The Assassin's Blade

by Sarah J. Maas

  Farran was a master of torture, and he’d kept Sam all night.

  Celaena sat up, her head spinning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Food could wait. Everything could wait.

  Because in three hours, Arobynn and his assassins would venture out to exact vengeance. They’d rob her of her claim to revenge—the satisfaction of slaughtering Farran and Jayne and anyone who stood in her way. And she had no intention of letting them do it.

  She stalked to the door and confirmed that it was locked. Arobynn knew her too well. Knew that when the blanket of grief had been ripped away …

  Even if she could spring the lock, she had no doubt that there was at least one assassin watching the hall outside her bedroom. Which left the window.

  The window itself was unlocked—but the two-story drop was formidable. While she’d been sleeping, someone had taken off her suit and given her a nightgown. She ripped apart the armoire for any sign of the suit—its boots were designed for climbing—but all she found were two black tunics, matching pants, and ordinary black boots. Fine.

  There were no weapons in sight, and she hadn’t brought any in with her. But years of living in this room had its advantages. She kept her motions quiet as she pulled up the loose floorboards where she’d long ago hidden a set of four daggers. She sheathed two at her waist and tucked the other two into her boots. Then she found the twin swords she’d kept disguised as part of the bed frame since she was fourteen. Neither the daggers nor the sword had been good enough to bring with her when she moved. Today they would do.

  When she’d finished strapping the blades across her back, she rebraided her hair and fitted on her cloak, throwing the hood over her head.

  She’d kill Jayne first. And then she’d drag Farran to a place where she could properly repay him and take however long she wanted. Days, even. When that debt was paid, when Farran had no more agony or blood to offer, she’d place Sam in the embrace of the earth and send him to the afterlife knowing he’d been avenged.

  She eased open the window, scanning the front courtyard. The dew-slick stones gleamed in the lamplight, and the sentries at the iron gate seemed focused on the street beyond.

  Good.

  This was her kill, her revenge to take. No one else’s.

  A black fire rippled in her gut, spreading through her veins as she hopped onto the windowsill and eased outside.

  Her fingers found purchase in the large white stones, and, with one eye on the guards at the distant gate, she climbed down the side of the house. No one noticed her, no one looked her way. The Keep was silent, the calm before the storm that would break when Arobynn and his assassins began their hunt.

  Her landing was soft, no more than a whisper of boots against slick cobblestones. The guards were so focused on the street that they wouldn’t notice when she jumped the fence near the stables around the back.

  Creeping around the exterior of the house was as simple as getting out of her room, and she was well within the shadows of the stables when a hand reached out and grabbed her.

  She was hurled into the side of the wooden building, and had a dagger drawn by the time the thump finished echoing.

  Wesley’s face, set with rage, seethed at her in the dark.

  “Where in hell do you think you’re going?” he breathed, not loosening his grip on her shoulders even as she pressed her dagger to the side of his throat.

  “Get out of my way,” she growled, hardly recognizing her own voice. “Arobynn can’t keep me locked up.”

  “I’m not talking about Arobynn. Use your head and think, Celaena!” A flicker of her—a part of her that had somehow vanished since she’d shattered that clock—realized that this might be the first time he’d ever addressed her by her name.

  “Get out of my way,” she repeated, pushing the edge of the blade harder against his exposed throat.

  “I know you want revenge,” he panted. “I do, too—for what he did to Sam. I know you—”

  She flicked the blade, angling it enough that he reared back to avoid her slicing a deep line across his throat.

  “Don’t you understand?” he pleaded, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “It’s all just a—”

  But the fire rose up in Celaena and she whirled, using a move the Mute Master had taught her that summer, and Wesley’s eyes lost focus as she slammed the pommel of her dagger into the side of his head. He dropped like a stone.

  Before he’d even finished collapsing, Celaena was sprinting for the fence. A moment later, she jumped it and vanished into the city streets.

  She was fire, she was darkness, she was dust and blood and shadow.

  She hurtled through the streets, each step faster than the last as that black fire burned through thought and feeling until all that remained was her rage and her prey.

  She took back alleys and leapt over walls.

  She’d slaughter them all.

  Faster and faster, sprinting for that beautiful house on its quiet street, for the two men who had taken her world apart piece by piece, bone by shattered bone.

  All she had to do was get to Jayne and Farran—everyone else was collateral. Arobynn had said they’d both be in their beds. That meant she had to get past all those guards at the front gate, the front door, and on the first floor … not to mention the guards that were sure to be outside the bedrooms.

  But there was an easier way to get past all them. A way in that didn’t involve possibly alerting Farran and Jayne if the guards at the front door raised the alarm. Harding had mentioned something about a window on the second floor that he could leap through … Harding was a good tumbler, but she was better.

  When she was a few streets away, she climbed the side of a house until she was on the roof and running again, fast enough to make the leap across the gap between houses.

  She’d walked past Jayne’s house enough times in the past few days to know that it was separated from its neighbors by alleys probably fifteen feet wide.

  She leapt across another gap between roofs.

  Now that she thought of it, she knew there was a second-floor window facing one of those alleys—and she didn’t give a damn where that window opened to, just that it would get her inside before the guards on the first floor could notice.

  The emerald roof of Jayne’s house gleamed, and Celaena skidded to a halt on the roof next door. A wide, flat stretch of the gabled roof stood between her and the long jump across the alley. If she aimed correctly and ran fast enough, she could make that leap and land through that second-floor window. The window was already thrown open, though the curtains had been drawn, blocking any view of what was within.

  Despite the fog of rage, years of training made her instinctively scan the neighboring rooftops. Was it arrogance or stupidity that kept Jayne from having guards on the nearby roofs? Even the guards on the street didn’t look up at her.

  Celaena untied her cloak and let it slide to the ground behind her. Any additional drag might be fatal, and she had no intention of dying until Jayne and Farran were corpses.

  The roof on which she stood was three stories high and faced the second-floor window across the alley. She factored in the distance and how fast she’d be falling, and made sure the swords crossed to her back were neatly tucked in. The window was wide, but she still needed to avoid the blades catching on the threshold. She backed up as far as she could to give herself running space.

  Somewhere on that second floor slept Jayne and Farran. And somewhere in this house, they had destroyed Sam.

  After she had killed them, perhaps she’d tear the house down stone by stone.

  Perhaps she’d tear this entire city down, too.

  She smiled. She liked the sound of that.

  Then she took a deep breath and broke into a run.

  The roof was no longer than fifty feet—fifty feet between her and the jump that would either land her right through that open window a level below, or splatter her on the alley between.

  She sprinted for the e
ver-nearing edge.

  Forty feet.

  There was no room for error, no room for fear or sorrow or anything except that blinding rage and cold, vicious calculation.

  Thirty feet.

  She raced, straight as an arrow, each pump of her legs and arms bringing her closer.

  Twenty.

  Ten.

  The alley below loomed, the gap looking far bigger than she’d realized.

  Five.

  But there was nothing left of her to even consider stopping.

  Celaena reached the edge of the roof and leapt.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The cold kiss of night air on her face, the glitter of the wet streets under lamplight, the sheen of moonlight on the black curtains inside the open window as she arced toward it, hands already reaching for her daggers …

  She tucked her head into her chest, bracing for impact as she burst through the curtains, ripping them clean off their hangings, hit the floor, and rolled.

  Right into a meeting room full of people. In a heartbeat, she took in the details: a somewhat small room where Jayne, Farran, and others sat around a square table, and a dozen guards now staring at her, already formed into a wall of flesh and weaponry between her and her prey.

  The curtains were thick enough to have blocked out any light within the room—to make it look like it was dark and empty inside. A trick.

  It didn’t matter. She’d take them all down anyway. The two daggers in her boots were thrown before she was even on her feet, and the guards’ dying shouts brought a wicked grin to her lips.

  Her swords whined, both in her hands as the nearest guard charged for her.

  He immediately died, a sword punched through his ribs and into his heart. Every object—every person—between her and Farran was an obstacle or a weapon, a shield or a trap.

  She whirled to the next guard, and her grin turned feral as she caught a glimpse of Jayne and Farran at the other end of the room, seated across the table. Farran was smiling at her, his dark eyes bright, but Jayne was on his feet, gaping.

  Celaena buried one of her swords into the chest of a guard so she could reach for her third dagger.

  Jayne was still gaping when that dagger imbedded itself to the hilt in his neck.

  Utter pandemonium. The door flung open, and more guards poured in as she retrieved her second sword from the chest cavity of the fallen guard. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds since she’d leapt through the open window. Had they been waiting?

  Two guards lunged for her, swords slicing the air. Her twin blades flashed. Blood sprayed.

  The room wasn’t large—only twenty feet separated her from Farran, who remained seated, watching her with wild delight.

  Three more guards went down.

  Someone hurled a dagger at her, and she knocked it aside with a blade, sending it right into the leg of another guard. Unintentional, but lucky.

  Another two guards fell.

  There were only a few left between her and the table—and Farran at the other side. He didn’t even look at Jayne’s corpse, slumped on the table beside him.

  Guards were still rushing in from the hall, but they were all wearing strange black masks, masks with clear glass eyepieces, and some sort of cloth mesh over the mouths …

  And then the smoke started, and the door shut, and as she gutted another guard, she glanced at Farran in time to see him slide on a mask.

  She knew this smoke—knew this smell. It had been on Sam’s corpse. That musky, strange—

  Someone sealed the window, shutting out the air. Smoke everywhere, fogging everything.

  Her eyes stung, but she dropped a sword to reach for that last dagger, the one that would find its home in Farran’s skull.

  The world jolted to the side.

  No.

  She didn’t know if she said it or thought it, but the word echoed through the darkness that was devouring her.

  Another masked guard had reached her, and she straightened in time to drive a sword into his side. Blood soaked her hand, but she kept her grip on the blade. Kept her grip on the dagger in her other hand as she cocked it back, angling for Farran’s head.

  But the smoke invaded every pore, every breath, every muscle. As she arched her arm, a shudder went through her body, making her vision twist and falter.

  She swayed to the side, losing her grip on the dagger. A guard swiped for her, but missed, slicing off an inch from her braid instead. Her hair broke free in a golden wave as she careened to the side, falling so, so slowly, Farran still smiling at her …

  A guard’s fist slammed into her gut, knocking the air out of her. She reeled back, and another fist like granite met her face. Her back, her ribs, her jaw. So many blows, so fast the pain couldn’t keep up, and she was falling so slowly, breathing in all that smoke …

  They had been waiting for her. The invitingly open window, the smoke and the masks, were all a part of a plan. And she had fallen right into it.

  She was still falling as the blackness consumed her.

  “None of you are to touch her,” a cool, bored voice was saying. “She’s to be kept alive.”

  There were hands on her, prying her weapons out of her grip, then setting her into a sitting position against the wall. Fresh air poured into the room, but she could hardly feel it on her tingling face.

  She couldn’t feel anything. Couldn’t move anything. She was paralyzed.

  She managed to open her eyes, only to find Farran crouched in front of her, that feline smile still on his face. The smoke had cleared from the room, and his mask lay discarded behind him.

  “Hello, Celaena,” he purred.

  Someone had betrayed her. Not Arobynn. Not when he hated Jayne and Farran so much. If she’d been betrayed, it would have been one of the wretches in the Guild—someone who would have benefited most from her death. It couldn’t be Arobynn.

  Farran’s dark gray clothes were immaculate. “I’ve been waiting a few years to meet you, you know,” he said, sounding rather cheerful despite the blood and bodies.

  “To be honest,” he went on, his eyes devouring every inch of her in a way that made her stomach start to twist, “I’m disappointed. You walked right into our little trap. You didn’t even stop to think twice about it, did you?” Farran smiled. “Never underestimate the power of love. Or is it revenge?”

  She couldn’t convince her fingers to shift. Even blinking was an effort.

  “Don’t worry—the numbness from the gloriella is already fading, though you won’t be able to move much at all. It should wear off in about six hours. At least, that’s how long it lasted on your companion after I caught him. It’s a particularly effective tool for keeping people sedated without the constraints of shackles. Makes the process much more … enjoyable, even if you can’t scream as much.”

  Gods above. Gloriella—the same poison Ansel had used on the Mute Master, somehow warped into incense. He must have caught Sam, brought him back here, used the smoke on him, and … He was going to torture her, too. She could withstand some torture, but considering what had been done to Sam, she wondered how quickly she’d break. If she’d had control over herself, she’d have ripped out Farran’s throat with her teeth.

  Her only glimmer of hope came from the fact that Arobynn and the others would arrive soon, and even if one of her kind had betrayed her, when Arobynn found out … when he saw whatever Farran had started to do to her … He’d keep Farran alive, if only so when she recovered, she could gut him herself. Gut him, and take a damn long time to do it.

  Farran stroked the hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ears. She’d shatter that hand, too. The way Sam’s hands had been methodically shattered. Behind Farran, guards began dragging the bodies away. No one touched Jayne’s corpse, still sprawled on the table.

  “You know,” Farran murmured, “you’re really quite beautiful.” He ran a finger down her cheek, then along her jaw. Her rage became a living thing thrashing inside of her, fight
ing for just one chance to break free. “I can see why Arobynn kept you as a pet for so many years.” His finger went lower, sliding across her neck. “How old are you, anyway?”

  She knew he didn’t expect an answer. His eyes met hers, dark and ravenous.

  She wouldn’t beg. If she were to die like Sam, she’d do so with dignity. With that rage still burning. And maybe … maybe she’d get the chance to butcher him.

  “I’m half-tempted to keep you for myself,” he said. He brushed his thumb over her mouth. “Instead of handing you over, perhaps I’ll take you downstairs, and if you survive …” He shook his head. “But that wasn’t part of the bargain, was it?”

  Words boiled up in her, but her tongue didn’t move. She couldn’t even open her mouth.

  “You’re dying to know what the bargain was, aren’t you? Let’s see if I remember correctly … We kill Sam Cortland,” Farran recited, “you go berserk and break in here, then you kill Jayne”—he gave a nod toward the huge body on the table—“and I take Jayne’s place.” His hands were roving over her neck now, sensual caresses that promised unbearable agony. With each passing second, some of the numbness did indeed wear off—but hardly any control of her body returned. “Pity that I need you to take the blame for Jayne’s death. And if only handing you over to the king wouldn’t make such a nice gift.”

  The king. He wasn’t going to torture her, or kill her, but give her to the king as a bribe to keep royal eyes from looking Farran’s way. She could have faced torture, endured the violations she could practically see in Farran’s eyes, but if she went to the king … She shoved the thought away, refusing to follow its path.

  She had to get out.

  He must have seen the panic enter her eyes. Farran smiled, a hand closing around her throat. Too-sharp nails pricked her skin. “Don’t be afraid, Celaena,” he whispered into her ear, digging his nails in deeper. “If the king lets you survive, I’m in your eternal debt. You’ve handed me my crown, after all.”

  There was one word on her lips, but she couldn’t get it out, no matter how much she tried.