Dorian was still watching her with narrowed brows, but when she caught him staring, he turned to Chaol. “Is it too early to ask what you’ll be doing for your birthday?”
Celaena crossed her arms. “We have plans,” she said before Chaol could reply. She didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but—well, she’d been planning the night for a few weeks now.
Chaol looked at her over a shoulder. “We do?”
Celaena gave him a venomously sweet smile. “Oh, yes. It might not be an Asterion stallion, but …”
Dorian’s eyes flashed. “Well, I hope you have fun,” he interrupted.
Chaol quickly looked back at the horse as Celaena and Dorian faced each other. Whatever familiar expressions he’d once worn were now gone. And part of her—the part that had spent so many nights looking forward to seeing that handsome face—truly mourned it. Looking at him became difficult.
She left them in the stables with a brief good night, congratulating Chaol on his new gift. She didn’t dare turn in the direction of the carnival, where the sound of the crowd suggested that Hollin had made his appearance and unveiled the cages. Instead, she sprinted up the stairs to the warmth of her rooms, trying to shut out the image of the witch’s iron teeth, and the way she’d called after them with those words about fate, so similar to what Mort had said on the night of the eclipse …
Perhaps it was intuition, or perhaps it was because she was a miserable person who couldn’t even trust the advice of a friend, but she wanted to go back to the tomb. Alone. Maybe Nehemia was wrong about the amulet being irrelevant. And she was tired of waiting for her friend to find the time to research the eye riddle.
She’d go back just once, and never tell Nehemia. Because the hole in the wall was shaped like an eye, its iris removed to form a space that would perfectly fit the amulet she wore around her neck.
Chapter 20
“Mort,” Celaena said, and the skull knocker opened an eye.
“It’s terribly rude to wake someone when they’re sleeping,” he said drowsily.
“Would you have preferred it if I had knocked on your face?” He glared at her. “I need to know something.” She held out the amulet. “This necklace—does it truly have power?”
“Of course it does.”
“But it’s thousands of years old.”
“So?” Mort yawned. “It’s magic. Magical things rarely age as normal objects do.”
“But what does it do?”
“It protects you, as Elena said. It guards you from harm, though you certainly seem to do your best to get into trouble.”
Celaena opened the door. “I think I know what it does.” Perhaps it was mere coincidence, but the riddle had been worded so specifically. Perhaps Davis had been looking for the same thing Elena wanted her to find: the source of the king’s power. This could be the first step toward uncovering that.
“You’re probably wrong,” Mort said as she walked by. “I’m just warning you.”
She didn’t listen. She went right up to the hollow eye in the wall and stood on tiptoe to look through. The wall on the other side was still blank. Unfastening her necklace, Celaena carefully lifted the amulet to the eye, and—
It fit. Sort of. Her breath caught in her throat, and Celaena leaned up against the hole, peering through the delicate gold bands.
Nothing. No change on the wall, or on the giant Wyrdmark. She turned the necklace upside down, but it was the same. She tried it on either side, backward, angled—but nothing. Just the same blank stone wall, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight from some vent above. She pushed against the stone, feeling for any door, any moveable panel.
“But it’s the Eye of Elena! ‘It is only with the eye that one can see rightly’! What other eye is there?”
“You could rip out your own and see if it fits,” Mort sang from the doorway.
“Why won’t it work? Do I need to say a spell?” She glanced at the sarcophagus of the queen. Perhaps the spell would be triggered by ancient words—words hiding right under her nose. Wasn’t that always how these things happened? She refitted the amulet into the stone. “Ah!” she called into the night air, reciting the words engraved at Elena’s feet. “Time’s Rift!”
Nothing happened.
Mort cackled. She snatched the amulet out of the wall. “Oh, I hate this! I hate this stupid tomb, and I hate these stupid riddles and mysteries!” Fine—fine. Nehemia was right that the amulet was a dead end. And she was a wretched, horrible friend for being so distrustful and impatient.
“I told you it wouldn’t work.”
“Then what will work? That riddle does reference something in this tomb—behind that wall. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does. But you still haven’t asked the proper question.”
“I’ve asked you dozens of questions! And you won’t give me any answers!”
“Come back another—” he started, but Celaena had already stalked up the stairs.
Celaena stood on the barren edge of a ravine, a chill northern wind ruffling her hair. She’d had this dream before; always this setting, always this night of the year.
Behind her sloped a rocky, wasted plain, and before her stretched a chasm so long it disappeared into the starlit horizon. Across the ravine was a lush, dark wood, rustling with life.
And on the grassy lip of the other side stood the white stag, watching her with ancient eyes. His massive antlers glowed in the moonlight, wreathing him in ivory glory, just as she remembered. It had been on a chill night like this that she’d spotted him through the bars of her prison wagon on the way to Endovier, a glimmer of a world before it was burned to ash.
They watched each other in silence.
She took a half step closer to the edge, but paused as loose pebbles trickled free, tumbling into the ravine. There was no end to the darkness in that ravine. No end, and no beginning, either. It seemed to breathe, pulsing with whispers of faded memories, forgotten faces. Sometimes, it felt as though the darkness stared back at her—and the face it wore was her own.
Beneath the dark, she could have sworn she heard the rushing of a half-frozen river, swollen with melting snow off the Staghorns. A flash of white, the thud of hooves on soft earth, and Celaena looked up from the ravine. The stag had come closer, his head now angled, as if inviting her to join him.
But the ravine only seemed to grow wider, like the maw of a giant beast opening to devour the world.
So Celaena did not cross, and the stag turned away, his steps near silent as he disappeared between the tangled trees of the ageless wood.
Celaena awoke to darkness. The fire was nothing but cinders, and the moon had set.
She studied the ceiling, the faint shadows cast by the city lights in the distance. It was always the same dream, always this one night.
As if she could ever forget the day when everything she had loved had been wrenched from her, and she’d awoken covered in blood that was not her own.
She got out of bed, Fleetfoot leaping down beside her. She walked a few steps, then paused in the center of the room, staring into the dark, into the endless ravine still beckoning to her. Fleetfoot nuzzled her bare legs, and Celaena reached down to stroke the hound’s head.
They remained there for a moment, gazing into that blackness without end.
Celaena left the castle long before dawn broke.
When Celaena didn’t meet Chaol at the barracks door that dawn, he gave her ten minutes before stalking up to her rooms. Just because she didn’t feel like going out in the cold wasn’t an excuse to be lax with her training. Not to mention he was particularly interested in hearing the story about how she’d stolen an Asterion mare from the Lord of Xandria. He smiled at the thought, shaking his head. Only Celaena would have the nerve to do something like that.
His smile faded when he reached her chambers and found Nehemia sitting at the small table in the foyer, a cup of steaming tea before her. There were some books piled in front of the princess, and she looked up from one of
them as he entered. Chaol bowed. The princess just said, “She is not here.”
Celaena’s bedroom door was open wide enough to reveal that the bed was empty and already made. “Where is she?”
Nehemia’s eyes softened, and she picked up a note that was lying among the books. “She has taken today off,” she said, reading from the note before setting it down. “If I were to guess, I’d say that she is as far away from the city as she can get in half a day’s ride.”
“Why?”
Nehemia smiled sadly. “Because today is the tenth anniversary of her parents’ death.”
Chapter 21
Chaol’s breath caught. He remembered her screaming at the duel with Cain, when Cain had taunted her about the brutal murder of her parents—when she’d awoken covered in their blood. She’d never told him anything else, and he hadn’t dared ask. He knew she’d been young, but he hadn’t realized she’d been only eight. Eight.
Ten years ago, Terrasen had been in upheaval, and anyone who had defied Adarlan’s invading forces had been slaughtered. Entire families had been dragged out of their homes and murdered. His stomach clenched. What horrors had she witnessed that day?
Chaol ran a hand over his face. “She told you about her parents in her note?” Maybe it held a shred more information—anything for him to better understand what sort of woman he’d be facing when she returned, what sort of memories he’d have to contend with.
“No,” Nehemia said. “She didn’t tell me. But I know.” She watched him with a calculated stillness, a switch to the defensive that he recognized. What sort of secrets was she protecting for her friend? And what sort of secrets did Nehemia herself keep that had caused the king to have her watched? The fact that he didn’t know anything about it, about how much the king knew, enraged him to no end. And then there was the other question: who had threatened the princess’s life? He’d ordered more guards to look after her, but so far, there had been no sign of anyone wanting to harm her.
“How do you know about her parents?” he asked.
“Some things you hear with your ears. Others, you hear with your heart.” He looked away from the intensity in her eyes.
“When is she coming back?”
Nehemia returned to the book in front of her. It looked like it was filled with strange symbols; vaguely familiar markings that tickled at his memory. “She said she won’t be back until after nightfall. If I were to guess, I’d say she didn’t want to spend one moment of daylight in this city—especially in this castle.”
In the home of the man whose soldiers had probably butchered her family.
Chaol took the morning training run alone. He ran through the mist-shrouded game park until his very bones were exhausted.
In the misty foothills above Rifthold, Celaena strode between the trees of the small forest, barely more than a sliver of darkness winding through the woods. She had been walking since before dawn, letting Fleetfoot follow as she would. Today, even the forest seemed silent.
Good. Today was not a day for the sounds of life. Today was for the hollow wind rustling branches, for the rushing of a half-frozen river, for the crunch of snow under her boots.
On this day last year, she’d known what she had to do—had seen every step with such brutal clarity that it had been easy when the time came. She’d once told Dorian and Chaol that she’d snapped that day in the Salt Mines of Endovier, but it was a lie. Snapped implied too human a feeling; nothing like the cold, hopeless rage that had taken hold and shut everything down when she’d awoken from the dream of the stag and the ravine.
She found a large boulder nestled between the bumps and hollows and sank down on its smooth, ice-cold top, Fleetfoot soon sitting beside her. Wrapping her arms around the dog, Celaena looked out into the still forest and remembered the day she’d unleashed herself upon Endovier.
Celaena panted through her bared teeth as she yanked the pickax out of the overseer’s stomach. The man gurgled blood, clutching at his gut as he looked to the slaves in supplication. But one glance from Celaena, one flash of eyes that showed she had gone beyond the edge, kept the slaves at bay.
She merely smiled down at the overseer as she swung the ax into his face. His blood sprayed her legs.
The slaves still stayed far away when she brought down the ax upon the shackles that bound her ankles to the rest of them. She didn’t offer to free them, and they didn’t ask; they knew how useless it would be.
The woman at the end of the chain gang was unconscious. Her back poured blood, split open by the iron-tipped whip of the dead overseer. She would die by tomorrow if her wounds were not treated. Even if they were, she’d probably die from infection. Endovier amused itself like that.
Celaena turned from the woman. She had work to do, and four overseers had to pay a debt before she was done.
She stalked from the mine shaft, pickax dangling from her hand. The two guards at the end of the tunnel were dead before they realized what was happening. Blood soaked her clothes and her bare arms, and Celaena wiped it from her face as she stormed down to the chamber where she knew the four overseers worked.
She had marked their faces the day they’d dragged that young Eyllwe woman behind the building, marked every detail about them as they used her, then slit her throat from ear to ear.
Celaena could have taken the swords from the fallen guards, but for these four men, it had to be the ax. She wanted them to know what Endovier felt like.
She reached the entrance to their section of the mines. The first two overseers died when she heaved the ax into their necks, slashing back and forth between them. Their slaves screamed, backing against the walls as she raged past them.
When she reached the other two overseers, she let them see her, let them try to draw their blades. She knew it wasn’t the weapon in her hands that made them stupid with panic, but rather her eyes—eyes that told them they had been tricked these past few months, that cutting her hair and whipping her hadn’t been enough, that she had been baiting them into forgetting that Adarlan’s Assassin was in their midst.
But she had not forgotten a second of pain, nor what she had seen them do to the others—to that young woman from Eyllwe, who had begged to gods who did not save her.
The men died too quickly, but Celaena had one more task to complete before she would meet her end. She prowled back up the main tunnel that led out of the mines. Guards foolishly came rushing out of tunnel mouths to meet her.
She surged upward, hacking and swinging. Two more guards went down, and she took up their swords, leaving the ax behind. The slaves didn’t cheer as their oppressors fell; they just watched in silence, understanding. This was not a fight for escape.
The light of the surface made her blink, but she was ready. Her eyes having to adjust to the sun would be her greatest weakness. That was why she had waited until the softer light of afternoon. Twilight would have been better, but that time of day was too heavily guarded, and there were too many slaves about then that could be caught in the crossfire. This last hour of full daylight, when the warm sun lulled many to sleep, was when the sentries went lax on watch before the evening inspection.
The three sentries at the entrance to the mines didn’t know what was happening below. Everyone was always screaming in Endovier. Everyone sounded the same when they died. And the three sentries screamed just like the others.
And then she was running, sprinting for the death that beckoned to her, making for the towering stone wall at the other end of the compound.
Arrows whizzed past, and she zigzagged. They wouldn’t kill her, by order of the king. An arrow through the shoulder or leg, maybe. But she’d make them reconsider their orders once the carnage was too massive to ignore.
Other sentries came rushing from everywhere, and her blades were a song of steel fury as she cut through them. Silence settled over Endovier.
She took a gash in her leg—deep, but not deep enough to cut the tendon. They still wanted her able to work. But she wouldn’t
work—not again, not for them. When the body count was high enough, they’d have no choice but to put that arrow through her throat.
But then she neared the gate, and the arrows stopped.
She started laughing when she found herself surrounded by forty guards, and laughed even more when they called for irons.
She was laughing when she lashed out one last time—one final attempt to touch the wall. Four more went down in her wake.
She was still laughing when the world went black and her fingers hit the rocky ground—barely an inch away from the wall.
Chaol stood from his seat at her foyer table as the door quietly opened. The outside hall was dark, the lights burned out; most of the castle asleep and tucked into their beds. He’d heard the clock chime midnight some time ago, but he knew it wasn’t exhaustion weighing down Celaena’s shoulders when she slipped into her rooms. Her eyes were purple beneath, her face wan, lips colorless.
Fleetfoot rushed to him, tail wagging, and licked him a few times on the hand before she trotted into the bedroom, leaving them alone.
Celaena glanced once at him, her turquoise-and-gold eyes weary and haunted, and began unfastening her cloak as she walked past him into the bedroom.
Wordlessly, he followed her, if only because she hadn’t had a hint of warning or reproach in her expression—rather a bleakness that suggested she wouldn’t have cared if she’d found the King of Adarlan himself in her rooms.
She removed her coat and then her boots, leaving them wherever she happened to discard them. He looked away as she unbuttoned her tunic and walked into the dressing room. A moment later, she walked back out, wearing a nightgown that was far more modest than her usual lacy attire. Fleetfoot had already hopped into bed, sprawling against the pillows.
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