps there were other reasons to fight tomorrow. Perhaps a few months in the castle hadn’t been enough. Perhaps . . . perhaps she wanted to stay here for reasons other than her eventual freedom.
That
was one thing that hopeless assassin from Endovier would have never believed.
But it was true. She wanted to stay.
And that would make tomorrow so much harder.
Kaltain pulled her red cape around her, savoring its warmth. Why were the duels outside? She’d freeze before the assassin arrived! She fingered the vial in her pocket, and glanced at the two goblets on the wooden table. The one on the right was for Sardothien. She must not confuse them.
She looked to Perrington, who stood near the king. He had no idea what she’d do once Sardothien was out of the way—once Dorian was free again. Her blood grew warm and glittering.
The duke moved toward her, and Kaltain kept her eyes on the tiled veranda where the duel was to occur. He stopped in front of her, making a wall between her and the other council members so that none could see.
“A bit chilly for an outside duel,” he said. Kaltain smiled and let the folds of her cloak fall over the table as he kissed her hand. With a veil of red to conceal her stealthy, free hand, Kaltain flicked off the lid of the vial and dumped the contents into the wine. The vial was back in her pocket as he raised himself. Just enough to weaken Sardothien—to make her dizzy and disoriented.
A guard appeared in the doorway, and then another. Between them strode a figure. She wore men’s clothes, though Kaltain was forced to admit that her black-and-gold jacket was of fine make. It was strange to think of this woman as an assassin, but seeing her now, all of her oddities and faults made sense. Kaltain ran a finger along the base of the goblet and grinned.
Duke Perrington’s Champion emerged from behind the clock tower. Kaltain’s brows rose. They thought Sardothien could defeat such a man if she wasn’t drugged?
Kaltain took a step back from the table, and Perrington moved to sit beside the king as the other two Champions arrived. With eager faces, they waited for blood.
•
Standing on the wide veranda that encompassed the obsidian clock tower, Celaena tried not to shiver. She couldn’t see the point in having the duels outside—well, apart from making the Champions even more uncomfortable. She glanced longingly at the glass windows that lined the wall of the castle, and then at the frost-covered garden. Her hands were already numb. Tucking them into her fur-lined pockets, she approached Chaol, who was standing near the edge of the giant chalk circle that had been drawn on the flagstones.
“It’s freezing out here,” she said. The collar and sleeves of her black jacket were lined with rabbit fur, but it wasn’t enough. “Why didn’t you tell me it was outside?”
Chaol shook his head, looking at Grave, and at Renault—the mercenary from Skull’s Bay, who, to her satisfaction, also seemed fairly miserable in the cold. “We didn’t know; the king decided just now,” Chaol said. “At least it should be over quickly.” He smiled slightly, though she didn’t return it.
The sky was bright blue, and she gritted her teeth as a strong gust of wind ripped into her. The thirteen seats of the table were filling up, and at the center of the table sat the king and Perrington. Kaltain stood behind Perrington, wearing a beautiful red cloak lined with white fur. Their eyes met, and Celaena wondered why the woman smiled at her. Kaltain then looked away—toward the tower, and Celaena followed her gaze and understood.
Cain was leaning against the clock tower. His muscles were barely contained within his tunic. All that stolen strength . . . what would have happened if the ridderak had killed her, too? How much stronger would he be today? Worse, he was wearing the red-and-gold garb of a member of the royal guard—the wyvern emblazoned across his broad chest. The sword at his side was beautiful. A gift from Perrington, no doubt. Did the duke know the power his Champion wielded? Even if she tried to reveal him, no one would ever believe her.
Nausea gripped her, but Chaol took her by the elbow and escorted her to the far end of the veranda. At the table, she noticed two aging men casting anxious glances at her. She nodded to them.
Lords Urizen and Garnel. It seems you obtained what you desired enough to kill for. And it seems someone told you who I actually am.
It had been two years ago that they hired her, separately, to kill the same man. She hadn’t bothered to tell them, of course, and accepted both their payments. She winked at Lord Garnel, and he paled, knocking over his goblet of hot cocoa and ruining the papers before him. Oh, she’d keep their secrets; it would tarnish her reputation otherwise. But if her freedom came down to a vote . . . She smiled at Lord Urizen, who looked away. Her gaze shifted to another man, who she found staring at her.
The king.
Deep inside, she quaked, but she bowed her head.
“Are you ready?” Chaol asked. Celaena blinked, remembering that he was beside her.
“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t mean it. The wind whipped through her hair, knotting it with frozen fingers. Dorian appeared by the table, heartbreakingly handsome as always, and gave her a grim smile as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked toward his father.
The last of the king’s councilmen sat down at the table. Celaena cocked her head as Nehemia emerged to stand along the sidelines of the large white circle. The princess met her stare and lifted her chin in encouragement. She wore a spectacular outfit: close-fitting pants, a layered tunic studded with whorls of iron, and knee-high boots; she carried her wooden staff, which stretched as high as her head. To honor her, Celaena realized, her eyes stinging. One fellow warrior acknowledging the other.
Everyone grew silent as the king rose. Her insides turned to stone, and she felt clumsy and thick, but also light and weak as a newborn.
Chaol nudged her with an elbow, motioning for her to stand before the table. She focused on her feet as she moved, and wouldn’t look at the king’s face. Thankfully, Renault and Grave flanked her. If Cain had been standing beside her, she might have snapped his neck just to end it there. There were so many people watching her . . .
She stood not ten feet from the King of Adarlan. Freedom or death lay at this table. Her past and future were seated on a glass throne.
Her gaze shifted to Nehemia, whose fierce and graceful eyes warmed the marrow of her bones and steadied her arms.