The Assassin's Blade

by Sarah J. Maas

  He said nothing.

  “As of this moment, Sam’s debt to you is paid,” she said, a shred of victory shining through her growing shame and misery. “From right now until forever, he’s a free man.”

  Arobynn stared back, then shrugged. “I suppose that’s a good thing.” She felt the final blow coming, and she knew she should run, but she stood like an idiot and listened as he said, “Because I spent all the money you gave me when I was at Lysandra’s Bidding last night. My vault feels a little empty because of it.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in.

  The money she had sacrificed so much to get …

  He’d used it to win Lysandra’s Bidding.

  “I’m moving out,” she whispered. He just watched her, his cruel, clever mouth forming a slight smile. “I’ve purchased an apartment, and I’m moving there. Today.”

  Arobynn’s smile grew. “Do come back and visit us some time, Celaena.”

  She had to bite her lip to keep it from wobbling. “Why did you do it?”

  Arobynn shrugged again. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy Lysandra after all these years of investing in her career? And why do you care what I do with my own money? From what I’ve heard, you have Sam now. Both of you are free of me.”

  Of course he’d found out already. And of course he’d try to make this about her—try to make it her fault. Why shower her with gifts only to do this? Why deceive her about Doneval and then torture her with it? Why had he saved her life nine years ago just to treat her this way?

  He’d spent her money on a person he knew she hated. To belittle her. Months ago, it would have worked; that sort of betrayal would have devastated her. It still hurt, but now, with Doneval and Philip and others dead by her hand, with those documents now in Bardingale’s possession, and with Sam steadfastly at her side … Arobynn’s petty, vicious parting shot had narrowly missed the mark.

  “Don’t come looking for me for a good, long while,” she said. “Because I might kill you if I see you before then, Arobynn.”

  He waved a hand at her. “I look forward to the fight.”

  She left. As she strode through his study doors, she almost slammed into the three tall men who were walking in. They all took one look at her face and then muttered apologies. She ignored them, and ignored Wesley’s dark stare as she strode past him. Arobynn’s business was his own. She had her own life now.

  Her boot heels clicked against the marble floor of the grand entrance. Someone yawned from across the space, and Celaena found Lysandra leaning against the banister of the staircase. She was wearing a white silk nightgown that barely covered her more private areas.

  “You’ve probably already heard, but I went for a record price,” Lysandra purred, stretching out the beautiful lines of her body. “Thank you for that; rest assured that your gold went a long, long way.”

  Celaena froze and slowly turned. Lysandra smirked at her.

  Fast as lightning, Celaena hurled a dagger.

  The blade imbedded itself into the wooden railing a hair’s breadth from Lysandra’s head.

  Lysandra began screaming, but Celaena just walked out of the front doors, across the lawn of the Keep, and kept walking until the capital swallowed her up.

  Celaena sat on the edge of her roof, looking out across the city. The convoy from Melisande had already left, taking the last of the rain clouds with them. Some of them wore black to mourn Doneval’s death. Leighfer Bardingale had ridden Kasida, prancing down the main avenue. Unlike those in mourning colors, the lady had been dressed in saffron yellow—and was smiling broadly. Of course, it was just because the King of Adarlan had agreed to give them the funds and resources to build their road. Celaena had half a mind to go after her—to get those documents back and repay Bardingale for her deceit. And take back Kasida while she was at it, too.

  But she didn’t. She’d been fooled and had lost—badly. She didn’t want to be a part of this tangled web. Not when Arobynn had made it perfectly clear that she could never win.

  To distract her from that miserable thought, Celaena had then spent the whole day sending servants between the Keep and her apartment, fetching all the clothes and books and jewelry that now belonged to her and her alone. The late afternoon light shifted into a deep gold, setting all the green rooftops glowing.

  “I thought you might be up here,” Sam said, striding across the flat roof to where she sat atop the wall that lined the edge. He surveyed the city. “Some view; I can see why you decided to move.”

  She smiled slightly, turning to look at him over her shoulder. He came to stand behind her, and reached out a tentative hand to run through her hair. She leaned into the touch. “I heard what he did—about both Doneval and Lysandra,” Sam murmured. “I never imagined he’d sink that low—or use your money like that. I’m sorry.”

  “It was what I needed.” She watched the city again. “It was what I needed to make me tell him I was moving out.”

  Sam gave a nod of approval. “I’ve just sort of … left my belongings in your main room. Is that all right?”

  She nodded. “We’ll find space for it later.”

  Sam fell silent. “So, we’re free,” he said at last.

  She turned fully to look at him. His brown eyes were vivid.

  “I also heard that you paid off my debt,” he said, his voice strained. “You—you sold your Asterion horse to do it.”

  “I had no choice.” She pivoted from her spot on the roof and stood. “I’d never leave you shackled to him while I walked away.”

  “Celaena.” He said her name like a caress, slipping a hand around her waist. He pressed his forehead against hers. “How can I ever repay you?”

  She closed her eyes. “You don’t have to.”

  He brushed his lips against hers. “I love you,” he breathed against her mouth. “And from today onward, I want to never be separated from you. Wherever you go, I go. Even if that means going to Hell itself, wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Forever.”

  Celaena put her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, giving him her silent reply.

  Beyond them, the sun set over the capital, turning the world into crimson light and shadows.

  THE

  ASSASSIN

  AND THE

  EMPIRE

  AFTER

  Curled into the corner of a prison wagon, Celaena Sardothien watched the splotches of shadows and light play on the wall. Trees—just beginning to shift into the rich hues of autumn—seemed to peer at her through the small, barred window.

  She rested her head against the musty wooden wall, listening to the creak of the wagon, the clink of the shackles around her wrists and ankles, the rumbling chatter and occasional laughter of the guards who had been escorting the wagon along its route for two days now.

  But while she was aware of it all, a deafening sort of silence had settled over her like a cloak. It shut out everything. She knew she was thirsty, and hungry, and that her fingers were numb with cold, but she couldn’t feel it keenly.

  The wagon hit a rut, jostling her so hard that her head knocked into the wall. Even that pain felt distant.

  The freckles of light along the panels danced like falling snow.

  Like ash.

  Ash from a world burned into nothing—lying in ruins around her. She could taste the ash of that dead world on her chapped lips, settling on her leaden tongue.

  She preferred the silence. In the silence she couldn’t hear the worst question of all: had she brought this upon herself?

  The wagon passed under a particularly thick canopy of trees, blotting out the light. For a heartbeat, the silence peeled back long enough for that question to worm its way into her skull, into her skin, into her breath and her bones.

  And in the dark, she remembered.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Eleven Days Earlier

  Celaena Sardothien had been waiting for this night for the past year. Sitting on the wooden walkway tucked into t
he side of the gilded dome of the Royal Theater, she breathed in the music rising from the orchestra far below. Her legs dangled over the railing edge, and she leaned forward to rest her cheek on her folded arms.

  The musicians were seated in a semicircle on the stage. They filled the theater with such wondrous noise that Celaena sometimes forgot how to breathe. She had seen this symphony performed four times in the past four years—but she’d always gone with Arobynn. It had become their annual autumn tradition.

  Though she knew she shouldn’t, she let her eyes drift to the private box where, until last month, she’d always been seated.

  Was it from spite or sheer blindness that Arobynn Hamel now sat there, Lysandra at his side? He knew what this night meant to Celaena—knew how much she’d looked forward to it every year. And though Celaena hadn’t wanted to go with him—and never wanted anything to do with him again—tonight he’d brought Lysandra. As if this night didn’t mean anything to him at all.

  Even from the rafters, she could see the King of the Assassins holding the hand of the young courtesan, his leg resting against the skirts of her rose-colored gown. A month after Arobynn had won the Bidding for Lysandra’s virginity, it seemed that he was still monopolizing her time. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d worked out something with her madam to keep Lysandra until he tired of her.

  Celaena wasn’t sure if she pitied Lysandra for it.

  Celaena returned her attention to the stage. She didn’t know why she’d come here, or why she’d told Sam that she had “plans” and couldn’t meet him for dinner at their favorite tavern.

  In the past month, she hadn’t seen or spoken to Arobynn, nor had she wanted to. But this was her favorite symphony, the music so lovely that, to fill the yearlong wait between performances, she’d mastered a fair portion of it on the pianoforte.

  The symphony’s third movement finished, and applause thundered across the shimmering arc of the dome. The orchestra waited for the clapping to die down before it swept into the joyous allegro that led to the finale.

  At least in the rafters, she didn’t have to bother dressing up and pretending to fit in with the bejeweled crowd below. She had easily snuck in from the roof, and no one had looked up to see the black-clad figure seated along the railing, nearly hidden from view by the crystal chandeliers that had been raised and dimmed for the performance.

  Up here, she could do what she liked. She could rest her head on her arms, or swing her legs in time with the music, or get up and dance if she wanted to. So what if she’d never again sit in that beloved box, so lovely with its red velvet seats and polished wooden banisters? The music braided through the theater, and each note was more brilliant than the last.

  She’d chosen to leave Arobynn. She’d paid off her debt to him, and Sam’s debt to him, and had moved out. She’d walked away from her life as Arobynn Hamel’s protégée. That had been her decision—and one she didn’t regret, not after Arobynn had so sorely betrayed her. He’d humiliated and lied to her, and used her blood money to win Lysandra’s Bidding just to spite her.

  Though she still fancied herself Adarlan’s Assassin, part of her wondered how long Arobynn would allow her to keep the title before he named someone else his successor. But no one could truly replace her. Whether or not she belonged to Arobynn, she was still the best. She’d always be the best.

  Wouldn’t she?

  She blinked, realizing she’d somehow stopped hearing the music. She should change spots—move to a place where the chandeliers blocked out her view of Arobynn and Lysandra. She stood, her tailbone aching from sitting for so long on the wood.

  Celaena took a step, the floorboards sagging under her black boots, but paused. Though it was as she’d remembered it, every note flawless, the music felt disjointed now. Even though she could play it from memory, it was suddenly like she’d never heard it before, or like her internal beat was now somehow off from the rest of the world.

  Celaena glanced again at the familiar box far below—where Arobynn was now draping a long, muscled arm along the back of Lysandra’s seat. Her old seat, the one closest to the stage.

  It was worth it, though. She was free, and Sam was free, and Arobynn … He had done his best to hurt her, to break her. Forgoing these luxuries was a cheap price to pay for a life without him lording over her.

  The music worked itself into the frenzy of its climax, becoming a whirlwind of sound that she found herself walking through—not toward a new seat, but toward the small door that led onto the roof.

  The music roared, each note a pulse of air against her skin. Celaena threw the hood of her cloak over her head as she slipped out the door and into the night beyond.

  It was nearing eleven when Celaena unlocked the door to her apartment, breathing in the already familiar scents of home. She’d spent much of the past month furnishing the spacious apartment—hidden on the upper floor of a warehouse in the slums—that she now shared with Sam.

  He’d offered again and again to pay for half of the apartment, but each time, she ignored him. It wasn’t because she didn’t want his money—though she truly didn’t—but rather because, for the first time ever, this was a place that was hers. And though she cared deeply for Sam, she wanted to keep it that way.

  She slipped inside, taking in the great room that greeted her: to the left, a shining oak dining table large enough to fit eight upholstered chairs around it; to her right, a plush red couch, two armchairs, and a low-lying table set before the darkened fireplace.

  The cold fireplace told her enough. Sam wasn’t home.

  Celaena might have gone into the adjacent kitchen to devour the remaining half of the berry tart Sam hadn’t finished at lunch—might have kicked off her boots and reclined before the floor-to-ceiling window to take in the stunning nighttime view of the capital. She might have done any number of things had she not spied the note atop the small table beside the front door.

  I’ve gone out, it said in Sam’s handwriting. Don’t wait up.

  Celaena crumpled the note in her fist. She knew exactly where he’d gone—and exactly why he didn’t want her to wait up.

  Because if she were asleep, then she most likely wouldn’t see the blood and bruises on him when he staggered in.

  Swearing viciously, Celaena threw the crumpled note on the ground and stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her.

  If there was a place in Rifthold where the scum of the capital could always be found, it was the Vaults.

  On a relatively quiet street of the slums, Celaena flashed her money to the thugs standing outside the iron door and entered the pleasure hall. The heat and reek hit her almost immediately, but she didn’t let it crack her mask of cold calm as she descended into a warren of subterranean chambers. She took one look down at the teeming crowd around the main fighting pit and knew exactly who was causing them to cheer.

  She swaggered down the stone steps, her hands in easy reach of the swords and daggers sheathed at the belt slung low over her hips. Most people would have opted to wear even more weapons to the Vaults—but Celaena had been here often enough to anticipate the threats the usual clientele posed, and she knew she could look after herself just fine. Still, she kept her hood over her head, concealing most of her face in shadow. Being a young woman in a place like this wasn’t without its obstacles—especially when a good number of men came here for the other entertainment offered by the Vaults.

  As she reached the bottom of the narrow stairs, the reek of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and worse things hit her full-on. It was enough to turn her stomach, and she was grateful that she hadn’t eaten anything recently.

  She slipped through the crowd packed around the main pit, trying not to look to the exposed rooms on either side—to the girls and women who weren’t fortunate enough to be sold into an upper-class brothel like Lysandra. Sometimes, when Celaena was feeling particularly inclined to make herself miserable, she’d wonder if their fate would have been hers had Arobynn not taken her i
n. She’d wonder if she’d gaze into their eyes and see some version of herself staring back.

  So it was easier not to look.

  Celaena pushed past the men and women assembled around the sunken pit, keeping alert for grasping hands eager to part her from her money—or one of her exquisite blades.

  She leaned against a wooden pillar and stared into the pit.

  Sam moved so fast the hulking man in front of him didn’t stand a chance, dodging each knock-out blow with power and grace—some of it natural, some learned from years of training at the Assassins’ Keep. Both of them were shirtless, and Sam’s toned chest gleamed with sweat and blood. Not his blood, she noticed—the only injuries she could see were his split lip and a bruise on his cheek.

  His opponent lunged, trying to tackle Sam to the sandy floor. But Sam whirled, and as the giant stumbled past, Sam drove his bare foot into his back. The man hit the sand with a thud that Celaena felt through the filthy stone floor. The crowd cheered.

  Sam could have rendered the man unconscious in a heartbeat. He could have snapped his neck just now, or ended the fight any number of ways. But from the half-wild, self-satisfied gleam in Sam’s eyes, Celaena knew he was playing with his opponent. The injuries on his face had probably been intentional mistakes—to make it look like a somewhat even fight.

  Fighting in the Vaults wasn’t only about knocking out your opponent—it was about making a show out of it. The crowd near savage with elation, Sam probably had been giving them one hell of a performance. And, judging by the blood on Sam, it seemed like this performance was probably one of several encores.

  A low growl rippled through her. There was only one rule in the Vaults: no weapons, just fists. But you could still get horribly hurt.

  His opponent staggered to his feet, but Sam had finished waiting.

  The poor brute didn’t even have time to raise his hands as Sam lashed out with a roundhouse kick. His foot slammed into the man’s face hard enough for the impact to sound over the shouts of the crowd.