The Assassin and the Desert

by Sarah J. Maas

  She kept close to Ansel as they walked along, the red-haired girl weaving through the crowd with a kind of casual grace that Celaena, despite herself, envied. No matter how many people shoved into Ansel, or stepped in her path, or cursed her for stepping in theirs, she didn’t falter, and her boyish grin only grew. Many people stopped to stare at her red hair and matching eyes, but Ansel took it in her stride. Even without her armor, she was stunning. Celaena tried not to think about how few people bothered to notice her.

  With the bodies and the heat, Celaena was oozing sweat by the time Ansel stopped near the edge of the souk. “I’m going to be a couple hours,” Ansel said, and waved a long, elegant hand to the sandstone palace hovering above the small city. “The old bore likes to talk and talk and talk. Why don’t you do some shopping?”

  Celaena straightened. “I’m not going with you?”

  “Into Berick’s palace? Of course not. It’s the Master’s business.”

  Celaena felt her nostrils flare. Ansel clapped her on the shoulder. “Believe me, you’d much rather spend the next few hours in the souk than waiting in the stables with Berick’s men leering at you. Unlike us”—Ansel flashed that grin—“they don’t have access to baths whenever they please.”

  Ansel kept glancing at the palace, still a few blocks away. Nervous that she’d be late? Or nervous that she was going to confront Berick on behalf of the Master? Ansel brushed the remnants of red sand from the layers of her white clothes. “I’ll meet you at that fountain at three. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

  And with that, Ansel vanished into the press of bodies, her red hair gleaming like a hot brand. Celaena contemplated trailing her. Even if she was an outsider, why let her accompany Ansel on the journey if she was just going to have to sit outside? What could be so important and secret that Ansel wouldn’t allow her to partake in the meeting? Celaena took a step toward the palace, but passing people jostled her to and fro, and then a vendor began cooking something that smelled divine, and Celaena found herself following her nose instead.

  She spent the two hours wandering from vendor to vendor. She cursed herself for not bringing more money with her. In Rifthold, she had a line of credit at all her favorite stores, and never had to bother carrying money, aside from small coppers and the occasional silver coin for tips and bribes. But here . . . well, the pouch of silver she’d brought felt rather light.

  The souk wound through every street, great and small, down narrow stairways and onto half-buried alleys that had to have been there for a thousand years. Ancient doors opened onto small courtyards jammed with spice vendors or a hundred lanterns, glittering like stars in the shadowy interior. For such a remote city, Xandria was teeming with life.

  She was standing under the striped awning of a vendor from the southern continent, debating if she had enough to buy the pair of curled-toe shoes before her and the lilac perfume she’d smelled at a wagon owned by white-haired maidens. The maidens claimed they were the priestesses of Lani, the goddess of dreams—and perfume, apparently.

  Celaena ran a finger down the emerald silk thread embroidered on the delicate shoes, tracing the curve of the point as it swept upward and curled over the shoe itself. They’d certainly be eye-catching in Rifthold. And no one else in the capital would have them. Though, in the filthy city streets, these would easily get ruined.

  She reluctantly put the shoes down, and the vendor raised his brows. She shook her head, a rueful smile on her face. The man held up seven fingers—one less than the original asking price, and she chewed on her lip, signing back, “Six coppers?”

  The man spat on the ground. Seven coppers. Seven coppers was laughably cheap.

  She looked at the souk around her, then back at the beautiful shoes. “I’ll come back later,” she lied, and with one final, mournful glance, she continued along. The man began shouting after her in a language she’d never heard before, undoubtedly offering the shoes for six coppers, but she forced herself to keep walking. Besides, her pack was heavy enough; lugging the shoes around would just be an additional burden. Even if they were lovely and different and not that heavy. And the thread detailing along the sides was as precise and beautiful as calligraphy. And really, she could just wear them inside, so she—

  She was about to turn around and walk right back to the vendor when something glistening in the shadows beneath an archway between buildings caught her eye. There were a few hired guards standing around the covered wagon, and a tall, lean man stood behind the table displayed in front of it. But it wasn’t the guards or the man or his wagon that grabbed her attention.

  No, it was what was on his table that knocked the breath from her and made her curse her too-light money purse.

  Spidersilk.

  There were legends about the horse-sized stygian spiders that lurked in the woods of the Ruhnn Mountains of the north, spinning their thread for hefty costs. Some said they offered it in exchange for human flesh; others claimed the spiders dealt in years and dreams, and could take either as payment. Regardless, the thread was as delicate as gossamer, lovelier than silk, and stronger than steel. And she’d never seen so much of it before.

  It was so rare that if you wanted it, odds were you had to go and get it for yourself. But here it was, yards of raw material waiting to be shaped. It was a kingdom’s ransom.

  “You know,” the merchant said in the common tongue, taking in Celaena’s wide-eyed stare, “you’re the first person today to recognize it for what it is.”

  “I’d know what that is even if I were blind.” She approached the table, but didn’t dare to touch the sheets of iridescent fabric. “But what are you doing here? Surely you can’t get much business in Xandria.”

  The man chuckled. He was middle-aged, with close-cropped brown hair and midnight-blue eyes that seemed haunted, though they now sparkled with amusement. “I might also ask what a girl from the North is doing in Xandria.” His gaze flicked to the daggers tucked into the brown belt slung across her white clothes. “And with such beautiful weapons.”

  She gave him a half smile. “At least your eye is worthy of your wares.”

  “I try.” He sketched a bow, then beckoned her closer. “So, tell me, girl from the North, when have you seen Spidersilk?”

  She clenched her fingers into fists to keep from touching the priceless material. “I know a courtesan in Rifthold whose madam had a handkerchief made from it—given to her by an extraordinarily wealthy client.”

  And that handkerchief had probably cost more than most peasants made in a lifetime.

  “That was a kingly gift. She must have been skilled.”

  “She didn’t become madam of the finest courtesans in Rifthold for nothing.”

  The merchant let out a low laugh. “So if you associate with the finest courtesans in Rifthold, then what brings you to this bit of desert scrub?”

  She shrugged. “This and that.” In the dim light beneath the canopy, the Spidersilk still glittered like the surface of the sea. “But I would like to know how you came across so much of this. Did you buy it, or find the stygian spiders on your own?”

  He traced a finger down the plane of fabric. “I went there myself. What else is there to know?” His midnight eyes darkened. “In the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains, everything is a labyrinth of mist and trees and shadows. So you don’t find the stygian spiders—they find you.”

  Celaena stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep from touching the Spidersilk. Though her fingers were clean, there were still grains of red sand under her nails. “So why are you here, then?”

  “My ship to the southern continent doesn’t leave for two days; why not set up shop? Xandria might not be Rifthold, but you never know who might approach your stall.” He winked at her. “How old are you, anyway?”

  She raised her chin. “I turned seventeen two weeks ago.” And what a miserable birthday that had been! Trudging across the desert with no one to celebrate with except her recalcitrant guide, who just patted her shoulder
when she announced it was her birthday. Horrible.

  “Not much younger than me,” he said. She chuckled, but paused when she didn’t find him smiling.

  “And how old are you?” she asked. There was no mistaking it—he had to be at least forty. Even if his hair wasn’t sprinkled with silver, his skin was weathered.

  “Twenty-five,” he said. She gave a start. “I know. Shocking.”

  The yards of Spidersilk lifted in a breeze from the nearby sea.

  “Everything has a price,” he said. “Twenty years for two hundred yards of Spidersilk. I thought they meant to take them off the end of my life. But even if they’d warned me, I would have said yes.” She eyed the caravan behind him. This much Spidersilk was enough to enable him to live what years he had left as a very, very wealthy man.

  “Why not take it to Rifthold?”

  “Because I’ve seen Rifthold, and Orynth, and Banjali. I’d like to see what two hundred yards of Spidersilk might fetch me outside of Adarlan’s empire.”

  “Is there anything to be done about the years you lost?”

  He waved a hand. “I followed the western side of the mountains on my way here, and met an old witch along the way. I asked if she could fix me, but she said what was taken was taken, and only the death of the spider who consumed my twenty years could return them to me.” He examined his hands, already lined with age. “For a copper more, she told me that only a great warrior could slay a stygian spider. The greatest warrior in the land . . . Though perhaps an assassin from the North might do.”

  “How did you—”

  “You can’t honestly think no one knows about the sessiz suikast? Why else would a seventeen-year-old girl bearing exquisite daggers be here unescorted? And one who holds such fine company in Rifthold, no less. Are you here to spy for Lord Berick?”

  Celaena did her best to quell her surprise. “Pardon me?”

  The merchant shrugged, glancing toward the towering palace. “I heard from a city guard that strange dealings go on between Berick and some of the Silent Assassins.”

  “Perhaps,” was all Celaena said. The merchant nodded, not all that interested in it anymore. But Celaena tucked the information away for later. Were some of the Silent Assassins actually working for Berick? Perhaps that was why Ansel had insisted on keeping the meeting so secret—maybe the Master didn’t want the names of the suspected traitors getting out.

  “So?” the merchant asked. “Will you retrieve my lost years for me?”

  She bit her lip, thoughts of spies instantly fading away. To journey into the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains, to slay a stygian spider! She could certainly see herself battling the eight-legged monstrosities. And witches! Though after Ansel’s story, meeting a witch—especially one belonging to the Ironteeth Clans—was the last thing she ever wanted to do. For a heartbeat, she wished Sam were with her. Even if she told him about this encounter, he’d never believe her. But would anyone ever believe her?

  As if he could read her daydreams, he said: “I could make you rich beyond your wildest imaginings.”

  “I’m already rich. And I’m unavailable until the end of the summer.”

  “I won’t be back from the southern continents for at least a year, anyway,” he countered.

  She examined his face, the gleam in his eyes. Adventure and glory aside, anyone who’d sell twenty years of his life for a fortune couldn’t be trusted. But . . .

  “The next time you’re in Rifthold,” she said slowly, “seek out Arobynn Hamel.” The man’s eyes widened. She wondered how he’d react if he knew who she was. “He’ll know where to find me.” She turned from the table.

  “But what’s your name?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “He’ll know where to find me,” she repeated, and began walking back toward the stall with the pointed shoes.

  “Wait!” She paused in time to see him fumbling with the folds of his tunic. “Here.” He set down a plain wooden box on the table. “A reminder.”

  Celaena flipped open the lid and her breath caught. A folded bit of woven Spidersilk lay inside, no larger than six square inches. She could buy ten horses with it. Not that she’d ever sell it. No, this was an heirloom to be passed down from generation to generation. If she ever had children. Which seemed highly unlikely.

  “A reminder of what?” She shut the lid and tucked the small box into the inner pocket of her white tunic.

  The merchant smiled sadly. “That everything has a price.”

  A phantom pain flashed through her face. “I know,” she said, and left.

  She wound up buying the shoes, though it was nearly impossible to pass over the lilac perfume, which smelled even more lovely the second time she approached the priestesses’ stall. When the city bells pealed three o’clock, she was sitting on the lip of the fountain, munching on what she hoped was mashed beans inside a warm bread pocket.

  Ansel was fifteen minutes late, and didn’t apologize. She merely grabbed Celaena’s arm and began leading her through the still-packed streets, her freckled face gleaming with sweat.

  “What is it?” Celaena asked. “What happened in your meeting?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Ansel said a bit sharply. Then she added, “Just follow me.”

  They wound up sneaking inside the Lord of Xandria’s palace walls, and Celaena knew better than to ask questions as they crept across the grounds. But they didn’t head to the towering central building. No—they approached the stables, where they slipped around the guards and entered the pungent shadows within.

  “There had better be a good reason for this,” Celaena warned as Ansel crept toward a pen.

  “Oh, there is,” she hissed back, and stopped at a gate, waving Celaena forward.

  Celaena approached and frowned. “It’s a horse.” But even as the words left her mouth, she knew it wasn’t.

  “It’s an Asterion horse,” Ansel breathed, her red-brown eyes growing huge.

  The horse was black as pitch, with dark eyes that bored into Celaena’s own. She’d heard of Asterion horses, of course. The most ancient breed of horse in Erilea. Legend claimed that the Fae had made them from the four winds—spirit from the north, strength from the south, speed from the east, and wisdom from the west, all rolled into the slender-snouted, high-tailed, lovely creature that stood before her.

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Ansel whispered. “Her name is Hisli.” Mares, Celaena remembered, were more prized, as Asterion pedigrees were traced through the female line. “And that one,” Ansel said, pointing to the next stall, “is named Kasida—it means ‘drinker of the wind’ in the desert dialect.”

  Kasida’s name was fitting. The slender mare was a dapple gray, with a sea-foam white mane and thundercloud coat. She huffed and stomped her forelegs, staring at Celaena with eyes that seemed older than the earth itself. Celaena suddenly understood why the Asterion horses were worth their weight in gold.

  “Lord Berick got them today. Bought them from a merchant on his way to Banjali.” Ansel slipped into Hisli’s pen. She cooed and murmured, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “He’s planning on testing them out in half an hour.” That explained why they were already saddled.

  “And?” Celaena whispered, holding out a hand for Kasida to smell. The mare’s nostrils flared, her velvety nose tickling Celaena’s fingertips.

  “And then he’s either going to give them away as a bribe, or lose interest and let them languish here for the rest of their lives. Lord Berick tends to tire of his playthings rather quickly.”

  “What a waste.”

  “Indeed it is,” Ansel muttered from inside the stall. Celaena lowered her fingers from Kasida’s muzzle and peered into Hisli’s pen. Ansel was running a hand down Hisli’s black flank, her face still full of wonder. Then she turned. “Are you a strong rider?”

  “Of course,” Celaena said slowly.

  “Good.”

  Celaena bit down on her cry of alarm as Ansel unlocked the stall door a
nd guided Hisli out of her pen. In a smooth, quick motion, the girl was atop the horse, clutching the reins in one hand. “Because you’re going to have to ride like hell.”

  With that, Ansel sent Hisli into a gallop, heading straight for the stable doors.

  Celaena didn’t have time to gape or really even to process what she was about to do as she unlocked Kasida’s pen, yanked her out, and heaved herself into the saddle. With a muffled curse, she dug her heels into the mare’s sides and took off.

  Chapter Six

  The guards didn’t know what was happening until the horses had already rushed past them in a blur of black and gray, and they were through the main palace gate before the guards’ cries finished echoing. Ansel’s red hair shone like a beacon as she broke for the side exit from the city, people leaping aside to let them pass.

  Celaena looked back through the crowded streets only once—and that was enough to see the three mounted guards charging after them, shouting.

  But the girls were already through the city gate and into the sea of red dunes that spread beyond, Ansel riding as if the denizens of hell were behind her. Celaena could only race after her, doing her best to keep in the saddle.

  Kasida moved like thunder and turned with the swiftness of lightning. The mare was so fast that Celaena’s eyes watered in the wind. The three guards, astride ordinary horses, were still far off, but not nearly far enough for comfort. In the vastness of the Red Desert, Celaena had no choice but to follow Ansel.

  Celaena clung to Kasida’s mane as they took dune after dune, up and down, down and up, until there was only the red sand and the cloudless sky and the rumble of hooves, hooves, hooves rolling through the world.

  Ansel slowed enough for Celaena to catch up, and they galloped along the broad, flat top of a dune.

  “Are you out of your damned mind?” Celaena shouted.