Throne of Glass

by Sarah J. Maas

  “Yes, you are,” Dorian replied, approaching her again. But she kept her distance as she looked out the window, to the dazzling day beyond. The world was wide open—and hers for the taking. She could step over that white line.

  She shifted her gaze to him. “I can’t be with you if I’m the King’s Champion.”

  “Of course you can. We’ll still have to keep it a secret, but—”

  “I have enough secrets. I don’t need another one.”

  “So I’ll find a way to tell my father. And mother.” He winced slightly.

  “To what end? Dorian, I’m your father’s minion. You’re the Crown Prince.”

  It was true—and if this relationship became something more, then it would only complicate matters when she eventually left the castle. Not to mention the complications of being with Dorian while she served as his father’s Champion. And whether he admitted it or not, Dorian had his own obligations to fulfill. Though she wanted him, though she cared for him, she knew a lasting relationship wouldn’t end well. Not when he was the heir to the throne.

  His eyes darkened. “Are you saying that you don’t want to be with me?”

  “I’m saying that . . . that I’m going to leave in four years, and I don’t know how this could possibly end well for either of us. I’m saying I don’t want to think about the options.” The sunlight warmed her skin, and the weight around her shoulders drifted away. “I’m saying that in four years, I’m going to be free, and I’ve never been free in my entire life.” Her smile grew. “And I want to know what that feels like.”

  He opened his mouth, but stopped as he beheld her smile. Though she had no regrets about her choice, she felt something strangely like disappointment when he said, “As you wish.”

  “But I’d like to remain your friend.”

  He put his hands in his pockets. “Always.”

  She thought about touching his arm, or about kissing his cheek, but “free” kept echoing through her again and again and again, and she couldn’t stop smiling.

  He rolled his neck, and his smile was a bit strained. “I think Nehemia is on her way here to tell you about the contract. She’ll be mad at me for telling you first; apologize for me, will you?” He paused when he opened the door, his hand still upon the knob. “Congratulations, Celaena,” he said quietly. Before she could reply, he shut the door and left.

  Alone, Celaena looked to the window and put a hand on her heart, whispering the word to herself again and again.

  Free.

  Chapter 54

  Several hours later, Chaol stared at the door to her dining room. He didn’t entirely know what he was doing back here. But he’d looked for Dorian in his rooms, and he hadn’t been there, and he needed to tell him that things weren’t as they’d seemed when he walked in on them earlier. He glanced at his hands.

  The king had barely said anything to him over the past week, and Cain’s name hadn’t been mentioned in any of their meetings. Not that it would be, as Cain was little more than a pawn in a game to amuse the king, and certainly not a member of the royal guard.

  But he was still dead. Cain’s eyes would open no more because of him . . . He would not draw breath because of him . . . His heart had stopped beating because of him . . .

  Chaol’s hand drifted to where his sword should have been. He’d thrown it in the corner of his room as soon as he’d returned from the duel last week. Mercifully, someone had cleaned the blood from it. Perhaps the guards who had taken Chaol to his chambers and given him a strong drink. They’d sat in silence until some semblance of reality returned, and then left without a word, not waiting for Chaol to thank them.

  Chaol ran a hand through his short hair and opened the dining room door.

  Celaena was picking at her dinner, slouched in her seat. Her brows rose. “Two visits in one day?” she said, setting down her fork. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  He frowned. “Where’s Dorian?”

  “Why would Dorian be here?”

  “I thought he usually came here at this hour.”

  “Well, don’t expect to find him here after today.”

  He approached, stopping at the edge of the table. “Why?”

  She popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “Because I ended it.”

  “You did what?”

  “I’m the King’s Champion. Surely you realize how inappropriate it would be for me to have a relationship with a prince.” Her blue eyes glittered, and he wondered at the slight emphasis she put on prince, and why it made his heart skip a beat.

  Chaol fought his own smile. “I was wondering when you’d come to your senses.” Did she fret as he did? Did she constantly think about her blood-covered hands? But for all of her swaggering, for all of her gloating and parading about with hands on her hips . . .

  There was still something soft in her face. It gave him hope—hope that he had not lost his soul in the act of killing, hope that humanity could still be found, and honor could be regained . . . She had come out of Endovier and could still laugh.

  She twirled her hair around a finger. She was still wearing that absurdly short nightgown, which slid up her thighs as she propped her feet on the edge of the table. He focused on her face.

  “Would you like to join me?” she asked, gesturing with one hand to the table. “It’s a shame for me to celebrate alone.”

  He looked at her, at that half grin on her face. Whatever had happened with Cain, whatever had happened at the duel . . . that would haunt him. But right now . . .

  He pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down. She filled a goblet with wine and handed it to him. “To four years until freedom,” she said, lifting her glass.

  He raised his in salute. “To you, Celaena.”

  Their eyes met, and Chaol didn’t hide his smile as she grinned at him. Perhaps four years with her might not be enough.

  •

  Celaena stood in the tomb, and knew she was dreaming. She often visited the tomb in her dreams—to slay the ridderak again, to be trapped inside Elena’s sarcophagus, to face a featureless young woman with golden hair and a crown far too heavy for her to bear—but tonight . . . tonight, it was just her and Elena, and the tomb was filled with moonlight, not a sign to be seen of the ridderak’s corpse.

  “How are you recovering?” the queen asked, leaning against the side of her own sarcophagus.

  Celaena stayed in the doorway. The queen’s armor was gone, replaced by her usual flowing gown. None of the fierceness twisted her features, either. “Fine,” Celaena said, but glanced down at herself. In this dream world, her injuries were gone. “I didn’t know you were a warrior,” she said, jerking her chin toward the stand where Damaris stood.

  “There are many things history has forgotten about me.” Elena’s blue eyes glowed with sorrow and anger. “I fought on the battlefields during the demon wars against Erawan—at Gavin’s side. That’s how we fell in love. But your legends portray me as a damsel who waited in a tower with a magic necklace that would help the heroic prince.”

  Celaena touched the amulet. “I’m sorry.”

  “You could be different,” Elena said quietly. “You could be great. Greater than me—than any of us.”

  Celaena opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  Elena took a step toward her. “You could rattle the stars,” she whispered. “You could do anything, if you only dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most.”

  She walked to Celaena, and it was all the assassin could do to keep from backing out of the tomb and running away. The queen’s blazing, glacier-blue eyes were as ethereal as her lovely face. “You found and defeated the evil Cain was bringing into the world. And now you’re the King’s Champion. You did as I asked.”

  “I did it for my freedom,” Celaena said. Elena gave her a knowing smile that made her want to scream, but Celaena kept her face blank.

  “So you say. But when you called for help—when the amulet snapped, and you let
your need be felt—you knew someone would answer. You knew I would answer.”

  “Why?” Celaena dared ask. “Why answer? Why do I need to be the King’s Champion?”

  Elena lifted her face toward the moonlight streaming into the tomb. “Because there are people who need you to save them as much as you yourself need to be saved,” she said. “Deny it all you want, but there are people—your friends—who need you here. Your friend, Nehemia, needs you here. Because I was sleeping—a long, endless sleep—and I was awoken by a voice. And the voice didn’t belong to one person, but to many. Some whispering, some screaming, some not even aware that they were crying out. But they all want the same thing.” She touched the center of Celaena’s forehead. Heat flared, and a blue light flashed across Elena’s face as Celaena’s mark burned and then faded. “And when you are ready—when you start to hear them crying out as well—then you will know why I came to you, and why I have stood by you, and will continue to watch over you, no matter how many times you shove me away.”

  Celaena’s eyes stung, and she took a step back toward the hall.

  Elena smiled sadly. “Until that day comes, you’re exactly where you need to be. From the king’s side, you’ll be able to see what needs to be done. But for now—enjoy the accomplishment.”

  Celaena felt ill at the thought of what else might be asked of her, but she nodded. “Fine,” she breathed, making to leave, but paused in the hall. She looked over her shoulder, to where the queen still stood, watching her with those sad eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  Elena bowed her head. “Blood ties can’t be broken,” she whispered, and then vanished, her words echoing in the silent tomb.

  Chapter 55

  The following day, Celaena approached the glass throne, casting a wary glance about the council chamber. It was the same one in which she’d seen the king those many months ago. A greenish fire burned in the mouthlike fireplace, and thirteen men sat at a long table, each staring at her. But there were no other Champions left—only her. The victor. Dorian stood beside his father and smiled at her.

  Hopefully that’s a good sign.

  Despite the hope his grin provided, she couldn’t ignore the terror that welled in her heart as the king, with dark eyes, watched her walk forward. The gold skirts of her dress were the only sound in the chamber. Celaena kept her hands pressed against the maroon bodice, trying not to wring them.

  She stopped, and bowed. Chaol, standing beside her, did the same. The captain stood closer to her than he needed to.

  “You have come to sign your contract,” the king said, and his voice made her bones splinter.

  How can such a beastly man possess this sort of power over the world?

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said as submissively as possible, staring at the man’s boots.

  “Be my Champion, and you’ll find yourself a free woman. Four years of service was the bargain you set with my son, though I cannot imagine why he felt the need to bargain with you,” he said with a deadly glare in Dorian’s direction. Dorian bit his lip, but said nothing.

  Her heart dropped and rose inside of her like a buoy. She would do whatever the king asked—every foul mission he could throw at her, and then when the four years were over, she’d be free to live her own life, without fear of pursuit or enslavement. She could begin again—far away from Adarlan. She could go away and forget this awful kingdom.

  She didn’t know whether to smile, or to laugh, or to nod, or to cry and dance about. She could live off of her fortune until old age. She wouldn’t have to kill. She could say good-bye to Arobynn and leave Adarlan forever.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me?” the king barked.

  She dropped into a low bow, barely able to contain her joy. She had defeated him—she had sinned against his empire and now would emerge victorious. “Thank you for such an honor and gift, Your Majesty. I am your humble servant.”

  The king snorted. “Lying won’t help you. Bring the contract forward.” A councilman dutifully placed a piece of parchment on the table before her.

  She stared at the quill and the blank line where her name was to go.

  The king’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t bite. Just one sign of rebellion, one movement of aggression, and he’d hang her. “There will be no questioning on your part. When I tell you to do something, you will do it. I don’t need to explain myself to you. And if you somehow are caught, you will deny any connection to me to your last breath. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Your Majesty.”

  He strode from the dais. Dorian started to move, but Chaol shook his head.

  Celaena looked at the floor as the king stopped before her. “Now understand this, assassin,” the king said. She felt small and frail, so close to him. “Should you fail any of my tasks, should you forget to return, you will pay dearly.” The king’s voice became so soft that even she could barely hear it. “If you don’t return from the missions on which I send you, I’ll have your friend, the captain”—he paused for emphasis—“killed.”

  Her eyes were wide as she stared at his empty throne.

  “If you fail to return after that, I’ll have Nehemia killed. Then, I’ll have her brothers executed. Not long after that, I’ll bury their mother beside them. Don’t believe I’m not as cunning and stealthy as you are.” She could feel him smile. “You get the picture, don’t you?” He pulled away. “Sign it.”

  She looked at the blank space, and what it offered. She took a silent, long breath, and with a prayer for her soul, she signed. Each letter was harder to form than the last. Finally, she let the quill drop onto the table.

  “Good. Now get out,” the king said, pointing at the door. “I’ll summon you when you’re needed.”

  The king sat on his throne again. Celaena bowed carefully, not taking her stare from his face. Only for an instant did she glance at Dorian, whose sapphire eyes gleamed with what she could have sworn was sadness before he smiled at her. She felt Chaol’s hand graze her arm.

  Chaol would die. She couldn’t send him to his death. Or the Ytger family. With feet both heavy and light, she left the chamber.

  Outside, the wind bellowed and raged against the glass spire, but it could do nothing to shatter the walls.

  •

  With each step away from the chamber, the weight on her shoulders lifted. Chaol remained silent until they entered the stone castle, when he turned to her.

  “Well, Champion,” he said. He still wasn’t wearing his sword.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Are you happy now?”

  She didn’t fight her own grin. “I may have just signed away my soul, but . . . yes. Or as happy as I can be.”

  “Celaena Sardothien, the King’s Champion,” he mused.

  “What about it?”

  “I like the sound of it,” he said, shrugging. “Do you want to know what your first mission will be?”

  She looked at his golden-brown eyes and all of the promises that lay within them, and linked her arm with his as she smiled. “Tell me tomorrow.”

  Acknowledgements

  It’s taken a decade for Throne of Glass to go from inception to publication, and I have far more people to thank than I could ever fit within this space.

  Endless gratitude to my agent and very own Champion, Tamar Rydzinski, who understood Celaena from page one. Thank you for the phone call that changed my life.

  To my brilliant and daring editor, Margaret Miller—how can I ever thank you enough for believing in me and Throne of Glass? I’m so proud to be working with you. To Michelle Nagler and the rest of the absolutely fantastic team at Bloomsbury—thank you so, so much for all of your hard work and support!

  I owe a huge debt to Mandy Hubbard for giving me that initial shove out the door. Mandy, you are—and will always be—my Yoda.

  To my wonderful husband, Josh—you give me a reason to wake up every morning. You are my better half in every possible way.

>   Thank you to my parents, Brian and Carol, for reading me fairy tales and never telling me that I was too old for them; to my little brother, Aaron—you are the kind of person I wish I could be.

  To Stanlee Brimberg and Janelle Schwartz—you have no idea how far your encouragement went (though maybe this book offers some proof). I wish there were more teachers like you.

  To Susan Dennard, for the incredible revision suggestions and for being a true friend through thick and thin. You came into my life when I needed you most, and my world is now brighter because you’re in it.

  Thanks to Alex Bracken, an amazing critique partner, a phenomenal writer, and an even better friend—words can’t express how grateful I am to call you that. Or how grateful I am for all of the candy you sent me during revisions!

  To Kat Zhang, for always making time to critique my work and for being a stellar friend. To Brigid Kemmerer, for all the e-mails that kept me sane. To Biljana Likic—because talking with you about the characters and plot made it real. To Leigh Bardugo, my bunker buddy extraordinaire—I couldn’t have gotten through this process without you.

  To Erin Bowman, Amie Kaufman, Vanessa Di Gregorio, Meg Spooner, Courtney Allison Moulton, Aimée Carter, and the ladies at Pub(lishing) Crawl—you’re such talented writers and wonderful people, thank you for being a part of my life.

  To Meredith Anderson, Rae Buchanan, Renee Carter, Anna Deles, Gordana Likic, Sarah Liu, Juliann Ma, Chantal Mason, Arianna Sterling, Samantha Walker, Diyana Wan, and Jane Zhao: I’ve never met any of you face-to-face, but the years of your unfailing enthusiasm have meant so much to me. Kelly De Groot, thanks for the incredible map of Erilea!

  Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, thank you to all my readers from FictionPress.com. Your letters, fan art, and encouragement gave me the confidence to try to get published. I’m honored to have you as fans—but even more honored to have you as my friends. It’s been a long journey, but we made it! Here’s looking at you!