She shook her head. “That list you sent me yesterday, of the men from the warehouse—they’re truly dead?”
“You killed them, yes.”
Guilt punched through her. “For my part, I am sorry.” And she was. She’d memorized their names, tried to recall their faces. She would carry the weight of their deaths forever. Even Grave’s death, what she’d done to him in that alley; she’d never forget that, either. “I gave their names to the king. It should keep him from looking in your direction for a little while longer—five days at most.”
Archer nodded, sinking back into the pillows.
“Nehemia really worked with you?”
“It was why she came to Rifthold—to see what could be done about organizing a force in the north. To give us information directly from the castle.” As Celaena had always suspected. “Her loss …” He closed his eyes. “We can’t replace her.”
Celaena swallowed.
“But you could,” Archer said, looking at her again. “I know you came from Terrasen. So part of you has to realize that Terrasen must be free.”
You are nothing more than a coward.
She kept her face blank.
“Be our eyes and ears in the castle,” Archer whispered. “Help us. Help us, and we can find a way to save everyone—to save you. We don’t know what the king plans to do, only that he somehow found a source of power outside magic, and that he’s probably using that power to create monstrosities of his own. But to what end, we don’t know. That’s what Nehemia was trying to discover—and it’s knowledge that could save us all.”
She would digest all that later—much later. For now, she stared at Archer, then looked down at her blood-stiffened clothing. “I found the man who killed Nehemia.”
Archer’s eyes widened. “And?”
She turned to walk out of the room. “And the debt has been paid. Minister Mullison hired him to get rid of a thorn in his side—because she put him down one too many times in council meetings. The minister is now in the dungeons, awaiting his trial.”
And she would be there for every minute of that trial, and the execution afterward.
Archer loosed a sigh as she put her hand on the doorknob.
She looked over her shoulder at him, at the fear and sadness on his face. “You took an arrow for me,” she said quietly, gazing at the bandages.
“It was the least I could do after I caused that whole mess.”
She chewed on her lip and opened the door. “We have five days until the king expects you to be dead. Prepare yourself and your allies.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” she interrupted. “Consider yourself fortunate that I’m not going to rip out your throat for the stunt you pulled. Arrow or no arrow, and regardless of my relationship with Chaol, you lied to me. And kidnapped my friend. If it hadn’t been for that—for you—I would have been at the castle that night.” She fixed him with a stare. “I’m done with you. I don’t want your information, I’m not going to give you information, and I don’t particularly care what happens to you once you leave this city, as long as I never see you again.”
She took a step into the hallway.
“Celaena?”
She looked over her shoulder.
“I am sorry. I know how much you meant to her—and she to you.”
The weight she’d been avoiding since she’d gone to hunt Grave suddenly fell on her, and her shoulders drooped. She was so tired. Now that Grave was dead, now that Minister Mullison was in the dungeon, now that she had no one left to maim and punish—she was so, so tired.
“Five days; I’ll be back in five days. If you aren’t prepared to leave Rifthold, then I won’t bother faking your death. I’ll kill you before you know I’m in the room.”
Chaol kept his face blank and his shoulders thrown back as his father surveyed him. The small breakfast room in his father’s suite was sunny and silent; pleasant, even, but Chaol remained in the doorway as he looked at his father for the first time in ten years.
The Lord of Anielle looked mostly the same, his hair a bit grayer, but his face still ruggedly handsome, far too similar to Chaol’s for his own liking.
“The breakfast is growing cold,” his father said, waving a broad hand to the table and the empty chair across from him. His first words.
Chaol clenched his jaw so hard it hurt as he walked across the bright room and slid into the chair. His father poured himself a glass of juice and said without looking at him, “At least you fill out your uniform. Thanks to your mother’s blood, your brother is all gangly limbs and awkward angles.”
Chaol bristled at the way his father spat “your mother’s blood,” but made himself pour a cup of tea, then butter a slice of bread.
“Are you just going to keep quiet, or are you going to say something?”
“What could I possibly have to say to you?”
His father gave him a thin smile. “A polite son would inquire after the state of his family.”
“I haven’t been your son for ten years. I don’t see why I should start acting like one now.”
His father’s eyes flicked to the sword at Chaol’s side, examining, judging, weighing. Chaol reined in the urge to walk out. It had been a mistake to accept his father’s invitation. He should have burned the note he received last night. But after he’d ensured that Minister Mullison was locked up, the king’s lecture about Celaena making a fool out of him and his guards had somehow worn through his better judgment.
And Celaena … He had no idea how she’d gotten out of her rooms. None. The guards had been alert and had reported no noise. The windows hadn’t been opened, and neither had her front door. And when he asked Philippa, she only said that the bedroom door had been locked all night.
Celaena was keeping secrets again. She’d lied to the king about the men she’d killed in the warehouse to rescue him. And there were other mysteries lurking around her, mysteries that he’d better start figuring out if he was to stand a chance of surviving her wrath. What his men had reported about the body that had been found in that alley …
“Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“What do you wish to know?” Chaol said flatly, not touching his food or drink.
His father leaned back in his seat—a movement that had once made Chaol start sweating. It usually meant that his father was about to focus all of his attention on him, that he would judge and consider and dole out punishment for any weakness, any missteps. But Chaol was a grown man now, and he answered only to his king.
“Are you enjoying the position you sacrificed your lineage to attain?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I have you to thank for being dragged to Rifthold. And if Eyllwe rises up, then I suppose we can all thank you as well.”
It took every ounce of will he had, but Chaol just took a bite from his bread and stared at his father.
Something like approval flickered in the man’s eyes, and he took a bite of his own bread before he said, “Do you have a woman, at least?”
The effort it took to keep his face blank was considerable. “No.”
His father smiled slowly. “You were always a horrible liar.”
Chaol looked toward the window, toward the cloudless day that was revealing the first hint of spring.
“For your sake, I hope she’s at least of noble blood.”
“For my sake?”
“You might have spat on your lineage, but you are still a Westfall—and we do not marry scullery maids.”
Chaol snorted, shaking his head. “I’ll marry whomever I please, whether she’s a scullery maid or a princess or a slave. And it’ll be none of your damn business.”
His father folded his hands in front of him. After a long silence, he said quietly, “Your mother misses you. She wants you home.”
The breath was knocked out of him. But he kept his face blank, his tone steady, as he said, “And do you, Father?”
His father stared right at him—through hi
m. “If Eyllwe rises up in retaliation, if we find ourselves facing a war, then Anielle will need a strong heir.”
“If you’ve groomed Terrin to be your heir, then I’m sure he’ll do just fine.”
“Terrin is a scholar, not a warrior. He was born that way. If Eyllwe rebels, there is a good chance that the wild men in the Fangs will rise up, too. Anielle will be the first place they sack. They’ve been dreaming of revenge for too long.”
Chaol wondered just how much this was grating on his father’s pride, and part of him truly wanted to make him suffer for it.
But he’d had enough of suffering, and enough of hatred. And he hardly had any fight left in him now that Celaena had made it clear she’d sooner eat hot coals than look at him with affection in her eyes. Now that Celeana was—gone. So he just said, “My position is here. My life is here.”
“Your people need you. They will need you. Would you be so selfish as to turn your back on them?”
“The way my father turned his back on me?”
His father smiled again, a cruel, cold thing. “You disgraced your family when you gave up your title. You disgraced me. But you have made yourself useful these years—made the Crown Prince rely upon you. And when Dorian is king, he’ll reward you for it, won’t he? He could make Anielle a duchy and bless you with lands large enough to rival Perrington’s territory around Morath.”
“What is it that you really want, Father? To protect your people, or to use my friendship with Dorian to your gain?”
“Would you throw me in the dungeons if I said both? I hear you like to do that to the people who dare provoke you these days.” And then there was that gleam in his eyes that told Chaol just how much his father already knew. “Perhaps if you do, your woman and I can exchange notes about the conditions.”
“If you want me back in Anielle, you’re not doing a very good job of convincing me.”
“Do I need to convince you? You failed to protect the princess, and that has created the possibility of war. The assassin who was warming your bed now wants nothing more than to spill your innards on the ground. What’s left for you here, except more shame?”
Chaol slammed his hands on the table, rattling the dishes. “Enough.”
He didn’t want his father knowing anything about Celaena, or about the remaining fragments of his heart. He wouldn’t let his servants change the sheets on his bed because they still smelled like her, because he went to sleep dreaming that she was still lying beside him.
“I have worked for ten years to be in this position, and it’ll take far more than a few taunts from you to get me back to Anielle. And if you think Terrin is weak, then send him to me for training. Maybe here he’ll learn how real men act.”
Chaol shoved his chair away from the table, rattling the dishes again, and stormed to the door. Five minutes. He’d lasted less than five minutes.
He paused in the doorway and looked back at his father. The man was smiling faintly at him, still taking him in, still assessing how useful he would be. “You talk to her—you so much as look in her direction,” Chaol warned, “and, father or not, I’ll make you wish you’d never set foot in this castle.”
And though he didn’t wait to hear what his father had to say, Chaol left with the sinking feeling that he’d somehow just stepped right into his father’s snare.
Chapter 37
There was no one else to carry out this task, not with Eyllwe soldiers and ambassadors still on their way to retrieve Nehemia’s body from where it lay interred in the royal plot. As Celaena opened the door to the room that had smelled of blood and pain, she saw that someone had cleaned away all traces of gore. The mattress was gone, and Celaena paused in the doorway as she surveyed the skeleton of the bed frame. Perhaps it would be best to leave Nehemia’s belongings to the people who came to bring her back to Eyllwe.
But would they be friends of hers? The thought of strangers touching Nehemia’s belongings, packing them away like any other objects, made her wild with grief and rage.
Almost as wild as she’d been earlier today, when she’d walked into her own dressing room and ripped every gown off its hanger, pulled out every pair of shoes, every tunic, every ribbon and cloak and thrown them into the hallway.
She’d burned the dresses that reminded her most of Nehemia, the dresses she’d worn at their lessons, at their meals, and on their walks around the castle. It was only when Philippa came in to scold her about the smoke that Celaena had relented, allowing her to take whatever clothing survived and donate it. But it had been too late to stop Celaena from burning the dress she’d worn the night of Chaol’s birthday. That gown had burned first.
And when her dressing room was empty, she shoved a bag of gold into Philippa’s hands and told her to go buy some new clothes. Philippa had only given her a sad look—another thing that made Celaena sick—and left.
It took Celaena an hour to gently, carefully pack up Nehemia’s clothes and jewelry, and she tried not to dwell too long on the memories that accompanied each item. Or the lotus-blossom smell that clung to everything.
When she had sealed all the trunks, she went to Nehemia’s desk, which was still littered with papers and books as if the princess had only stepped outside for a moment. As she reached for the first paper, her eyes fell upon the arc of scars around her right hand—the teeth marks of the ridderak.
The papers were covered with scribblings in Eyllwe and—and Wyrdmarks.
Countless Wyrdmarks, some in long lines, some forming symbols like the ones Nehemia had traced underneath Celaena’s bed all those months ago. How had the king’s spies not taken these? Or had he not even bothered to have her rooms searched? She started stacking them into a pile. Perhaps she could still learn some things about the marks, even if Nehemia were—
Dead, she made herself think. Nehemia is dead.
Celaena looked at the scars on her hand again and was about to turn from the desk when she spotted a familiar-looking book half tucked beneath some papers.
It was the book from Davis’s office.
This copy was older, more damaged, but it was the same book. And written on the inside cover was a sentence in Wyrdmarks—such basic marks that even Celaena could understand them.
Do not trust—
The final symbol, though, was a mystery. It looked like a wyvern—the Royal Seal. Of course she shouldn’t trust the King of Adarlan.
She flipped through the book, scanning it for any information. Nothing.
And then she turned to the back cover. And there, Nehemia had written—
It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.
It was scribbled in the common tongue, then in Eyllwe, then in some other languages that Celaena didn’t recognize. Different translations—as if Nehemia had wondered whether the riddle held any meaning in another tongue. The same book, the same riddle, the same writing in the back.
An idle lord’s nonsense, Nehemia had said.
But Nehemia … Nehemia and Archer led the group to which Davis had belonged. Nehemia had known Davis; known him and lied about it, lied about the riddle, and—
Nehemia had promised. Promised that there would be no more secrets between them.
Promised and lied. Promised and deceived her.
She fought down a scream as she tore through every other piece of paper on the desk, in the room. Nothing.
What else had Nehemia lied about?
It is only with the eye …
Celaena touched her necklace. Nehemia had known about the tomb. If she had been feeding information to this group, and had encouraged Celaena to look into the eye carved into the wall … then Nehemia had been looking, too. But after the duel, she’d returned the Eye of Elena to Celaena; if Nehemia had needed it, she would have kept it. And Archer hadn’t mentioned knowing anything about this.
Unless this wasn’t the eye the riddle referenced.
Because …
“By the Wyrd,” Celaena breathed, and rushed out of the room.
Carrying a satchel full of papers and books that she’d grabbed from her rooms, Celaena merely patted his head as she walked by. His bronze teeth clanked against each other as he sought to bite her.
The tomb was filled with moonlight bright enough to see by. And there, directly across the tomb from the eye in the wall, was another eye, golden and gleaming.
Damaris. It was Damaris, the Sword of Truth. Gavin could see nothing but what was right—
It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.
“Am I so blind?” Celaena dumped her leather satchel on the floor, the books and papers spilling across the stones.
“It appears so!” Mort sang. The eye-shaped pommel was the exact size …
Celaena lifted the sword from its stand and unsheathed it. The Wyrdmarks on the blade seemed to ripple. She rushed back to the wall.
“In case you didn’t realize,” called Mort, “you’re supposed to hold the eye against the hole in the wall and look through it.”
“I know that,” snapped Celaena.
And so, not daring to breathe the entire time, Celaena lifted the pommel to the hole until both eyes were evenly aligned. She stood on her toes and peered in—and groaned.
It was a poem.
A lengthy poem.
Celaena fished out the parchment and charcoal she’d stashed in her pocket and copied down the words, darting to and from the wall as she read, memorized, double-checked, and then recorded. It was only when she had finished the last stanza that she read it aloud.
By the Valg, three were made,
Of the Gate-Stone of the Wyrd:
Obsidian the gods forbade
And stone they greatly feared.
In grief, he hid one in the crown
Of her he loved so well,
To keep with her where she lay down
Inside the starry cell.
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