Kaltain looked toward the stone ceiling. “He’s visiting?”
“He’s been appointed to the king’s council.”
Kaltain’s night-dark eyes met Celaena’s. There was a hint of madness there—but also wariness and exhaustion. “Why ask me about him?”
“Because I want to know if he can be trusted.”
Kaltain wheezed a laugh. “None of us can be trusted. Especially not Roland. The things I’ve heard about him are enough to turn even your stomach, I bet.”
“Like what?”
Kaltain smirked. “Get me out of this cell and I might tell you.”
Celaena returned the smirk. “How about I walk inside that cell and find another way to get you to talk?”
“Don’t,” she whispered, shifting enough so that Celaena could see the bruises circling her wrists. They looked unnervingly like handprints.
Kaltain tucked her arms into the folds of her skirts. “The night watch looks the other way when Perrington visits.”
Celaena bit the inside of her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. And she would mention it to Chaol when she saw him next; make sure he had a word with the night watch.
Kaltain rested her cheek on her knee. “He’s ruined everything. And I don’t even know why. Why not just send me home instead?” Her voice had taken on a faraway quality that Celaena recognized too well from her time in Endovier. Once the memories and the pain and the fear took over, there would be no chance of talking to her.
She asked quietly, “You were close to Perrington. Did you ever overhear anything about his plans?” A dangerous question, but if anyone might tell her, it would be Kaltain.
But the girl was staring at nothing and didn’t reply.
Celaena stood. “Good luck.”
Kaltain just shivered, tucking her hands under her arms.
She should let Kaltain freeze to death for what she’d tried to do to her. She should walk out of the dungeons smiling, because for once the right person was locked away.
“They encourage the crows to fly past here,” Kaltain murmured, more to herself than to Celaena. “And my headaches are worse every day. Worse and worse, and full of all of those flapping wings.”
Celaena kept her face blank. She couldn’t hear anything—no caws, and certainly no flapping wings. Even if there were crows, the dungeon was so far underground that there was no way of hearing them here. “What do you mean?”
But Kaltain had already curled in on herself again, conserving as much warmth as she could. Celaena didn’t want to think about how frigid the cell must be at night; she knew what it felt like to curl up like that, desperate for any kernel of warmth, wondering whether you’d wake up in the morning, or if the cold would claim you before then.
Not giving herself the time to reconsider, Celaena unfastened her black cloak. She threw it through the bars, aiming carefully to avoid the long-dried vomit that was caked onto the stones. She’d also heard about the girl’s opium addiction—being locked away without a fix had to have driven her close to insanity, if she wasn’t mad to begin with.
Kaltain stared at the cloak that landed in her lap, and Celaena pivoted to return down the narrow, icy corridor and up to the warmer levels above.
“Sometimes,” Kaltain said softly, and Celaena paused. “Sometimes I think they brought me here. Not to marry Perrington, but for another purpose. They want to use me.”
“Use you for what?”
“They never say. When they come down here, they never tell me what they want. I don’t even remember. It’s all just … fragments. Shards of a broken mirror, each gleaming with its own individual image.”
She was mad. Celaena clamped down the urge to make a cutting remark, the memory of Kaltain’s bruises staying her tongue. “Thank you for your help.”
Kaltain wrapped Celaena’s cloak around herself. “Something is coming,” she whispered. “And I am to greet it.”
Celaena loosed the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. This conversation was pointless. “Good-bye, Kaltain.”
The girl only laughed softly, and the sound followed Celaena long after she’d left the freezing dungeons behind.
“Those bastards,” Nehemia spat, clenching her teacup so hard Celaena thought the princess would shatter it. They sat together in her bed, a large breakfast tray spread between them. Fleetfoot watched their every bite, ready to devour any stray crumbs. “How could the guards just turn their backs like that? How can they keep her in such conditions? Kaltain is a member of the court—and if they treat her like that, then I can’t begin to imagine how they treat criminals from the other classes.” Nehemia paused, glancing apologetically at Celaena.
Celaena shrugged and shook her head. After seeing Kaltain, she’d gone out to stalk Archer, but a snowstorm had struck, so fierce that visibility was nearly impossible. After an hour of trying to track him through the snow-swept city, she’d given up and come back to the castle.
The storm had continued all night, leaving a blanket of snow too deep for Celaena to take her usual morning run with Chaol. So she’d invited Nehemia to join her for breakfast in bed, and the princess—who was now thoroughly sick of snow—was more than happy to dash to Celaena’s rooms and hop under the warm covers.
Nehemia set down her tea. “You have to tell Captain Westfall about how she’s being treated.”
Celaena finished her scone and leaned back in her fluffed-up pillows. “I already did. He dealt with it.” No need to mention that after Chaol had returned to his bedroom, where Celaena had been reading, his tunic was rumpled, his knuckles were raw, and there was a deadly sort of gleam in his chestnut eyes that told Celaena the dungeon guard was going to have some serious changes—and new members.
“You know,” Nehemia mused, using her foot to gently shove Fleetfoot away as the dog tried to snatch some food off their tray, “the courts weren’t always like this. There was a time when people valued honor and loyalty—when serving a ruler wasn’t about obedience and fear.” She shook her head, her gold-tipped braids tinkling. In the early morning sun, her hazelnut skin was smooth and lovely. Honestly, it was a tad unfair that Nehemia naturally looked so beautiful—especially at the crack of dawn.
Nehemia went on. “I think such honor faded from Adarlan generations ago, but before Terrasen fell, its royal court was the one that set the example. My father used to tell me stories of Terrasen’s court—of the warriors and lords who served King Orlon in his inner circle, of the unrivaled power and bravery and loyalty of his court. That was why the King of Adarlan targeted Terrasen first. Because it was the strongest, and because if Terrasen had been given the chance to raise an army against him, Adarlan would have been annihilated. My father still says that if Terrasen were to rise again, it might stand a chance; it would be a genuine threat to Adarlan.”
Celaena looked toward the hearth. “I know,” she managed to get out.
Nehemia turned to look at her. “Do you think another court like that could ever rise again? Not just in Terrasen, but anywhere? I’ve heard the court in Wendlyn still follows the old ways, but they’re across the ocean, and do us no good. They looked in the other direction while the king enslaved our lands, and they still refuse all calls for aid.”
Celaena forced herself to snort, to wave her hand in dismissal. “This is an awfully heavy discussion for breakfast.” She filled her mouth with toast. When she dared a glance at the princess, Nehemia’s expression remained contemplative. “Any news about the king?”
Nehemia clicked her tongue. “Only that he’s added that little grub, Roland, to his council, and Roland seems to have been given the task of handling me. Apparently, I’ve been too pushy with Minister Mullison, the councilman responsible for dealing with Calaculla’s labor camp. Roland is supposed to placate me.”
“I can’t tell who I feel worse for: you or Roland.”
Nehemia jabbed her in the side, and Celaena chuckled, batting her hand away. Fleetfoot used their temporary distraction
to swipe a piece of bacon right off the platter, and Celaena squawked. “You brazen thief!”
But Fleetfoot leapt off the bed, scuttled to the hearth, and stared right at Celaena as she gobbled down the rest of the bacon.
Nehemia laughed, and Celaena found herself joining in before she tossed Fleetfoot another piece of bacon. “Let’s just stay in bed all day,” Celaena said, throwing herself back onto the pillows and nestling into the blankets.
“I certainly wish I could,” Nehemia said, sighing loudly. “Alas, I have things to do.”
And so did she, Celaena realized. Like preparing for her dinner that evening with Archer.
Chapter 10
Dorian shivered as he entered the kennels that afternoon, brushing snow from his red cloak. Beside him, Chaol puffed air into his cupped hands, and the two young men hurried farther inside, the straw-coated floors crunching underfoot. Dorian hated winter—the intolerable cold and the way his boots never seemed completely dry.
They had chosen to enter the castle through the kennels because it was the easiest way to avoid Hollin, Dorian’s ten-year-old brother, who had returned from school that morning and was already shrieking demands at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Hollin would never look for them here. He hated animals.
They strode through the chorus of barking and whining, Dorian pausing every now and then to greet a favorite hound. He could have spent the rest of the day here—if only to avoid the court dinner in honor of Hollin. “I can’t believe my mother pulled him out of school,” he muttered.
“She missed her son,” Chaol said, still rubbing his hands together, though the kennels were deliciously warm compared to outside. “And now that there’s this movement growing against your father, he wants Hollin where we can keep an eye on him until it gets sorted out.”
Until Celaena kills all the traitors, was what Chaol didn’t need to say.
Dorian sighed. “I don’t even want to imagine what sort of absurd gift my mother bought him. Do you remember the last one?”
Chaol grinned. It was hard not to remember the last gift Georgina had bought her younger son: four white ponies with a tiny golden carriage for Hollin to drive about himself. He’d trampled half of the queen’s favorite garden.
Chaol led them toward the doors at the far end of the kennels. “You can’t avoid him forever.” Even as the captain spoke, Dorian could see him scanning, as he always did, for any sign of danger, any threat. After so many years, Dorian was used to it, but it still rankled his pride a little.
They passed through the glass doors and into the castle. To Dorian, the hall was warm and glowing; wreaths and garlands of evergreen still decorated archways and tabletops. To Chaol, he supposed, an enemy could be waiting anywhere.
“Maybe he’s changed in the past few months—matured a little,” Chaol said.
“You said that last summer, and I almost punched his teeth out.”
Chaol shook his head. “Thank the Wyrd my brother was always too afraid of me to talk back.”
Dorian tried not to look surprised. Since Chaol had abdicated his title as heir of Anielle, he hadn’t seen his family in years, and rarely spoke about them.
Dorian could have gleefully killed Chaol’s father for disowning him, refusing even to see Chaol when he brought his family to Rifthold for an important meeting with the king. Even though Chaol had never said it, Dorian knew the scars went deep.
Dorian sighed loudly. “Remind me again why I’m going to this dinner tonight?”
“Because your father will kill you and me if you don’t show up and formally greet your brother.”
“Maybe he’d hire Celaena to do it.”
“She has dinner plans tonight. With Archer Finn.”
“Isn’t she supposed to kill him?”
“She wants information, apparently.” A heavy pause. “I don’t like him.”
Dorian stiffened. They had managed, at least for the afternoon, to not talk about her—and for those few hours, it had been like nothing had ever changed between them. But things had changed. “I don’t think you need to worry about Archer stealing her away—especially if he’s going to be dead by the end of the month.” It came out sharper and colder than he intended.
Chaol cut a glance at him. “You think that’s what I’m worried about?”
Yes. And it’s obvious to everyone except the two of you.
But he didn’t want to have this conversation with Chaol, and Chaol sure as hell didn’t want to have this conversation with him, so Dorian just shrugged. “She’ll be fine, and you’ll laugh at yourself for worrying. Even if he’s as well-guarded as she claims, she’s the Champion for a reason, right?”
Chaol nodded, though Dorian could still see the worry in his eyes.
Celaena knew the scarlet dress was a little scandalous. And she knew that it was definitely not appropriate for winter, given how low the front dipped, and how much lower the back went. Low enough to reveal through the black lace mesh that she wasn’t wearing a corset beneath it.
But Archer Finn had always liked women who were daring with their clothes, who were ahead of the trend. And this dress, with its close-fitting bodice, long, tight sleeves, and gently flowing skirt, was about as new and different as it came.
Which was why, when she ran into Chaol on her way out of her rooms, she wasn’t very surprised when he stopped dead and blinked. Then blinked again.
Celaena smiled at him. “Hello to you, too.”
Chaol stood in the hallway, his bronze eyes traveling down the front of her dress, then up again. “You’re not wearing that.”
She snorted and walked past him, deliberately giving him a view of the far more provocative back. “Oh, yes. I am.”
Chaol fell into step beside her as she made her way down to the front gate and the waiting carriage. “You’re going to catch your death.”
She slung her ermine cloak around her. “Not with this, I won’t.”
“Do you even have any weapons with you?”
She stomped down the main staircase that led to the entrance hall. “Yes, Chaol, I have weapons. And I’m wearing this dress because I want Archer to ask the same thing. To think I don’t have any on me.”
There were indeed knives strapped to her legs, and the pins sweeping her hair into a curling cascade down one shoulder were long and razor-sharp—commissioned, to her delight, by Philippa, so she didn’t need to “go traipsing around with cold metal jammed between your breasts.”
“Oh,” was all Chaol said. They reached the main entrance in silence, and Celaena slipped on her kid gloves as they neared the towering double doors that opened onto the courtyard. She was just about to walk down the front steps when Chaol touched her shoulder.
“Be careful,” he said, examining the carriage, the driver, the footman. They seemed to pass inspection. “Don’t put yourself at risk.”
“I do this for a living, you know.” She never should have told him about her capture, never should have let him see her as vulnerable, because now he’d just worry about her and doubt her and irritate her to no end. She didn’t know why she did it, but she shook off his touch and hissed, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He stiffened as if he’d been struck, his teeth flashing. “What do you mean, tomorrow?”
Again, that stupid, bright anger took over, and she gave him a slow smile. “You’re a smart boy,” she said, stalking down the steps to the carriage. “Figure it out yourself.”
Chaol kept staring as though he didn’t know her, his body so very still. She wouldn’t have him thinking her vulnerable, or foolish, or inexperienced—not when she’d worked so hard and sacrificed so much to get to this point. Maybe it had been a mistake to let him in; because the idea of him thinking that she was weak, that she needed to be protected, made her want to shatter someone’s bones.
“Good night,” she said, and before she could reconsider all that she’d just implied, she got into the carriage and drove away.
She’d wor
ry about Chaol later. Tonight, her focus was on Archer—and on getting the truth out of him.
Archer was waiting inside an exclusive dining room, frequented by the elite of Rifthold. Most of the tables were already occupied, the patrons’ fine clothes and jewels glimmering in the dim light.
As the servant at the front helped her out of her cloak, she made sure that she was angled away from Archer—so he could get an eyeful of the exquisite black lace that covered the open back (and mostly concealed her scars from Endovier). She felt the eyes of the servant on her, too, but pretended not to notice.
Archer let out a breath, and she turned to find him grinning, slowly shaking his head.
“I think ‘stunning,’ ‘beautiful,’ and ‘dazzling’ are the words you’re looking for,” she said. She took his arm as they were escorted to a table tucked into an alcove of the ornate room.
Archer ran a finger along the red velvet sleeve of her gown. “I’m glad to see your taste matured along with the rest of you. And with your arrogance, it seems.”
She would have smiled anyway, she told herself.
Once they were seated, had the menu recited to them, and ordered the wine, Celaena found herself staring into that exquisite face. “So,” she said, leaning back in her seat, “how many ladies want to kill me tonight for monopolizing your time?”
He gave a laugh like a tickle of breath. “If I told you, you’d be bolting back to the castle.”
“You’re still that popular?”
Archer waved a hand, taking a sip from his wine. “I still have my debts to Clarisse,” he said, naming the most influential and prosperous madam in the capital. “But … yes.” A twinkle gleamed in his eye. “And what of your surly friend? Should I watch my back tonight, too?”
This was all a dance, a prelude to what would come later. She winked at him. “He knows better than to try to keep me locked up.”
“Wyrd help the man who does. I still remember what a hellion you were.”
“And here I was thinking you found me charming.”
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