Authors: Sarah J. Maas
“You,” he began, then stopped as Celaena faced him. His brows lowered as his eyes traveled along her body. His head cocked, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but only shook his head and scowled. “Upstairs. Now.”
She curtsied, looking up at him beneath lowered lashes. “Where, pray tell, are we going?”
“Oh, don’t simper at me.” He grabbed her by the arm, guiding her out of the room.
“Captain Westfall!” Philippa scolded. “She’ll trip on her dress. At least let her hold her skirts.”
She actually did trip on her dress, and her shoes cut into her heels quite terribly, but he would hear none of her objections as he dragged her into the hall. She smiled at the guards outside her door, and her smile burst into a grin at their exchanged approving glances. The captain’s grip tightened until it hurt. “Hurry,” he said. “We can’t be late.”
“Perhaps if you’d given me ample warning, I’d have dressed earlier and you wouldn’t have to drag me!” It was hard to breathe with the corset crushing her ribs. As they hurried up a long staircase, she raised a hand to her hair to ensure that it hadn’t fallen out.
“My mind was elsewhere; you were fortunate to be dressed, though I wish you’d worn something less . . . frilly to see the king.”
“The king?” She was thankful that she hadn’t yet eaten.
“Yes, the king. Did you think you wouldn’t see him? The Crown Prince told you the competition was to start today—this meeting will mark the official beginning. The real work begins tomorrow.”
Her arms became heavy and she forgot all about her aching feet and crushed ribs. In the garden, the queer, off-kilter clock tower began chiming the hour. They reached the top of the staircase and rushed down a long hallway. She couldn’t breathe.
Nauseated, she looked out the windows that lined the passage. The earth was far below—far, far below. They were in the glass addition. She didn’t want to be there. She couldn’t be in the glass castle. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because he just decided to see you now. He’d originally said this evening. Hopefully, the other Champions will be later than us.”
She felt like fainting. The king.
“When you enter,” he said over his shoulder, “stop where I stop. Bow—low. When you raise your head, keep it high and stand straight. Don’t look the king in the eye, don’t answer anything without ‘Your Majesty’ attached, and do
not,
under any circumstances, talk back. He’ll have you hanged if you don’t please him.”
She had a terrible headache around her left temple. Everything was sickly and frail. They were so high up, so dangerously high . . . Chaol stopped before rounding a corner. “You’re pale.”
She had difficulty focusing on his face as she breathed in and out, in and out. She hated corsets. She hated the king. She hated glass castles.
The days surrounding her capture and sentencing had been like a fever dream, but she could perfectly visualize her trial—the dark wood of the walls, the smoothness of the chair beneath her, the way her injuries still ached from the capture, and the terrible silence that had overtaken her body and soul. She had glanced at the king—only once. It was enough to make her reckless, to wish for any punishment that would take her far from him—even a quick death.
“Celaena.” She blinked, her cheeks burning. Chaol’s features softened. “He’s just a man. But a man you should treat with the respect his rank demands.” He began walking with her again, slower. “This meeting is only to remind you and the other Champions of why you’re here, and what you’re to do, and what you stand to gain. You’re not on trial. You will not be tested today.” They entered a long hallway, and she spied four guards posted before large glass doors at the other end. “Celaena.” He stopped a few feet from the guards. His eyes were rich, molten brown.
“Yes?” Her heartbeat steadied.
“You look rather pretty today,” was all he said before the doors opened and they walked forward. Celaena raised her chin as they entered the crowded room.
She saw the floor first. Red marble, its white veins illuminated in the light of the sun, which slowly vanished as the opaque glass doors groaned shut. Chandeliers and torches hung all around. Her eyes darted from one side of the large, crowded chamber to the next. There were no windows, just a wall of glass looking out into nothing but sky. No escape, save for the door behind her.
To her left, a fireplace occupied most of the wall, and as Chaol led her farther into the room, Celaena tried not to stare at the thing. It was monstrous, shaped like a roaring, fanged mouth, a blazing fire burning within. There was something greenish about the flame, something that made her spine straighten.
The captain stopped in the open space before the throne, and Celaena halted with him. He didn’t seem to notice their ominous surroundings, or if he did, he hid it far better. She pulled her gaze forward, taking in the crowd that filled the room. Stiffly, knowing that many eyes were upon her, Celaena dropped into a low bow, her skirts whispering.
She found her legs weak when Chaol put a hand on her back to motion her to rise. He led her from the center of the room, where they took up a spot beside Dorian Havilliard. The absence of dirt and three weeks’ worth of hard travel had a noticeable effect on his smooth face. He wore a red-and-gold jacket, his black hair brushed and shining. An expression of surprise crossed his features when he beheld her in her finery, but it quickly melted into a wry grin as he looked toward his father. She might have returned it, had she not been focusing so much on keeping her hands from shaking.
The king spoke at last. “Now that you’ve all finally bothered to arrive, perhaps we can begin.”
It was a voice she had heard before, deep and raspy. It made her bones crack and splinter, made her feel the astonishing cold of a winter long since past. Her eyes only dared to venture as far as his chest. It was broad, not entirely with muscle, and seemed tightly restrained within a crimson and black tunic. A cape of white fur hung from his shoulders, and a sword was sheathed at his side. Atop its hilt perched a wyvern, open-mouthed and screaming. None that came before that broad blade lived to see another day. She knew that sword.
Nothung was its name.
“You have all been retrieved from across Erilea for the purpose of serving your country.”
It was easy enough to tell the nobility from her competitors. Old and wrinkled, each nobleman wore fine clothes and decorative swords. Beside each of them stood a man—some tall and slender, some burly, some average, all of them surrounded by at least three vigilant guards.
Twenty-three men stood between her and freedom. Most of them had enough bulk to warrant a double take, but when she scanned their faces—often scarred, pockmarked, or just plain hideous—there was no spark behind their eyes, no shining kernel of cleverness. They’d been picked for muscles, not brains. Three of them were actually in chains. Were they that dangerous?
A few of them met her gaze, and she stared right back, wondering if they thought she was a competitor or just a court lady. Most of the competitors’ attention jumped right over her. She gritted her teeth. The dress had been a mistake. Why had Chaol not told her about the meeting
yesterday
?
A moderately handsome black-haired young man stared at her, though, and she willed her face into neutrality while his gray eyes took her in. He was tall and lean, but not gangly, and he inclined his head to her. She studied him for a moment longer, from the way he balanced his weight to his left, to what feature he first noticed when his eyes moved on and he examined the other competitors.
One was a gargantuan man standing beside Duke Perrington, who seemed crafted of muscle and steel—and took pains to display it with his sleeveless armor. The man’s arms looked capable of crushing a horse’s skull. It wasn’t that he was ugly—in fact, his tanned face was rather pleasant, but there was something nasty about his demeanor, about his obsidian eyes as they shifted and met her own. His large, white teeth gleamed.
The king spoke. “You are each competing for the title of my Champion—my right-hand sword in a world brimming with enemies.”
A flicker of shame sparked within her. What was “Champion” but a dressed-up name for murderer? Could she actually stomach working for him? She swallowed. She had to. She had no other choice.
“Over the next thirteen weeks, you shall each dwell and compete in my home. You will train every day, and be tested once a week—a test during which one of you will be eliminated.” Celaena did the calculations. There were twenty-four of them—and only thirteen weeks. As if sensing her question, the king said, “These tests will not be easy, nor will your training. Some of you might die in the process. We will add additional elimination tests as we see fit. And if you fall behind, if you fail, if you displease me, you will be packed off to whatever dark hole you came from.
“The week after Yulemas, the four remaining Champions will face each other in a duel to win the title. Until then, while my court is aware that some sort of contest is being held among my closest friends and advisors”—he waved a huge, scarred hand to encompass the room—“you will keep your business private. Any wrongdoing on your part, and I’ll stake you to the front gates.”
By accident, her gaze slipped onto the king’s face, and she found his dark eyes staring into hers. The king smirked. Her heart threw itself backward and clung to the bars of her ribcage.
Murderer.
He should be hanging from the gallows. He had killed many more than she—people undeserving and defenseless. He’d destroyed cultures, destroyed invaluable knowledge, destroyed so much of what had once been bright and good. His people should revolt. Erilea should revolt—the way those few rebels had dared to do. Celaena struggled to maintain his gaze. She couldn’t retreat.
“Is that understood?” the king asked, still staring at her.
Her head was heavy as she nodded. She had only until Yulemas to beat them all. One test a week—perhaps more.
“Speak!” the king bellowed to the room, and she tried not to flinch. “Are you not grateful for this opportunity? Do you not wish to give me your thanks and allegiance?”
She bowed her head and stared at his feet. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am most appreciative,” she murmured, the sound blending in with the words of the other Champions.
The king put a hand upon Nothung’s hilt. “This should be an interesting thirteen weeks.” She could feel his attention still upon her face, and she ground her teeth. “Prove trustworthy, become my Champion, and wealth and glory will be yours eternal.”
Only thirteen weeks to win her freedom.
“I am to depart next week for my own purposes. I will not return until Yulemas. But don’t think I won’t be able to give the command to execute any of you, should I hear word of any trouble, or
accidents
.” The Champions nodded once more.
“If we’re finished, I’m afraid I must take my leave,” interrupted Dorian from beside her, and her head snapped up at the sound of his voice—and his impertinence in interrupting his father. He bowed to his father, and nodded to the mute councilors. The king waved his son away, not even bothering to look at him. Dorian winked at Chaol before walking from the room.
“If there are no questions,” the king said to the Champions and their sponsors in a tone that suggested that asking questions would only guarantee a trip to the gallows, “then you have my leave. Do not forget that you are here to honor me—and my empire. Be gone, all of you.”
Celaena and Chaol didn’t speak as they strode down the hallway, quickly moving from the throng of competitors and their sponsors, who lingered to speak with one another—and size each other up. With every step away from the king, steadying warmth returned. It wasn’t until they rounded a corner that Chaol let out a deep breath and removed his hand from her back.
“Well, you managed to keep your mouth shut—for once,” he said.
“But how convincing she was in her nodding and bowing!” said a cheerful voice. It was Dorian, leaning against a wall.
“What are you doing?” Chaol asked.
Dorian pushed off the wall. “Why, waiting for you, of course.”
“We’re to dine this evening,” Chaol said.
“I was speaking to my Champion,” Dorian said with a roguish wink. Remembering how he’d smiled at the court lady the day of their arrival, she kept her gaze ahead. The Crown Prince took up a place safely beside Chaol as they walked on. “I apologize for my father’s gruffness.” She stared down the hall, at the servants who bowed to Dorian. He ignored them.
“By the Wyrd!” Dorian laughed. “He’s trained you well already!” He nudged Chaol with his elbow. “From the way you two are blatantly ignoring me, I’d say she could pass for your sister! Though you don’t really look like each other—it would be hard to pass off someone so pretty as
your
sister.”
Celaena was unable to keep a hint of a smile from her lips. Both she and the prince had grown up under strict, unforgiving fathers—well, father figure in her case. Arobynn had never replaced the father she’d lost, nor had he ever tried to. But at least Arobynn had an excuse for being equal parts tyrannical and doting. Why had the King of Adarlan let his son become anything but an identical copy of himself?
“There!” Dorian said. “A reaction—thank the gods I’ve amused her.” He glanced behind them, making sure there was no one there, before his voice quieted. “I don’t think Chaol told you our plan before the meeting—risky, on all of our parts.”