Chaol, surprisingly enough, didn’t object. He only sheathed his sword and bowed his head to Nehemia as she clapped Celaena on the shoulder before she walked off.
Celaena gave the staff a few experimental sweeps in the space around her. Balanced, solid, strong. The rounded iron tip could knock a man out cold.
She could feel the lingering oil from Nehemia’s hands and smell her friend’s lotus-blossom scent on the engraved wood. Yes, the staff would do just fine. She’d taken down Verin with her bare hands. She could defeat Grave and Cain with this.
She glanced at the king, who was still speaking with Perrington, and found Dorian watching her instead. His sapphire eyes reflected the brilliance of the sky, though they darkened slightly as he flicked them toward Nehemia. Dorian was many things, but he wasn’t stupid; had he realized the symbolism in Nehemia’s offer? She quickly dropped his stare.
She’d worry about that later. Across the ring, Grave began pacing, waiting for the king to return his attention to the duel and give the order to begin.
She loosed a shuddering breath. Here she was, at long last. She gripped the staff in her left hand, taking in the strength of the wood, the strength of her friend. A lot could happen in a few minutes—a lot could change.
She faced Chaol. The wind ripped a few strands of hair from her braid, and she tucked them behind her ears.
“No matter what happens,” she said quietly, “I want to thank you.”
Chaol tilted his head to the side. “For what?”
Her eyes stung, but she blamed it on the fierce wind and blinked away the dampness. “For making my freedom mean something.”
He didn’t say anything; he just took the fingers of her right hand and held them in his, his thumb brushing the ring she wore.
“Let the second duel commence,” the king boomed, waving a hand toward the veranda.
Chaol squeezed her hand, his skin warm in the frigid air. “Give him hell,” he said. Grave entered the ring and drew his sword.
Pulling her hand from Chaol’s, Celaena straightened her spine as she stepped into the ring. She quickly bowed to the king, then to her opponent.
She met Grave’s stare and smiled as she bent her knees, holding the staff in two hands.
You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, little man.
Chapter 48
As she expected, Grave launched himself at her, going straight for the center of the staff in his hope to break it.
But Celaena whirled away. As Grave struck nothing but air, she slammed the butt of the staff into his spine. He staggered, but kept upright, turning on one foot as he charged after her again.
She took the blow this time, angling her staff so he hit the bottom half. His blade wedged in the wood, and she jumped toward him, letting the force of his own blow snap the upper part of the staff straight into his face. He stumbled, but her fist was waiting. As it met with his nose, she savored the rush of pain through her hand and the crunch of his bones beneath her knuckles. She leapt back before he had a chance to strike. Blood gleamed as it trickled from his nose. “Bitch!” he hissed, and swung.
She met his blade, holding the staff with both hands, pushing the wood shaft into his sword, even when it let out a splintering groan.
She shoved him, grunting, and spun. She whacked the back of his head with the top of the staff, and he teetered, but regained his footing. He wiped at his bloody nose, eyes gleaming as he panted. His pockmarked face became feral, and he charged, aiming a direct blow to her heart. Too fast, too wild for him to stop.
She dropped into a crouch. As the blade sailed overhead, she lashed out at his legs. He didn’t even have time to cry out as she swept his feet out from under him, nor did he have time to raise his weapon before she crouched over his chest, the iron-coated tip of the staff at his throat.
She brought her mouth close to his ear. “My name is Celaena Sardothien,” she whispered. “But it makes no difference if my name’s Celaena or Lillian or Bitch, because I’d still beat you, no matter what you call me.” She smiled at him as she stood. He just stared up at her, his bloody nose leaking down the side of his cheek. She took the handkerchief from her pocket and dropped it on his chest. “You can keep that,” she said before she walked off the veranda.
She intercepted Chaol as soon as she crossed the line of chalk. “How long did that take?” she asked. She found Nehemia beaming at her, and Celaena lifted her staff a little in salute.
“Two minutes.”
She grinned at the captain. She was hardly winded. “Better than Cain’s time.”
“And certainly more dramatic,” Chaol said. “Was the handkerchief really necessary?”
She bit down on her lip and was about to reply when the king stood, the crowd quieting. “Wine for the winners,” he said, and Cain stalked from his place on the sidelines to stand before the king’s table. Celaena remained with Chaol.
The king gestured at Kaltain, who obediently picked up a silver tray containing two goblets. She gave one to Cain, then walked over to Celaena and handed the other to her before pausing in front of the king’s table.
“Out of good faith, and honor to the Great Goddess,” Kaltain said in a dramatic voice. Celaena wanted to punch her. “May it be your offering to the Mother who bore us all. Drink, and let Her bless you, and replenish your strength.” Who had written that little script? Kaltain bowed to them, and Celaena raised the goblet to her lips. The king smiled at her, and she tried not to flinch as she drank. Kaltain took the goblet when she finished, and curtsied to Cain as she accepted his and slunk away.
Win. Win. Win. Take him down quickly.
“Ready yourselves,” the king ordered. “And begin on my mark.”
Celaena looked to Chaol. Wasn’t she to be allowed a moment to rest? Even Dorian raised his brows at his father, but the king refused to acknowledge his son’s silent questioning.
Cain drew his sword, a crooked grin on his face as he crouched in a defensive stance in the center of the ring.
Insults would have risen to her lips if Chaol hadn’t touched her shoulder, his chestnut eyes filled with some emotion she couldn’t yet understand. There was strength in his face that she found to be achingly beautiful.
“Don’t lose,” he whispered so only she could hear. “I don’t feel like having to escort you all the way back to Endovier.” The world became foggy around the edges as he stepped away, his head held high as he ignored the white-hot glare of the king.
Cain edged closer, his broadsword gleaming. Celaena took a deep breath and entered the ring.
The conqueror of Erilea raised his hands. “Begin!” he roared, and Celaena shook her head, trying to clear her blurry vision. She steadied herself, wielding the staff like a sword as Cain began circling. Nausea flashed through her as his muscles flexed. For some reason, the world was still hazy. She clenched her teeth, blinking. She’d use his strength against him.
Cain charged faster than she anticipated. She caught his sword on the broad side with the staff, avoiding the sharp edges, and leapt back as she heard the wood groan.
He struck so quickly that she had to concede to the edge of his blade. It sank deep into the staff. Her arms ached from the impact. Before she could recover, Cain yanked his sword from her weapon and surged toward her. She could only bound back, deflecting the blow with the iron tip of the staff. Her blood felt slow and thick, and her head spun. Was she ill? The nausea would not ease.
Grunting, Celaena pulled away with an effort of skill and force. If she were truly ill, she must finish this as quickly as possible. It was not a showcase of her abilities, especially if that book had been right and Cain had been granted the strength of all those dead Champions.
Switching onto the offensive, she nimbly swept toward him. He parried Celaena’s attack with a brush of his blade. She brought the staff down upon his sword, splinters flying into the air.
Her heart pounded in her ears, and the sound of wood against steel became almost unbearab
le. Why were things slowing down?
She attacked—faster and faster, stronger and stronger. Cain laughed, and she almost screamed in anger. Each time she moved a foot to trip him, each time they came too close, she either became clumsy or he stepped away, as if he knew what she planned all along. She had the infuriating feeling that he was toying with her, that there was some joke she didn’t understand.
Celaena whipped the staff through the air, hoping to catch him upon his unprotected neck. But he deflected, and though she spun and tried to knock him in his stomach, he blocked her again.
“Not feeling well?” he said, showing his white, gleaming teeth. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have been holding back all those—”
WHAM!
She grinned as the shaft of her staff slammed into his side. He bent over, and her leg lashed out and swept him off his feet, sending him crashing to the ground. She raised her staff, but a sick feeling rushed through her so powerful that her muscles slackened. She had no strength.
He knocked aside her blow as if it was nothing, and she retreated while he rose. And that’s when she heard the laugh—soft, feminine, and vicious. Kaltain. Celaena’s feet stumbled, but she stayed upright as she dared a glance at the lady, and the goblets on the table before her. And that’s when she knew that it hadn’t been wine in that glass, but bloodbane, the very drug she’d missed in the Test. At best, it caused hallucinations and disorientation. At worst . . .
She had difficulty holding the staff. Cain came at her, and she had no choice but to meet his blows, barely having the strength to raise the weapon each time. How much bloodbane had they given her? The staff cracked, splintered, and groaned. If it were a lethal dose, she’d be dead by now. They must have given her enough to disorient her, but not enough that it would be easy to prove. She couldn’t focus, and her body became hot and cold. Cain was so large—he was a mountain, and his blows . . . they made Chaol seem like a child . . .
“Tired already?” he asked. “It’s a pity all of that yapping didn’t amount to much.”
He knew. He knew they’d drugged her. She snarled and lunged. He stepped aside, and her eyes went wide as she hit nothing but air, air, air, until—
He slammed his fist into her spine, and she only saw the blur of the slate tiles before they collided with her face.
“Pathetic,” he said, his shadow falling over her as she flipped onto her back, scrambling away before he could get closer. She could taste the blood in her mouth. This couldn’t be happening—they couldn’t have betrayed her like this. “If I were Grave, I’d be insulted that you’d beaten me.”
Her breath came fast and hard, and her knees ached as she stumbled upright, charging at him. Too fast for her to block, he grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and hurled her back. She kept upright as she tripped, and stopped a few feet from him.
Cain circled her, swinging his sword idly. His eyes were dark—dark like that portal to that other world. He was drawing out the inevitable, a predator playing with his meal before eating it. He wanted to enjoy every moment.
She had to end this now, before the hallucinations started. She knew they’d be powerful: seers had once used bloodbane as a drug to view spirits from other worlds. Celaena shot forward with a sweep of the staff. Wood slammed into steel.
The staff snapped in two.
The iron-tipped head soared to the other side of the veranda, leaving Celaena with a piece of useless wood. Cain’s black eyes met with hers for a moment before his other arm lashed out and connected with her shoulder.
She heard the crack before she felt the pain, and Celaena screamed, dropping to her knees as her shoulder dislocated. His foot met with the shoulder, and she went flying backward, falling so hard that her shoulder relocated with a sickening crunch. The agony blinded her; the world went in and out of focus. Things were so slow . . .
Cain grabbed the collar of her jacket to pull her to her feet. She staggered back out of his grasp, the ground rushing beneath her, and then fell—hard.
She raised the shaft of broken wood with her left hand. Cain, panting and grinning, approached.
•
Dorian clenched his teeth. Something was terribly wrong. He’d known it from the moment the duel started, and began sweating when she had the opportunity to bestow a winning blow and failed to deliver it. But now . . .
He couldn’t watch as Cain kicked her shoulder, and felt as if he’d vomit when the brute picked her up and she fell to the ground. She kept wiping her eyes, and sweat shone on her forehead. What was wrong?
He should stop it—he should call off the duel now. Let her start tomorrow, with a sword and her senses. Chaol hissed, and Dorian almost cried out as Celaena attempted to stand, but collapsed. Cain teased her—breaking not only her body, but her will . . . He had to stop it.
Cain swung his sword at Celaena, who threw herself backward—but not fast enough. She yelped as the blade sliced across her thigh, clothing and flesh ripping. Blood colored her pants. Despite it, she stood again, her face set in defiant rage.
Dorian had to help her. But if he interfered, they might just proclaim Cain the victor. So he watched, in growing horror and despair, as Cain’s fist slammed into her jaw.
Her knees twisted as she fell.
•
Something in Chaol began fraying as Celaena raised her bloodied face to look at Cain.
“I expected better,” Cain said as Celaena crawled into a kneeling position, still clutching at her useless piece of wood. She panted through her teeth, blood leaking from her lip. Cain studied her face as if he could read it, as if he could hear something Chaol couldn’t. “And what would your father say?”
An expression flashed across Celaena’s eyes that bordered on fear and confusion. “Shut your mouth,” she said, her words trembling as she fought the pain of her wounds.
But Cain kept staring at her, his smile growing. “It’s all there,” he said. “Right under that wall you built on top of it. I can see it clear as day.”
What was he talking about? Cain lifted his sword and ran his finger through the blood—her blood. Chaol reined in his disgust and anger.
Cain let out a breathy laugh. “What was it like when you woke up between your parents, covered in their blood?”
“Shut your mouth!” she said again, her free hand clawing at the ground, her face twisted with rage and anguish. Whatever wound Cain was touching, it burned.
“Your mother was a pretty young thing, wasn’t she?” Cain said.
“Be quiet!” She tried to surge to her feet, but her injured leg kept her down. She gasped for breath. How did Cain know these things about Celaena’s past? Chaol’s heart pounded wildly, but he could do nothing to help her.
She let out a wordless scream that shattered through the frozen wind as she scrambled to her feet. Her pain lost in her fury, she swung at his blade with the remnant of the staff.
“Good,” Cain panted, pressing her staff so hard that his blade sank into the wood. “But not good enough.” He shoved her, and as she staggered back a step, he brought up his leg and kicked her in the ribs. She went flying.
Chaol had never seen anyone struck that hard. Celaena hit the ground and flipped, over and over and over, until she slammed into the clock tower. Her head whacked against the black stone, and he bit down on his yell, forcing himself to remain on the sidelines, forcing himself to watch as Cain broke her apart, piece by piece. How had it gone wrong so quickly?
She trembled as she raised herself to her knees, clutching her side. She still held on to the remnant of Nehemia’s staff, as if it were a rock in the middle of a violent sea.
•
Celaena tasted blood as Cain seized her again, dragging her across the floor. She didn’t try to fight him. He could have pointed his sword at her heart at any point. This wasn’t a duel—it was an execution. And no one was doing anything to stop it. They’d drugged her. It wasn’t fair. The sunlight flickered, and she thrashed in Cain’s grip, despite the agony shoot
ing through her body.
All around her were whispering, laughing, otherworldly voices. They called to her—but called a different name, a dangerous name . . .
She glanced skyward, seeing the tip of Cain’s chin before he hoisted her onto her feet and slammed her—face-first—into a wall of freezing, smooth stone. She was enveloped in familiar darkness. Her skull ached with the impact, but Celaena’s cry of pain was cut short as she opened her eyes to the dark and saw what appeared. Something—something dead stood before her.
It was a man, his skin pale and rotting. His eyes burned red, and he pointed at her in a broken, stiff way. His teeth were all sharp and so long they barely fit into his mouth.
Where had the world gone? The hallucinations must be starting. Light flashed as she was yanked back, and her eyes bulged as Cain threw her to the ground near the edge of the ring.
A shadow passed across the sun. It was over. She would die now—die, or lose and be sent back to Endovier. It was over. Over.
Two black boots came into view, then a pair of knees as someone crouched on the edge of the ring.
“Get up,” Chaol whispered. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the face. It was over.
Cain began laughing, and she felt the reverberations of his steps as he walked around the ring. “Is this all you have to offer?” he shouted triumphantly. Celaena trembled. The world was awash with fog and darkness and voices.
“Get up,” Chaol said again, louder. She could only stare at the white line of chalk that marked the ring.
Cain had said things he couldn’t possibly know—he’d seen it in her eyes. And if he knew about her past . . . She whimpered, hating herself for it, and for the tears that began sliding down her face, across the bridge of her nose and onto the floor. It was all over.
“Celaena,” Chaol said gently. And then she heard the scraping noise as his hand came into view, sliding across the flagstones. His fingertips stopped just at the edge of the white line. “Celaena,” he breathed, his voice laced with pain—and hope. This was all she had left—his outstretched hand, and the promise of hope, of something better waiting on the other side of that line.
Throne of Glass Page 32
