“I don’t understand a word you’re saying.” But Celaena had seen that thing outside the library.
Nehemia stalked to her, grabbing her by the wrists. “You do understand. When you look at him, you sense that there is a greater, twisted power around him. How did such a man conquer so much of the continent so quickly? With military might alone? How is it that Terrasen’s court fell so quickly, when its retainers had been trained for generations to be warriors? How did the most powerful court in the world get wiped out within a matter of days?”
“You’re tired and upset,” Celaena said as calmly as she could, trying not to think of how similar Nehemia’s and Elena’s words were. She shook off the princess’s grip. “Maybe we should talk about this later—”
“I don’t want to talk about this later!”
Fleetfoot whined, wedging herself between them.
“If we do not strike now,” Nehemia went on, “then whatever he is brewing will only grow more powerful. And then we will be beyond any chance of hope.”
“There is no hope,” Celaena said. “There is no hope in standing against him. Not now, not ever.” That was a truth she’d slowly been realizing. If Nehemia and Elena were right about this mysterious power source, then how could they ever overthrow him? “And I will not be a part of whatever plan you have. I will not help you get yourself killed, and bring down even more innocent people in the process.”
“You will not help because all you care about is yourself.”
“And so what if I do?” Celaena splayed her arms. “So what if I want to spend the rest of my life in peace?”
“There can never be any peace—not while he reigns. When you said you weren’t killing the men on his list, I thought you were finally taking a step toward making a stand. I thought that when the time came, I could count on you to help me start planning. I didn’t realize that you were doing it just to keep your own conscience clean!”
Celaena began storming toward the door.
Nehemia clicked her tongue. “I didn’t realize that you’re just a coward.”
Celaena looked over her shoulder. “Say that again.”
Nehemia didn’t flinch. “You’re a coward. You are nothing more than a coward.”
Celaena’s fingers clenched into fists. “When your people are lying dead around you,” she hissed, “don’t come crying to me.”
She didn’t give the princess the chance to reply before she stalked out of the room, Fleetfoot close on her heels.
Chapter 25
“One of them has to break,” the queen said to the princess. “Only then can it begin.”
“I know,” the princess said softly. “But the prince isn’t ready. It has to be her.”
“Then do you understand what I am asking of you?”
The princess looked up, toward the shaft of moonlight spilling into the tomb. When she looked back at the ancient queen, her eyes were bright. “Yes.”
“Then do what needs to be done.”
The princess nodded and walked out of the tomb. She paused on the threshold, the darkness beyond beckoning to her, and turned back to the queen. “She won’t understand. And when she goes over the edge, there will be nothing to pull her back.”
“She will find her way back. She always does.”
Tears formed, but the princess blinked them away. “For all our sakes, I hope you’re right.”
Chapter 26
Chaol hated hunting parties. Many of the lords could barely handle a bow, let alone be stealthy. It was painful to watch them—and the poor hounds bursting through the brush, trying to scatter game that the lords would miss anyway. Usually, just to get things over with, he would discreetly kill a few animals and then pretend Lord So-and-So had done it. But the king, Perrington, Roland, and Dorian were all out in the game park today, which meant he had to keep close to them.
Whenever he rode close enough to the lords to overhear their laughing and gossiping and harmless scheming, he sometimes let himself wonder if that was how he would have wound up had he not chosen this path. He hadn’t seen his younger brother in years; had his father allowed Terrin to turn into one of these idiots? Or had his father sent him to train as a warrior, as all lords of Anielle had done in the centuries after the wild mountain men had preyed upon the city on the Silver Lake?
As Chaol trailed behind the king, his new Asterion stallion earning many admiring and envious glances from the hunting party, Chaol allowed himself to consider—for one heartbeat—what his father would make of Celaena. His mother was a gentle, quiet woman, whose face had become a blurred memory in the years since he’d last seen her. But he still remembered her lilting voice and soft laugh, and the way she’d sung him to sleep when he was ill. Even though their marriage had been arranged, his father had wanted someone like his mother—someone submissive. Which meant that someone like Celaena … He cringed to even consider his father and Celaena in a room together. Cringed, and then smiled, because that was a battle of wills that could go down in legend.
“You’re distracted today, Captain,” the king said as he emerged from between the trees. He was massive; the king’s size always surprised Chaol, for some reason.
He was flanked by two of Chaol’s guards—one of which was Ress, who looked more nervous than triumphant at being selected to protect the king today, though he was trying his hardest not to show it. It was why Chaol had also chosen Dannan, the other guard—older and weathered and possessing near-legendary patience. Chaol bowed to his sovereign, and then gave Ress a slight nod of approval. The young guard sat up straighter, but remained alert—his focus now upon their surroundings, the lords riding nearby, the sounds of dogs and arrows.
The king pulled his black horse alongside Chaol’s, falling into a meandering walk. Ress and Dannan fell back a respectable pace, still close enough to intercept any lurking threat. “Whatever will my lords do without you to kill their quarry for them?”
Chaol tried to hide his smile. Perhaps he hadn’t been as discreet as he thought. “Apologies, milord.”
Atop his warhorse, the king looked every inch the conqueror he was. There was something in his eyes that sent a chill down Chaol’s spine—and made him realize why so many foreign rulers had offered him their crowns instead of facing him in battle.
“I am having the Princess of Eyllwe questioned in my council room tomorrow night,” the king said quietly enough that only Chaol could hear, turning his stallion to follow after the pack of hounds that rushed through the thawing woods. “I want six men outside the room. Make sure there are no complications or interruptions.” The look the king gave him suggested exactly the sort of complication he had in mind—Celaena.
Chaol knew it was risky to ask questions, but he said, “Is there anything specific that I should prepare my men for?”
“No,” the king said, nocking an arrow to his bow and firing at a pheasant that surged up from the brush. A clean shot—right through the eye. “That will be all.”
The king whistled to his hounds and followed after the prey he’d killed, Ress and Dannan close behind.
Chaol stilled his stallion, watching the mountain of a man ride through the thicket. “What was that about?” Dorian said, suddenly beside him.
Chaol shook his head. “Nothing.”
Dorian reached over his shoulder to the quiver strapped there and drew an arrow. “I haven’t seen you for a few days.”
“I’ve been busy.” Busy with his duties, and busy with Celaena. “I haven’t seen you around, either.” He made himself meet Dorian’s gaze.
Dorian’s lips were pursed, his face stony as he quietly said, “I’ve been busy, too.” The Crown Prince turned his horse away, heading in another direction, but paused. “Chaol,” he said, looking over his shoulder. Dorian’s eyes were frozen, his jaw clenched. “Treat her well.”
“Dorian,” he started, but the prince rode off to join Roland. Suddenly alone in the teeming forest, Chaol watched his friend disappear.
Chaol didn’t tell Celaen
a what the king had said, though part of him twisted until it hurt. The king wouldn’t hurt Nehemia—not when she was such a public and well-liked figure. Not when he’d warned Chaol about that anonymous threat to Nehemia’s life. But he had a feeling that whatever was going to be said in the council room wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Celaena knowing or not knowing made no difference, he told himself as he lay curled around her in his bed. Even if Celaena knew, even if she told Nehemia, it wouldn’t stop the conversation from taking place, and it wouldn’t make the nameless threat go away. No, it would just make things worse if they knew—worse for all of them.
Chaol sighed, untangling his legs from Celaena’s as he sat up and grabbed his pants from where he’d thrown them on the floor. She stirred, but didn’t move. That was a miracle in itself, he realized—that she felt safe enough to sleep soundly with him.
He paused to gently kiss her head, then picked up the rest of his clothes from around the room and dressed, even though the clock had chimed only three not long ago.
Perhaps it was a test, he thought as he slipped out the door of his chambers. Perhaps the king was testing Chaol to see where his loyalties lay—if he could still trust him. And if he learned that Celaena and Nehemia were aware of the interrogation tomorrow, then there would be only one way for them to have learned …
He just needed some fresh air, to feel the briny breeze off the Avery on his face. He’d meant it when he told Celaena about someday leaving Rifthold with her. And he’d go to his death defending her secret about the men she wasn’t killing.
Chaol reached the dark, silent gardens and strode between the hedges. He’d kill any man who hurt Celaena; and if the king ever gave him the order to dispatch her, then he’d plunge his sword into his own heart before he would obey. His soul was bound to hers by some unbreakable chain. He snorted, imagining what his father would think when he learned that Chaol had taken Adarlan’s Assassin for his wife.
The thought stopped Chaol dead in his tracks. She was only eighteen. He forgot that sometimes, forgot that he was older than her, too. And if he asked her to marry him right now … “Gods above,” he muttered, shaking his head. That day was a long way off.
But he couldn’t help imagining it—the glimmer of the future and how it would be to forge a life together, to call her his wife, to hear her call him husband, to raise a brood of children who would probably be far too clever and talented for their own good (and for Chaol’s sanity).
He was still envisioning that impossibly beautiful future when someone grabbed him from behind and pressed something cold and reeking against his nose and mouth, and the world went black.
Chapter 27
Chaol wasn’t in his bed when she awoke, and Celaena thanked the gods for their small mercies, because she was certainly too worn out to bother running. His side of the bed was cold enough that she knew he’d left hours before—probably to fulfill his duties as Captain of the Guard.
She lay there for a while, content to daydream, to imagine a time when they could have whole, uninterrupted days with each other. When her stomach started growling, she decided it was a sign that she should drag herself out of bed. She’d taken to leaving some clothes in his room, so she bathed and dressed before returning to her own chambers.
Over breakfast, a list of names arrived from Archer—written in code, as she’d asked—with more men to hunt down. She just hoped he wouldn’t squeal on her again. Nehemia didn’t show up for their daily lesson on the Wyrdmarks, though Celaena wasn’t surprised by that, either.
She didn’t particularly feel like talking to her friend—and if the princess was foolish enough to think of starting a rebellion … She’d stay well enough away from Nehemia until she came to her senses. It did halt her hope of finding a way to use the Wyrdmarks to get through that secret door in the library, but that could wait—at least until both of their tempers had cooled.
After spending the day in Rifthold stalking the men on Archer’s list, Celaena returned to the castle, eager to tell Chaol what else she’d learned. But he didn’t show up for dinner. It wasn’t that unusual for him to be busy, so she dined alone, and curled up on the couch in her bedroom with a book.
She probably needed some rest, too, since the Wyrd knew she hadn’t been getting any sleep this past week. Not that she minded.
When the clock struck ten and he still hadn’t come to her, she found herself walking to his rooms. Perhaps he was waiting for her there. Perhaps he’d just fallen asleep without meaning to.
But she hurried down the halls and stairs, her palms turning slicker with each step. Chaol was the Captain of the Guard. He held his own against her every day. He’d bested her in their first sparring match. Yet Sam had been her equal in many ways, too. And he’d still been caught and tortured by Rourke Farran—still died the most brutal death she’d ever seen. And if Chaol …
She was running now.
Like Sam, Chaol was admired by almost everyone. And when they’d taken Sam from her, it hadn’t been because of anything Sam had done.
No, they’d done it to get at her.
She reached his rooms, part of her still praying that she was just being paranoid, that he’d be sleeping in the bed, that she could curl up with him and make love to him and hold him through the night.
But then she opened the door to his bedroom and saw a sealed note addressed to her on the table beside the door—placed atop his sword, which hadn’t been there this morning. It was placed casually enough that the servants might have just assumed it was a note from Chaol himself—and that nothing was wrong. She ripped open the red seal and unfolded the paper.
WE HAVE THE CAPTAIN. WHEN YOU’RE TIRED OF STALKING US, COME FIND US HERE.
It listed the address for a warehouse in the slums of the city.
BRING NO ONE, OR THE CAPTAIN WILL DIE BEFORE YOU SET FOOT IN THE BUILDING. IF YOU FAIL TO ARRIVE BY TOMORROW MORNING, WE’LL LEAVE WHAT’S LEFT OF HIM ON THE BANKS OF THE AVERY.
She stared at the letter.
Every one of the restraints she’d locked into place after she’d rampaged through Endovier snapped free.
An icy, endless rage swept through her, wiping away everything except the plan that she could see with brutal clarity. The killing calm, Arobynn Hamel had once called it. Even he had never realized just how calm she could get when she went over the edge.
If they wanted Adarlan’s Assassin, they’d get her.
And Wyrd help them when she arrived.
Chaol didn’t know why they’d chained him up, only that he was thirsty and had a pounding headache, and that the irons holding him against the stone wall weren’t going to budge. They threatened to beat him every time he tried pulling against them. They’d already knocked him about enough to convince him they weren’t bluffing.
They. He didn’t even know who they were. They all wore long robes and hoods that concealed their masked faces. Some of them were armed to the teeth. They spoke in murmurs, all of them growing increasingly on-edge as the day passed.
From what he could tell, he had a split lip and would have some bruises on his face and ribs. They hadn’t asked questions before unleashing two of their men on him, though he hadn’t been entirely cooperative once he’d awoken and found himself here. Celaena would be impressed by just how creative his curses had been before, during, and after that initial beating.
In the passing hours, he’d moved only once to relieve himself in the corner, since when he asked to use the washroom, they just stared at him. And they’d watched him the entire time, hands on their swords. He’d tried not to snort.
They were waiting for something, he realized with a strange clarity as the day stretched into evening. The fact that they hadn’t killed him yet suggested that they wanted some sort of ransom.
Maybe it was a rebel group, seeking to blackmail the king. He’d heard of nobility being captured for that reason. And heard the king himself order the rebels to kill the petty lord or lady, because he would not
yield to traitorous filth.
Chaol didn’t allow himself to consider that possibility, even as he began saving up his strength for whatever stand he’d make before he met his end.
Some of his captors whispered in rapid arguments, but they were usually silenced by others who told them to wait. He was just pretending to doze off when another of these arguments occurred, a hissing back and forth about whether they should just free him, and then—
“She has until dawn. She’ll show up.”
She.
That word was the worst thing he’d ever heard.
Because there was only one she who would bother to show up for him. One she that he could be used against.
“You hurt her,” he said, his voice hoarse from a day without water, “and I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands.”
There were thirty of them, half fully armed, and they all turned to him.
He bared his teeth, even though his face ached. “You so much as touch her, and I’ll gut you.”
One of them—tall, with two swords crossed over his back—approached. Even though his face was obscured, Chaol recognized him by his weapons as one of the men who had beaten him earlier. He stopped just beyond where Chaol’s feet could kick.
“Good luck with that,” the man said. By his voice, he could have been anywhere from twenty to forty. “You’d better pray to whatever gods you favor that your little assassin cooperates.”
He growled, pulling against the chains. “What do you want from her?”
The warrior—he was a warrior, Chaol could tell by the way he moved—cocked his head. “None of your business, Captain. And keep your mouth shut when she arrives, or else I’ll cut out your filthy royal tongue.”
Another clue. The man hated royals. Which meant that these people …
Had Archer known how dangerous this rebel group was? When he got free, he’d kill him for letting Celaena get tangled up with them. And then he’d make sure that the king and his secret guards got their hands on all of these bastards.
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