Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass)

by Maas, Sarah J.

  “And then,” Ress was saying, his boyish face set with fiendish delight, “just as he got into her bed, stark naked as the day he was born, her father walked in”—winces and groans came from the guards, even Chaol himself—“and he dragged him out of bed by his feet, took him down the hall, and dumped him down the stairs. He was shrieking like a pig the whole time.”

  Chaol leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “You would be, too, if someone were dragging your naked carcass across the ice-cold floor.” He smirked as Ress tried to deny it. Chaol seemed so comfortable with the men, his body relaxed, eyes alight. And they respected him, too—always glancing at him for approval, for confirmation, for support. As Celaena’s chuckle faded, Chaol looked at her, his brows high. “You’re one to laugh. You moan about the cold floors more than anyone I know.”

  She straightened as the guards gave hesitant smiles. “If I recall correctly, you complain about them every time I wipe the floor with you when we spar.”

  “Oho!” Ress cried, and Chaol’s brows rose higher. Celaena gave him a grin.

  “Dangerous words,” Chaol said. “Do we need to go to the training hall to see if you can back them up?”

  “Well, as long as your men don’t object to seeing you knocked on your ass.”

  “We certainly do not object to that,” Ress crowed. Chaol shot him a look, more amused than warning. Ress quickly added, “Captain.”

  Chaol opened his mouth to reply, but then a tall, slim woman walked onto the small stage erected along one side of the room.

  Celaena craned her neck as Rena Goldsmith floated across the wooden platform to where a massive harp and a man with a violin waited. She’d seen Rena perform only once before—years ago, at the Royal Theater, on a cold winter night like this. For two hours, the theater was so still that it seemed as if everyone had stopped breathing. Rena’s voice had floated through Celaena’s head for days afterward.

  From their table, Celaena could hardly see Rena—just enough to tell that she wore a long green dress (no petticoats, no corset, no ornamentation save for the woven leather belt circling her narrow hips), and that her red-gold hair was unbound. Silence rippled through the hall, and Rena curtsied to the dais. When she took her seat before the green-and-gold harp, the spectators were waiting. But how long would the court’s interest hold?

  Rena nodded to the reedy violinist, and her long, white fingers began plucking out a melody on the harp. After a few notes the rhythm established itself, followed by the slow, sad sweep of the violin. They wove together, blending, lifting up, up, up, until Rena opened her mouth.

  And when she sang, the whole world faded.

  Her voice was soft, ethereal, the sound of a lullaby half-remembered. The songs she sang, one by one, held Celaena in place. Songs of distant lands, of forgotten legends, of lovers forever waiting to be reunited.

  Not a single soul stirred in the hall. Even the servants remained along the walls and in doorways and alcoves. Rena paused between songs only long enough to allow a heartbeat of applause before the harp and the violin began anew, and she hypnotized them all once more.

  And then Rena looked toward the dais. “This song,” she said softly, “is in honor of the esteemed royal family who invited me here tonight.”

  This song was an ancient legend—an old poem, actually. One Celaena hadn’t heard since childhood, and never set to music.

  She heard it now as if for the first time: the story of a Fae woman blessed with a horrible, profound power that was sought by kings and lords in every kingdom. While they used her to win wars and conquer nations, they all feared her—and kept their distance.

  It was a bold song to sing; dedicating it to the king’s family was even bolder. But the royals made no outcry. Even the king just stared blankly at Rena as though she weren’t singing about the very power he’d outlawed ten years ago. Perhaps her voice could conquer even a tyrant’s heart. Perhaps there was an unstoppable magic inherent in music and art.

  Rena went on, spinning the ageless story of the years that the Fae woman served those kings and lords, and the loneliness that consumed her bit by bit. And then, one day, a knight came, seeking her power on behalf of his king. As they traveled to his kingdom, his fear turned to love—and he saw her not for the power she wielded, but for the woman beneath. Of all the kings and emperors who had come courting her with promises of wealth beyond imagining, it was the knight’s gift, of seeing her for who she was—not what she was—that won her heart.

  Celaena didn’t know when she began crying. Somehow she skipped a breath, and it set her lips wobbling. She shouldn’t cry, not here, not with these people around her. But then a warm, calloused hand grasped hers beneath the table, and she turned her head to find Chaol looking at her. He smiled slightly—and she knew he understood.

  So Celaena looked at her Captain of the Guard and smiled back.

  Hollin was squirming beside him, hissing and grousing about how bored he was and what a stupid performance this was, but Dorian’s attention was on the long table in the back of the hall.

  Rena Goldsmith’s unearthly music wove through the cavernous space, wrapping them in a spell that he would have called magic had he not known better. But Celaena and Chaol just sat there, staring at each other.

  And not just staring, but something more than that. Dorian stopped hearing the music.

  She had never looked at him like that. Not once. Not even for a heartbeat.

  Rena was finishing her song, and Dorian tore his eyes away from them. He didn’t think anything had happened between them, not yet. Chaol was stubborn and loyal enough to never make his move—or to even realize that he looked at Celaena the same way she looked at him.

  Hollin’s complaining grew louder, and Dorian took a long, long breath.

  He would move on. Because he would not be like the ancient kings in the song and keep her for himself. She deserved a loyal, brave knight who saw her for what she was and did not fear her. And he deserved someone who would look at him like that, even if the love wouldn’t be the same, even if the girl wouldn’t be her.

  So Dorian closed his eyes, and took another long breath. And when he opened his eyes, he let her go.

  Hours later, the King of Adarlan stood at the back of the dungeon chamber as his secret guards dragged Rena Goldsmith forward. The butcher’s block at the center of the room was already soaked with blood. Her companion’s headless corpse lay a few feet away, his blood trickling toward the drain in the floor.

  Perrington and Roland stood silent beside the king, watching, waiting.

  The guards shoved the singer to her knees before the stained stone. One of them grabbed a fistful of her red-gold hair and yanked, forcing her to look at the king as he stepped forward.

  “It is punishable by death to speak of or to encourage magic. It is an affront to the gods, and an affront to me that you sang such a song in my hall.”

  Rena Goldsmith just stared at him, her eyes bright. She hadn’t struggled when his men grabbed her after the performance or even screamed when they’d beheaded her companion. As if she’d been expecting this.

  “Any last words?”

  A queer, calm rage settled over her lined face, and she lifted her chin. “I have worked for ten years to become famous enough to gain an invitation to this castle. Ten years, so I could come here to sing the songs of magic that you tried to wipe out. So I could sing those songs, and you would know that we are still here—that you may outlaw magic, that you may slaughter thousands, but we who keep the old ways still remember.”

  Behind him, Roland snorted.

  “Enough,” the king said, and snapped his fingers.

  The guards shoved her head down on the block.

  “My daughter was sixteen,” she went on. Tears ran over the bridge of her nose and onto the block, but her voice remained strong and loud. “Sixteen, when you burned her. Her name was Kaleen, and she had eyes like thunderclouds. I still hear her voice in my dreams.”

  The k
ing jerked his chin to the executioner, who stepped forward.

  “My sister was thirty-six. Her name was Liessa, and she had two boys who were her joy.”

  The executioner raised his ax.

  “My neighbor and his wife were seventy. Their names were Jon and Estrel. They were killed because they dared try to protect my daughter when your men came for her.”

  Rena Goldsmith was still reciting her list of the dead when the ax fell.

  Chapter 16

  Celaena dipped her spoon into her porridge, tasted it, then dumped in a mountain of sugar. “I much prefer eating breakfast together than going out in the freezing cold.” Fleetfoot, her head on Celaena’s lap, huffed loudly. “I think she does, too,” she added with a grin.

  Nehemia laughed softly before taking a bite of her bread. “It seems like this is the only time of day either of us get to see you,” she said in Eyllwe.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy hunting down the conspirators on the king’s list?” A pointed glance in her direction; another bite of toast.

  “What do you want me to say?” Celaena stirred the sugar into her porridge, focusing on that instead of the look on her friend’s face.

  “I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you think your freedom is worth this price.”

  “Is this why you’ve been so on edge lately?”

  Nehemia set down her toast. “How can I tell my parents about you? What excuses can I make that will convince them that my friendship with the King’s Champion”—she used the common-tongue language for the two words, spitting them out like poison—“is in any way an honorable thing? How can I convince them that your soul isn’t rotted?”

  “I didn’t realize that I needed parental approval.”

  “You are in a position of power—and knowledge—and yet you just obey. You obey and you do not question, and you work only toward one goal: your freedom.”

  Celaena shook her head and looked away.”

  “You turn from me because you know it’s true.

  “And what is so wrong with wanting my freedom? Haven’t I suffered enough to deserve it? So what if the means are unpleasant?”

  “I won’t deny that you have suffered, Elentiya, but there are thousands more who have also suffered—and suffered more. And they do not sell themselves to the king to get what they, too, deserve. With each person you kill, I am finding fewer and fewer excuses for remaining your friend.”

  Celaena flung her spoon down on the table and stalked to the fireplace. She wanted to rip down the tapestries and the paintings and smash all the silly little baubles and ornaments she’d bought to decorate her room. Mostly she just wanted to make Nehemia stop looking at her like that—like she was just as bad as the monster who sat on that glass throne. She took a breath, then another, listening for signs of anyone else in her chambers, then turned.

  “I haven’t killed anyone,” she said softly.

  Nehemia went still. “What?”

  “I haven’t killed anyone.” She remained where she was standing, needing the distance between them to get the words out right. “I faked all of their deaths and helped them flee.”

  Nehemia ran her hands over her face, smearing the powdered gold she’d dusted on her eyelids. After a moment, she lowered her fingers. Her dark, lovely eyes were wide. “You haven’t killed a single person he’s ordered you to kill?”

  “Not a single one.”

  “What about Archer Finn?”

  “I offered Archer a bargain: I give him until the end of the month to get his affairs in order before he fakes his death and flees, and he gives me information about the actual enemies of the king.” She could tell Nehemia the rest of it later—the king’s plans, the library catacombs—but mentioning those things now would only bring up too many questions.

  Nehemia took a sip of her tea, the liquid inside the cup sloshing as her hands shook. “He’ll kill you if he finds out.”

  Celaena looked to the balcony doors, where a beautiful day was dawning in the wide-open world beyond. “I know.”

  “And this information that Archer is giving you—what will you do with it? What sort of information is it?”

  Celaena briefly explained what he’d told her about the people involved in putting Terrasen’s lost heir back on the throne, even telling her what had happened with Davis. Nehemia’s face paled. When Celaena finished, Nehemia took another trembling sip of tea. “And you trust Archer?”

  “I think he values his life more than he values anything else.”

  “He’s a courtesan; how can you be sure you can trust him?”

  Celaena slipped back into her chair, Fleetfoot curling between her feet. “Well, you trust me, and I’m an assassin.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  Celaena looked to the tapestry along the wall to her left, and the chest of drawers in front of it. “While I’m telling you all the things that could get me executed, there’s something else that I should bring up.”

  Nehemia followed her line of sight to the tapestry. After a moment, she let out a gasp. “Is that—that’s Elena in the tapestry, isn’t it?”

  Celaena smiled crookedly and crossed her arms. “That’s not even the worst of it.”

  As they walked down to the tomb, Celaena told Nehemia about everything that had occurred between her and Elena since Samhuinn—and all the adventures that had befallen her. She showed her the room where Cain had summoned the ridderak, and as they approached the tomb, Celaena winced as she remembered one miserable new detail.

  “Brought a friend?”

  Nehemia yelped. Celaena greeted the bronze, skull-shaped door knocker. “Hello, Mort.”

  Nehemia squinted at the skull. “How is this—” She looked over her shoulder at Celaena. “How is this possible?”

  “Ancient spells and nonsense,” Celaena said, cutting off Mort as he began recite the story of how King Brannon created him. “Someone used a spell with the Wyrdmarks.”

  “Someone!” Mort sputtered. “That someone is—”

  “Shut it,” Celaena said, and flung open the tomb door, letting Nehemia inside. “Save it for someone who cares.”

  Mort huffed what sounded like a violent stream of curses, and Nehemia’s eyes twinkled as they entered the tomb. “It’s incredible,” the princess whispered, gazing at the walls where the Wyrdmarks had been written.

  “What does it say?”

  “‘Death, Eternity, Rulers,’” Nehemia recited. “Standard tomb posturing.” She continued moving through the room. As Nehemia strode about, Celaena leaned against a wall and slumped to the ground. Sighing, she rubbed her heel against one of the raised stars on the floor, examining the curve that they made across the room.

  Do they make a constellation?

  Celaena rose to her feet and stared down. Nine of the stars made up a familiar pattern—the Dragonfly. Her brows rose. She’d never realized it before. A few feet away another constellation lay on the floor—the Wyvern. It sat at the head of Gavin’s sarcophagus.

  A symbol of Adarlan’s house, as well as the second constellation in the sky.

  Celaena followed the line that the shapes made, weaving through the tomb. The night sky passed beneath her feet, and by the time she reached the final constellation, she would have collided with the wall had Nehemia not grabbed her by the arm.

  “What is it?”

  Celaena was staring down at the last constellation—the Stag, Lord of the North. The symbol of Terrasen, Elena’s home country. The constellation faced the wall, and its head seemed to be pointed upward, as though it were looking at something …

  Celaena followed the stag’s stare, up through the dozens of Wyrdmarks that covered the wall, until—

  “By the Wyrd. Look at this,” she said, pointing.

  An eye, no larger than her palm, was etched into the wall. A hole was bored in its center, a perfectly crafted puncture that had been carefully concealed within the eye. The Wyrdmark itself made a face, and wh
ile the other eye was filled in and smooth, this one held a hollowed-out iris.

  It is only with the eye that one can see rightly. There was no way she was that lucky—it was surely no more than coincidence. Calming her growing excitement, she lifted onto her toes to see into the eye.

  How had she not noticed this before? She took a step back, and the Wyrdmark faded into the wall. She stepped back onto the constellation, and it appeared again.

  “You can only see the face when you stand on the stag,” Nehemia whispered.

  Celaena ran her hands over the face, feeling for any cracks or slight breezes that might suggest a door into another room. Nothing. With a deep breath, she rose onto her toes and faced the eye, her dagger held aloft in case anything leapt out at her. Nehemia chuckled softly. And Celaena conceded a smile as she put her eye against the stone and peered into the gloom.

  There was nothing. Just a distant wall, illuminated by a small shaft of moonlight.

  “It’s just—just a blank wall. Does that make any sort of sense?” She’d been jumping to conclusions—trying to see things and make connections that weren’t there. Celaena stepped away so Nehemia could see for herself. “Mort!” she hollered while the princess looked. “What the hell is that wall? Does it make any sense to you why it would be here?”

  “No,” Mort said dully.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Lie to you? To you? Oh, I couldn’t lie to you. You asked me whether it makes sense, and I said no. You must learn to ask the right questions before you can receive the right answers.”

  Celaena growled. “What sort of question might I ask to receive the right answer?”