Throne of glass

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Throne of Glass Novellas
Copyright

Chapter One
The cavernous entrance hall of the Assassin’s Keep was
silent as Celaena Sardothien stalked across the marble
floor, a letter clutched between her fingers. No one had
greeted her at the towering oak doors save the
housekeeper, who’d taken her rain-sodden cloak—and,
after getting a look at the wicked grin on Celaena’s face,
opted not to say anything.
The doors to Arobynn Hamel’s study lay at the other
end of the hall, and were currently shut. But she knew he
was in there. Wesley, his manservant, stood guard outside,
dark eyes unreadable as Celaena strode toward him.
Though Wesley wasn’t an assassin, she had no doubt that
he could wield the blades and daggers strapped to his
massive body with deadly skill.
She also had no doubt that Arobynn had eyes at every
gate in this city. The moment she’d stepped into Rifthold,
he’d been alerted that she’d at last returned. She trailed
mud from her wet, filthy boots as she made her way toward
the study doors—and Wesley.
It had been three months since the night Arobynn had
beaten her unconscious—punishment for ruining his slavetrade
agreement with the Pirate Lord, Captain Rolfe. It had
been three months since he’d shipped her off to the Red
Desert to learn obedience and discipline and to earn the
approval of the Mute Master of the Silent Assassins.
The letter clutched in her hand was proof that she had
done it. Proof that Arobynn hadn’t broken her that night.
And she couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when
she gave him the letter.
Not to mention when she told him about the three
trunks of gold she’d brought with her, which were on their
way up to her room at this moment. With a few words, she’d
explain that her debt to him was now repaid, that she was
going to walk out of the Keep and move into the new
apartment she’d purchased. That she was free of him.
Celaena reached the other end of the hall, and Wesley
stepped in front of the study doors. He looked about
Arobynn’s age, and the slender scars on his face and
hands suggested that the life he’d spent serving the King of
the Assassins hadn’t been easy. She suspected there were
more scars beneath his dark clothing—perhaps more
brutal ones.
“He’s busy,” said Wesley, his hands hanging loosely
at his sides, ready to reach for any of his weapons. She
might be Arobynn’s protégée, but Wesley had always
made it clear that if she became a threat to his master, he
wouldn’t hesitate to end her. She didn’t need to see him in
action to know he’d be an interesting opponent. She
supposed that was why he did his training in private—and
kept his personal history a secret, too. The less she knew
about him, the more advantage Wesley would have if that
fight ever came. Clever, and flattering, she supposed.
“Nice to see you, too, Wesley,” she said, flashing him
a smile. He tensed, but didn’t stop her as she strode past
him and flung open the doors of Arobynn’s study.
The King of the Assassins was seated at his ornate
desk, poring over the stack of papers before him. Without
so much as a hello, Celaena strode right up to the desk and
tossed the letter onto the shining wooden surface.
She opened her mouth, the words near-bursting out of
her. But Arobynn merely lifted a finger, smiling faintly, and
returned to his papers. Wesley shut the doors behind her.
Celaena froze. Arobynn flipped the page, eyes rapidly
scanning whatever document was in front of him, and made
a vague wave with his hand. Sit.
With his attention still on the document he was
reading, Arobynn picked up the Mute Master’s letter of
approval and set it atop a nearby stack of papers. Celaena
blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t look up at her. He just kept
reading. The message was clear enough: she was to wait
until he was ready. And until then, even if she screamed
until her lungs burst, he wouldn’t acknowledge her
existence.
So Celaena sat down.
Rain plinked against the windows of the study.
Seconds passed, then minutes. Her plans for a grand
speech with sweeping gestures faded into silence. Arobynn
read three other documents before he even picked up the
Mute Master’s letter.
And as he read it, she could only think of the last time
she’d sat in this chair.
She looked at the exquisite red carpet beneath her
feet. Someone had done a splendid job of getting all the
blood out. How much of the blood on the carpet had been
hers—and how much of it had belonged to Sam Cortland,
her rival and coconspirator in the destruction of Arobynn’s
slave agreement? She still didn’t know what Arobynn had
done to him that night. When she’d arrived just now, she
hadn’t seen Sam in the entrance hall. But then again, she
hadn’t seen any of the other assassins that lived here. So
maybe Sam was busy. She hoped he was busy, because
that would mean he was alive.
Arobynn finally looked at her, setting aside the Mute
Master’s letter as if it were nothing more than a scrap of
paper. She kept her back straight and her chin upheld,
even as Arobynn’s silver eyes scanned every inch of her.
They lingered the longest on the narrow pink scar across
the side of her neck, inches away from her jaw and ear.
“Well,” Arobynn said at last, “I thought you’d be tanner.”
She almost laughed, but she kept a tight rein on her
features. “Head-to-toe clothes to avoid the sun,” she
explained. Her words were quieter—weaker—than she
wanted. The first words she’d spoken to him since he’d
beaten her into oblivion. They weren’t exactly satisfying.
“Ah,” he said, his long, elegant fingers twisting a
golden ring around his forefinger.
She sucked in a breath through her nose,
remembering all that she’d been burning to say to him
these past few months and during the journey back to
Rifthold. A few sentences, and it would be over. More than
eight years with him, finished with a string of words and a
mountain of gold.
She braced herself to begin, but Arobynn spoke first.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Yet again, the words vanished from her lips.
His eyes were intent on hers, and he stopped toying
with his ring. “If I could take back that night, Celaena, I
would.” He leaned over the edge of the desk, his hands
now forming fists. The last time she’d seen those hands,
they’d been smeared with her blood.
“I’m sorry,” Arobynn repeated. He was nearly twenty
years her senior, and though his red hair had a few strands
of silver, his face remained young. Elegant, sharp features,
blazingly clear gray eyes … He might not have been the
handsomest man she’d ever seen, but he was one of the
most alluring.
“Every day,” he went on. “Every day since you left, I’ve
gone to the temple of Kiva to pray for forgiveness.” She
might have snorted at the idea of the King of the Assassins
kneeling before a statue of the God of Atonement, but his
words were so raw. Was it possible that he actually
regretted what he had done?
“I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me. I
shouldn’t have sent you away.”
“Then why didn’t you retrieve me?” It was out before
she had a chance to control the snap in her voice.
Arobynn’s eyes narrowed slightly, as close to a wince
as he’d let himself come, she supposed. “With the time it’d
take for the messengers to track you down, you probably
would have been on your way home, anyway.”
She clenched her jaw. An easy excuse.
He read the ire in her eyes—and her disbelief. “Allow
me to make it up to you.” He rose from his leather chair and
strode around the desk. His long legs and years of training
made his movements effortlessly graceful, even as he
swiped a box off the edge of the table. He sank to one knee
before her, his face near level with hers. She’d forgotten
how tall he was.
He extended the gift to her. The box in itself was a
work of art, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, but she kept her
face blank as she flipped open the lid.
An emerald-and-gold brooch glittered in the gray
afternoon light. It was stunning, the work of a master
craftsman—and she instantly knew what dresses and tunics
it would best complement. He’d bought it because he also
knew her wardrobe, her tastes, everything about her. Of all
the people in the world, only Arobynn knew the absolute
truth.
“For you,” he said. “The first of many.” She was keenly
aware of each of his movements, and braced herself as he
lifted a hand, carefully bringing it to her face. He brushed a
finger from her temple down to the arc of her cheekbones.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, and Celaena raised her
eyes to his.
Father, brother, lover—he’d never really declared
himself any of them. Certainly not the lover part, though if
Celaena had been another sort of girl, and if Arobynn had
raised her differently, perhaps it might have come to that.
He loved her like family, yet he put her in the most
dangerous positions. He nurtured and educated her, yet
he’d obliterated her innocence the first time he’d made her
end a life. He’d given her everything, but he’d also taken
everything away. She could no sooner sort out her feelings
toward the King of the Assassins than she could count the
stars in the sky.
Celaena turned her face away, and Arobynn rose to
his feet. He leaned against the edge of the desk, smiling
faintly at her. “I’ve another gift, if you’d like it.”
All those months of daydreaming about leaving, about
paying off her debts … Why couldn’t she open her mouth
and just tell him?
“Benzo Doneval is coming to Rifthold,” Arobynn said.
Celaena cocked her head. She’d heard of Doneval—he
was an immensely powerful businessman from Melisande,
a country far to the southwest, and one of Adarlan’s newer
conquests.
“Why?” she asked quietly—carefully.
Arobynn’s eyes glittered. “He’s a part of a large
convoy that Leighfer Bardingale is leading to the Capital.
Leighfer is good friends with the former Queen of
Melisande, who asked her to come here to plead their case
before the King of Adarlan.” Melisande, Celaena recalled,
was one of the few kingdoms whose royal family had not
been executed. Instead, they’d handed over their crowns
and sworn loyalty to the King of Adarlan and his conquering
legions. She couldn’t tell what was worse: a quick
beheading, or yielding to the King of Adarlan.
“Apparently,” Arobynn went on, “the convoy will
attempt to demonstrate all that Melisande has to offer—
culture, goods, wealth—in order to convince the king to
grant them the permission and resources required to build
a road. Given that the former Queen of Melisande is now a
mere figurehead, I’ll admit that I’m impressed by her
ambition—and her brazenness in asking the king.”
Celaena bit her lip, visualizing the map of their
continent. “A road to connect Melisande to Fenharrow and
Adarlan?” For years, trade with Melisande had been tricky
due to its location. Bordered by near-impassable
mountains and the Oakwald Forest, most of their trade had
been reduced to whatever they could get out of their ports.
A road might change all of that. A road could make
Melisande rich—and influential.
Arobynn nodded. “The convoy will be here for a week,
and they have parties and markets planned, including a
gala three days from now to celebrate the Harvest Moon.
Perhaps if the citizens of Rifthold fall in love with their
goods, then the king will take their case seriously.”
“So what does Doneval have to do with the road?”
Arobynn shrugged. “He’s here to discuss business
arrangements in Rifthold. And probably also to undermine
his former wife, Leighfer. And to complete one very specific
piece of business that made Leighfer want to dispatch
him.”
Celaena’s brows rose. A gift, Arobynn had said.
“Doneval is traveling with some very sensitive
documents,” Arobynn said so quietly that the rain lashing
the window nearly drowned out his words. “Not only would
you need to dispatch him, but you’d also be asked to
retrieve the documents.”
“What sort of documents?”
His silver eyes brightened. “Doneval wants to set up a
slave-trade business between himself and someone in
Rifthold. If the road is approved and built, he wants to be
the first in Melisande to profit off the import and export of
slaves. The documents, apparently, contain proof that
certain influential Melisanders in Adarlan are opposed to
the slave trade. Considering the lengths the King of Adarlan
has already gone to punish those who speak against his
policies … Well, knowing who stands against him
regarding the slaves—especially when it seems like they’re
taking steps to help free the slaves from his grasp—is
information that the king would be extremely interested in
learning. Doneval and his new business partner in Rifthold
plan to use that list to blackmail those people into changing
their minds—into stopping their resistance and investing
with him to build the slave trade in Melisande. Or, if they
refuse, Leighfer believes her former husband will make
sure the king gets that list of names.”
Celaena swallowed hard. Was this a peace offering,
then? Some indication that Arobynn actually had changed
his mind about the slave trade and forgiven her for Skull’s
Bay?
But to get tangled up in this sort of thing again …
“What’s Bardingale’s stake in this?” she asked carefully.
“Why hire us to kill him?”
“Because Leighfer doesn’t believe in slavery, and she
wants to protect the people on that list—people who are
preparing to take the necessary steps to soften the blow of
slavery in Melisande. And possibly even smuggle captured
slaves to safety.” Arobynn spoke like he knew Bardingale
personally—like they were more than business partners.
“And Doneval’s partner in Rifthold? Who is it?” She
had to consider all the angles before she accepted, had to
think it through.
“Leighfer doesn’t know; her sources haven’t been able
to find a name in Doneval’s coded correspondences with
his partner. All she’s gleaned is that Doneval will exchange
the documents with his new business partner six days from
now at his rented house, at some point in the day. She’s
uncertain what documents his partner is bringing to the
table, but she’s betting that it’s a list of important people
opposed to slavery in Adarlan. Leighfer says Doneval will
probably have a private room in his house to do the swap—
perhaps an upstairs study or something of the sort. She
knows him well enough to guarantee that.”
She was beginning to see where this was going.
Doneval was practically wrapped in a ribbon for her. All she
had to do was find out what time the meeting would take
place, learn his defenses, and figure out a way around
them. “So I’m not only to take out Doneval, but also to wait
until he’s done the exchange so I can get his documents
and whatever documents his partner brings to the table?”
Arobynn smiled slightly. “What about his partner? Am I to
dispatch this person as well?”
Arobynn’s smile became a thin line. “Since we don’t
know who he’ll be dealing with, you haven’t been contracted
to eliminate them. But, it’s been strongly hinted that
Leighfer and her allies want the contact dead as well. They
might give you a bonus for it.”
She studied the emerald brooch in her lap. “And how
well will this pay?”
“Extraordinarily well.” She heard the smile in his voice,
but kept her attention on the lovely green jewel. “And I won’t
take a cut of it. It’s all yours.”
She raised her head at that. There was a glimmer of
pleading in his eyes. Perhaps he truly was sorry for what
he’d done. And perhaps he’d picked this mission just for
her—to prove, in his way, that he understood why she’d
freed those slaves in Skull’s Bay. “I can assume Doneval is
well guarded?”
“Very,” Arobynn said, fishing a letter from the desk
behind him. “He’s waiting to do the deal until after the
citywide celebrations, so he can run home the next day.”
Celaena glanced toward the ceiling, as if she could
see through the wood beams and into her room on the floor
above, where her trunks of gold now sat. She didn’t need
the money, but if she were going to pay off her debt to
Arobynn, her funds would be severely depleted. And to take
this mission wouldn’t just be about killing—it would be
about helping others, too. How many lives would be
destroyed if she didn’t dispatch Doneval and his partner
and retrieve those sensitive documents?
Arobynn approached her again, and she rose from
her chair. He brushed her hair back from her face. “I missed
you,” he said.
He opened his arms to her, but didn’t make a further
move to embrace her. She studied his face. The Mute
Master had told her that people dealt with their pain in
different ways—that some chose to drown it, some chose
to love it, and some chose to let it turn into rage. While she
had no regrets about freeing those two hundred slaves from
Skull’s Bay, she had betrayed Arobynn in doing it. Perhaps
hurting her had been his way of coping with the pain of that.
And even though there was no excuse in this world for
what he had done, Arobynn was all she had. The history
that lay between them, dark and twisted and full of secrets,
was forged by more than just gold. And if she left him, if she
paid off her debts right now and never saw him again …
She took a step back, and Arobynn casually lowered
his arms, not at all fazed by her rejection. “I’ll think about
taking on Doneval.” It wasn’t a lie. She always took time to
consider her missions—Arobynn had always encouraged
that.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Celaena just gave him another long look before she
left.
Her exhaustion hit her the moment she began climbing the
polished marble steps of the sweeping grand staircase. A
month of hard travel—after a month of grueling training and
heartache. Every time she saw the scar on her neck, or
touched it, or felt her clothes brush against it, a tremor of
pain went through her as she remembered the betrayal that
had caused it. She’d believed Ansel was her friend—a lifefriend,
a friend of the heart. But Ansel’s need for revenge
had been greater than anything else. Still, wherever Ansel
now was, Celaena hoped that she was finally facing what
had haunted her for so long.
A passing servant saw her and bowed his head, eyes
averted. Everyone who worked here knew more or less
who she was, and would keep her identity secret on pain of
death. Not that there was much of a point to it now, given
that every single one of the Silent Assassins could identify
her.
Celaena took a ragged breath, running a hand through
her hair. Before entering the city this morning, she’d
stopped at a tavern just outside Rifthold to bathe, to wash
her filthy clothes, to put on some cosmetics. She hadn’t
wanted to stride into the Keep looking like a gutter rat. But
she still felt dirty.
She passed one of the upstairs drawing rooms, her
brows rising at the sound of a pianoforte and laughing
people inside. If Arobynn had company, then why had he
been in his study, ever so busy, when she arrived?
Celaena ground her teeth. So that nonsense where
he’d made her wait while he finished his work …
She clenched her hands into fists and was about to
whirl and stomp back down the stairs to tell Arobynn that
she was leaving and that he no longer owned her, when
someone stepped into the elegantly appointed hall.
Celaena froze as she saw Sam Cortland.
Sam’s brown eyes were wide, his body rigid. As if it
took some effort on his part, he shut the door to the hall
washroom and strode toward her, past the teal velvet
curtains hanging on the floor-to-ceiling windows, past the
framed artwork on the walls, closer and closer. She
remained still, taking in every inch of him before he stopped
a few feet away.
No missing limbs, no limp, no indication of anything
haunting him. His chestnut hair had gotten a little longer, but
it suited him. And he was tan—gloriously tan, as if he’d
spent the whole summer basking in the sun. Hadn’t
Arobynn punished him at all?
“You’re back,” Sam said, as if he couldn’t quite
believe that she stood before him.
She lifted her chin, stuffing her hands in her pockets.
“Obviously.”
He tilted his head slightly to the side. “How was the
desert?”
There wasn’t a scratch on him. Of course, her face
had healed, too, but … “Hot,” she said. Sam let out a
breathy chuckle.
It wasn’t that she was mad at him for being uninjured.
She was so relieved she could have vomited, actually. She
just never imagined that seeing him today would feel so …
strange. And after what had happened with Ansel, could
she honestly say that she trusted him?
In the drawing room a few doors down, a woman let
out a shrill giggle. How was it possible that she could have
so many questions and yet so little to say?
Sam’s eyes slipped from her face to her neck, his
brows drawing together for a heartbeat as he saw the thin
new scar. “What happened?”
“Someone held a sword to my throat.”
His eyes darkened, but she didn’t want to explain the
long, miserable story. She didn’t want to talk about Ansel,
and she certainly didn’t want to talk about what had
happened with Arobynn that night they’d returned from
Skull’s Bay.
“Are you hurt?” Sam asked quietly, taking another
step closer.
It took her a moment to realize that his imagination
had probably taken him to a far, far worse place when she
said someone had held a blade to her throat.
“No,” she said. “No, not like that.”
“Then like what?” He was now looking more closely at
her, at the almost invisible white line along her cheek—
another gift from Ansel—at her hands, at everything. His
lean, muscled body tensed. His chest had gotten broader,
too.
“Like none of your business, that’s what,” she retorted.
“Tell me what happened,” he gritted out.
She gave him one of those simpering little smiles that
she knew he hated. Things hadn’t been bad between them
since Skull’s Bay, but after so many years of treating him
awfully, she didn’t know how to slide back into that
newfound respect and camaraderie they’d discovered for
each other. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because,” he hissed, taking another step, “the last
time I saw you, Celaena, you were unconscious on
Arobynn’s carpet and so bloodied up that I couldn’t see
your damn face.”
He was close enough that she could touch him now.
Rain continued beating against the hall windows, a distant
reminder that there was still a world around them. “Tell me,”
he said.
I’ll kill you! Sam had screamed it at Arobynn as the
King of the Assassins beat her. He’d roared it. In those
horrible minutes, whatever bond had sprung up between
her and Sam hadn’t broken. He’d switched loyalties—he’d
chosen to stand by her, fight for her. If anything, that made
him different from Ansel. Sam could have hurt or betrayed
her a dozen times over, but he’d never jumped at the
opportunity.
A half smile tugged at a corner of her lips. She’d
missed him. Seeing the expression on her face, he gave
her a bewildered sort of grin. She swallowed, feeling the
words bubbling up through her—I missed you—but the
door to the drawing room opened.
“Sam!” a dark-haired, green-eyed young woman
chided, laughter on her lips. “There you—” The girl’s eyes
met Celaena’s. Celaena stopped smiling as she
recognized her.
A feline sort of smirk spread across the young
woman’s stunning features, and she slipped out of the
doorway and slunk over to them. Celaena took in each
swish of her hips, the elegant angle of her hand, the
exquisite dress that dipped low enough to reveal her
generous bosom. “Celaena,” she cooed, and Sam eyed
the two girls warily as she stopped beside him. Too close
beside him for a casual acquaintance.
“Lysandra,” Celaena echoed. She’d met Lysandra
when they were both ten, and in the seven years that they’d
known each other, Celaena couldn’t recall a time when she
didn’t want to beat in the girl’s face with a brick. Or throw
her out a window. Or do any of a number of things she’d
learned from Arobynn.
It didn’t help that Arobynn had spent a good deal of
money assisting Lysandra in her rise from street orphan to
one of the most anticipated courtesans in Rifthold’s history.
He was good friends with Lysandra’s madam—and had
been Lysandra’s doting benefactor for years. Lysandra and
her madam remained the only courtesans aware that the
girl Arobynn called his “niece” was actually his protégée.
Celaena had never learned why Arobynn had told them, but
whenever she complained about the risk of Lysandra
revealing her identity, he seemed certain she would not.
Celaena, not surprisingly, had trouble believing it; but
perhaps threats from the King of the Assassins were
enough to keep even the loud-mouthed Lysandra silent.
“I thought you’d been packed off to the desert,”
Lysandra said, running a shrewd eye over Celaena’s
clothes. Thank the Wyrd she’d bothered to change at that
tavern. “Is it possible the summer passed that quickly? I
guess when you’re having so much fun …”
A deadly, vicious sort of calm filled Celaena’s veins.
She’d snapped once at Lysandra—when they were thirteen
and Lysandra had snatched a lovely lace fan right out of
Celaena’s hands. The ensuing fight had sent them tumbling
down a flight of stairs. Celaena had spent a night in the
Keep’s dungeon for the welts she’d left on Lysandra’s face
by beating her with the fan itself.
She tried to ignore how close the girl stood to Sam.
He’d always been kind to the courtesans, and they all
adored him. His mother had been one of them, and had
asked Arobynn—a patron of hers—to look after her son.
Sam had only been six when she was murdered by a
jealous client. Celaena crossed her arms. “Should I bother
to ask what you’re doing here?”
Lysandra gave her a knowing smile. “Oh, Arobynn”—
she purred his name like they were the most intimate of
friends—“threw me a luncheon in honor of my upcoming
Bidding.”
Of course he did. “He invited your future clients here?”
“Oh, no.” Lysandra giggled. “This is just for me and the
girls. And Clarisse, of course.” She used her madam’s
name, too, like a weapon, a word meant to crush and
dominate—a word that whispered: I am more important
than you; I have more influence than you; I am everything
and you are nothing.
“Lovely,” Celaena replied. Sam still hadn’t said
anything.
Lysandra lifted her chin, looking down her delicately
freckled nose at Celaena. “My Bidding is in six days. They
expect me to break all the records.”
Celaena had seen a few young courtesans go through
the Bidding process—girls trained until they were
seventeen, when their virginity was sold to the highest
bidder.
“Sam,” Lysandra went on, putting a slender hand on
his arm, “has been so helpful with making sure all the
preparations are ready for my Bidding party.”
Celaena was surprised at the swiftness of her desire
to rip that hand right off Lysandra’s wrist. Just because he
sympathized with the courtesans didn’t mean he had to be
so … friendly with them!
Sam cleared his throat, straightening. “Not that helpful.
Arobynn just wanted to make sure that the vendors and
location were secure.”
“Important clientele must be given the best treatment,”
Lysandra trilled. “I do wish I could tell you who will be in
attendance, but Clarisse would kill me. It’s extraordinarily
hush-hush and need-to-know.”
It was enough. One more word out of the courtesan’s
mouth, and Celaena was fairly certain she’d punch
Lysandra’s teeth down her throat. Celaena angled her
head, her fingers curling into a fist. Sam saw the familiar
gesture and pried Lysandra’s hand off his arm. “Go back to
the luncheon,” he told her.
Lysandra gave Celaena another one of those smiles,
which she then turned on Sam. “When are you coming back
in?” Her full, red lips formed a pout.
Enough, enough, enough.
Celaena turned on her heel. “Enjoy your quality
company,” she said over her shoulder.
“Celaena,” Sam said.
But she wouldn’t turn back around, not even when she
heard Lysandra giggle and whisper something, not even
when all she wanted in the entire world was to grab her
dagger and throw, as hard as she could, right toward
Lysandra’s impossibly beautiful face.
She’d always hated Lysandra, she told herself. Always
hated her. Her touching Sam like that, speaking to Sam
like that, it didn’t change things. But …
Though Lysandra’s virginity was unquestionable—it
had to be—there were plenty of other things that she could
still do. Things that she might have done with Sam …
Feeling sick and furious and small, Celaena reached
her bedroom and slammed the door hard enough to rattle
the rain-splattered windows.

Chapter Two
The rain didn’t stop the next day, and Celaena awoke to a
grumble of thunder and a servant setting a long, beautifully
wrapped box on her dresser. She opened the gift as she
drank her morning cup of tea, taking her time with the
turquoise ribbon, doing her best to pretend to herself that
she wasn’t that interested in what Arobynn had sent her.
None of these presents came close to earning any sort of
forgiveness. But she couldn’t contain her squeal when she
opened the box and found two gold hair combs glinting up
at her. They were exquisite, formed like sharp fish fins,
each point accentuated with a sliver of sapphire.
She nearly upset her breakfast tray as she rushed
from the table by the window to the rosewood vanity. With
deft hands, she dragged one of the combs through her hair,
sweeping it back before she nimbly flipped it into place.
She quickly repeated it on the other side of her head, and
when she had finished, she beamed at her reflection.
Exotic, beguiling, imperious.
Arobynn might be a bastard, and he might associate
with Lysandra, but he had damn good taste. Oh, it was so
nice to be back in civilization, with her beautiful clothes and
shoes and jewels and cosmetics and all the luxuries she’d
had to spend the summer without!
Celaena examined the ends of her hair and frowned.
The frown deepened when her attention shifted to her
hands—to her shredded cuticles and jagged nails. She let
out a low hiss, facing the windows along one wall of her
ornate bedroom. It was early autumn—that meant rain
usually hung around Rifthold for a good couple of weeks.
Through the low-hanging clouds and the slashing rain,
she could see the rest of the capital city gleaming in the
gray light. Pale stone houses stood tucked together, linked
by broad avenues that stretched from the alabaster walls to
the docks along the eastern quarter of the city, from the
teeming city center to the jumble of crumbling buildings in
the slums at the southern edge, where the Avery River
curved inland. Even the emerald roofs on each building
seemed cast in silver. The glass castle towered over them
all, its upper turrets shrouded in mist.
The convoy from Melisande couldn’t have picked a
worse time to visit. If they wanted to have street festivals,
they’d find few participants willing to brave the merciless
downpour.
Celaena slowly removed the combs from her hair. The
convoy would arrive today, Arobynn had told her last night
over a private dinner. She still hadn’t given him an answer
about whether she’d take down Doneval in five days, and
he hadn’t pushed her about it. He had been kind and
gracious, serving her food himself, speaking softly to her
like she was some frightened pet.
She glanced again at her hair and nails. A very
unkempt, wild-looking pet.
She stood, striding to her dressing room. She’d
decide what to do about Doneval and his agenda later. For
now, not even the rain would keep her from a little
pampering.
The shop she favored for her upkeep was ecstatic to see
her—and utterly horrified at the state of her hair. And nails.
And her eyebrows! She couldn’t have bothered to pluck
her eyebrows while she was away? Half a day later—her
hair cut and shining, her nails soft and gleaming—Celaena
braved the sodden city streets.
Even with the rain, people found excuses to be out
and about as the giant convoy from Melisande arrived. She
paused beneath the awning of a flower shop where the
owner was standing on the threshold to watch the grand
procession. The Melisanders snaked along the broad
avenue that stretched from the western gate of the city all
the way to the castle doors.
There were the usual jugglers and fire-eaters, whose
jobs were made infinitely harder by the confounded rain; the
dance-girls whose billowing pants were sodden up to the
knees; and then the line of Very Important, Very Wealthy
People, who were all bundled under cloaks and didn’t sit
quite as tall as they’d probably imagined they would.
Celaena tucked her numbed fingers into her tunic
pockets. Brightly painted covered wagons ambled past.
Their hatches had all been shut against the weather—and
that meant Celaena would start back to the Keep
immediately.
Melisande was known for its tinkerers; for clever
hands that created clever little devices. Clockwork so fine
you could swear it was alive, musical instruments so clear
and lovely they could shatter your heart, toys so charming
you’d believe magic hadn’t vanished from the continent. If
the wagons that contained those things were all shut, then
she had no interest in watching a parade of soaked,
miserable people.
Crowds were still flocking toward the main avenue, so
Celaena took to narrow, winding alleys to avoid them. She
wondered if Sam was making his way to see the
procession—and if Lysandra was with him. So much for
Sam’s unwavering loyalty to her. How long had it taken after
she’d gone to the desert before he and Lysandra had
become dear, dear friends?
Things had been better when she relished the thought
of gutting him. Apparently, Sam was just as susceptible to a
pretty face as Arobynn was. She didn’t know why she’d
thought he would be different. She scowled and walked
faster, her freezing arms crossed over her chest as she
hunched her shoulders against the rain.
Twenty minutes later, she was dripping water all over
the marble floor of the Keep’s entranceway. And one
minute after that, she was dripping water all over Arobynn’s
study carpet as she told him that she would take on
Doneval, his slave-trade blackmail documents, and
whoever his coconspirator might be.
The next morning, Celaena looked down at herself, her
mouth caught between a smile and a frown. The neck-totoe
black outfit was all made from the same, dark fabric—
as thick as leather, but without the sheen. It was like a suit
of armor, only skintight and made from some strange cloth,
not metal. She could feel the weight of her weapons where
they were concealed—so neatly that even someone patting
her down might think they were merely ribbing—and she
swung her arms experimentally.
“Careful,” the short man in front of her said, his eyes
wide. “You might take off my head.”
Behind them, Arobynn chuckled from where he leaned
against the paneled wall of the training room. She hadn’t
asked questions when he’d summoned her, then told her to
put on the black suit and matching boots that were lined
with fleece.
“When you want to unsheathe the blades,” the inventor
said, taking a large step back, “it’s a downward sweep,
and an extra flick of the wrist.” He demonstrated the motion
with his own scrawny arm, and Celaena echoed it.
She grinned as a narrow blade shot out of a
concealed flap in her forearm. Permanently attached to the
suit, it was like having a short sword welded to her arm.
She made the same motion with the other wrist, and the
twin blade appeared. Some internal mechanism had to be
responsible for it—some brilliant contraption of springs and
gears. She gave a few deadly swings in the air in front of
her, reveling in the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the swords.
They were finely made, too. She raised her brows in
admiration. “How do they go back?”
“Ah, a little more difficult,” the inventor said. “Wrist
angled up, and press this little button here. It should trigger
the mechanism that—there you go.” She watched the blade
slide back into the suit, then released and returned the
blade several times.
The deal with Doneval and his partner was in four
days; just long enough for her to try out the new suit. Four
days was plenty to figure out his house’s defenses and
learn what time the meeting would take place, especially
since she already knew that it was occurring in some
private study.
At last she looked at Arobynn. “How much is it?”
He pushed off the wall. “It’s a gift. As are the boots.”
She knocked a toe against the tiled floor, feeling the jagged
edges and grooves of the soles. Perfect for climbing. The
sheepskin interior would keep her feet at body
temperature, the inventor had said, even if she got them
utterly soaked. She’d never even heard of a suit like this. It
would completely change the way she conducted her
missions. Not that she needed the suit to give her an edge.
But she was Celaena Sardothien, gods be damned, so
didn’t she deserve the very best equipment? With this suit,
no one would question her place as Adarlan’s Assassin.
Ever. And if they did … Wyrd help them.
The inventor asked to take her final measurements,
though the ones Arobynn had supplied were almost perfect.
She lifted her arms out as he did the measuring, asking him
bland questions about his trip from Melisande and what he
planned to sell here. He was a master tinkerer, he said—
and specialized in crafting things that were believed to be
impossible. Like a suit that was both armor and an armory,
and lightweight enough to wear comfortably.
Celaena looked over her shoulder at Arobynn, who
had watched her interrogation with a bemused smile. “Are
you getting one made?”
“Of course. And Sam, too. Only the best for my best.”
She noticed that he didn’t say “assassin”—but whatever the
tinkerer thought about who they were, his face yielded no
sign.
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You never give Sam
gifts.”
Arobynn shrugged, picking at his manicured nails.
“Oh, Sam will be paying for the suit. I can’t have my secondbest
completely vulnerable, can I?”
She hid her shock better this time. A suit like this had
to cost a small fortune. Materials aside, just the hours it
must have taken the tinkerer to create it … Arobynn had to
have commissioned them immediately after he’d sent her
to the Red Desert. Perhaps he truly felt bad about what
happened. But to force Sam to buy it …
The clock chimed eleven, and Arobynn let out a long
breath. “I have a meeting.” He waved a ringed hand to the
tinkerer. “Give the bill to my manservant when you’re done.”
The master tinkerer nodded, still measuring Celaena.
Arobynn approached her, each step as graceful as a
movement of a dance. He planted a kiss on the top of her
head. “I’m glad to have you back,” he murmured onto her
hair. With that, he strolled from the room, whistling to
himself.
The tinkerer knelt to measure the length between her
knee and boot-tip, for whatever purpose that had. Celaena
cleared her throat, waiting until she was sure Arobynn was
out of earshot. “If I were to give you a piece of Spidersilk,
could you incorporate it into one of these uniforms? It’s
small, so I’d just want it placed around the heart.” She used
her hands to show the size of the material that she’d been
given by the merchant in the desert city of Xandria.
Spidersilk was a near-mythical material made by
horse-sized stygian spiders—so rare that you had to brave
the spiders yourself to get it. And they didn’t trade in gold.
No, they coveted things like dreams and memories and
souls. The merchant she’d met had traded twenty years of
his youth for two hundred yards of it. And after a long,
strange conversation with him, he’d given her a few square
inches of Spidersilk. As a reminder, he’d said. That
everything has a price.
The master tinkerer’s bushy brows rose. “I—I
suppose. To the interior or the exterior? I think the interior,”
he went on, answering his own question. “If I sewed it to the
exterior, the iridescence might ruin the stealth of the black.
But it’d turn any blade, and it’s just barely the right size to
shield the heart. Oh, what I’d give for ten yards of
Spidersilk! You’d be invincible, my dear.”
She smiled slowly. “As long as it guards the heart.”
She left the tinkerer in the hall. Her suit would be ready the
day after tomorrow.
It didn’t surprise her when she ran into Sam on her
way out. She’d spotted the dummy that bore his own suit
waiting for him in the training hall. Alone with her in the
hallway, he examined her suit. She still had to change
quickly out of it and bring it back downstairs to the tinkerer
before he left so he could make his final adjustments in
whatever shop he’d set up while he was staying in Rifthold.
“Fancy,” Sam said. She made to put her hands on her
hips, but stopped. Until she mastered the suit, she had to
watch how she moved—or else she might skewer
someone. “Another gift?”
“Is there a problem if it is?”
She hadn’t seen Sam at all yesterday, but, then again,
she’d also made herself pretty scarce. It wasn’t that she
was avoiding him; she just didn’t particularly want to see
him if it meant running into Lysandra, too. But it seemed
strange that he wasn’t on any mission. Most of the other
assassins were away on various jobs or so busy they were
hardly at home. But Sam just seemed to be hanging around
the Keep, or helping Lysandra and her madam.
Sam crossed his arms. His white shirt was tight
enough that she could see the muscles shifting beneath.
“Not at all. I’m just a little surprised that you’re accepting his
gifts. How can you forgive him after what he did?”
“Forgive him! I’m not the one cavorting with Lysandra
and attending luncheons and doing … doing whatever in
hell it is you spent the summer doing!”
Sam let out a low growl. “You think I particularly enjoy
any of that?”
“You weren’t the one sent off to the Red Desert.”
“Believe me, I would rather have been thousands of
miles away.”
“ I don’t believe you. How can I believe anything you
say?”
His brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. None of your business. I don’t want to talk
about this. And I don’t particularly want to talk to you, Sam
Cortland.”
“Then go ahead,” he breathed. “Go crawl back to
Arobynn’s study and talk to him. Let him buy you presents
and pet your hair and offer you the best-paying missions we
get. It won’t take him long to figure out the price for your
forgiveness, not when—”
She shoved him. “Don’t you dare judge me. Don’t you
say one more word.”
A muscle feathered in his jaw. “That’s fine with me.
You wouldn’t listen anyway. Celaena Sardothien and
Arobynn Hamel: just the two of you, inseparable, until the
end of the world. The rest of us might as well be invisible.”
“That sounds an awful lot like jealousy. Especially
considering you had three uninterrupted months with him
this summer. What happened, hmm? You failed to convince
him to make you his favorite? Found you lacking, did he?”
Sam was in her face so quickly that she fought the
urge to jump back. “You know nothing about what this
summer was like for me. Nothing, Celaena.”
“Good. I don’t particularly care.”
His eyes were so wide that she wondered if she’d
struck him without realizing it. At last he stepped away, and
she stormed past him. She halted when he spoke again.
“You want to know what price I asked for forgiving Arobynn,
Celaena?”
She slowly turned. With the ongoing rain, the hall was
full of shadows and light. Sam stood so still that he might
have been a statue. “My price was his oath that he’d never
lay a hand on you again. I told him I’d forgive him in
exchange for that.”
She wished he’d punched her in the gut. It would have
hurt less. Not trusting herself to keep from falling to her
knees with shame right there, she just stalked down the hall.
She didn’t want to speak to Sam ever again. How could
she look him in the eye? He’d made Arobynn swear that for
her. She didn’t know what words could convey the mixture
of gratitude and guilt. Hating him had been so much easier
… And it would have been far simpler if he’d blamed her for
Arobynn’s punishment. She had said such cruel things to
him in the hallway; how could she ever begin to apologize?
Arobynn came to her room after lunch and told her to
have a dress pressed. Doneval, he’d heard, was going to
be at the theater that night, and with four days until his
exchange, it would be in her best interest to go.
She’d formulated a plan for stalking Doneval, but she
wasn’t proud enough to refuse Arobynn’s offer to use his
box at the theater for spying—to see who Doneval spoke
to, who sat near him, who guarded him. And to see a
classical dance performed with a full orchestra … well,
she’d never turn that down. But Arobynn failed to say who
would be joining them.
She found out the hard way when she climbed into
Arobynn’s carriage and discovered Lysandra and Sam
waiting inside. With four days until her Bidding, the young
courtesan needed all the exposure she could get, Arobynn
calmly explained. And Sam was there to provide additional
security.
Celaena dared a glance at Sam as she slumped onto
the bench beside him. He watched her, his eyes wary,
shoulders tensed, as if he expected her to launch a verbal
attack at him right there. Like she’d mock him for what he’d
done for her sake. Did he really think she was that cruel?
Feeling a bit sick, she dropped Sam’s stare. Lysandra just
smiled at Celaena from across the carriage and linked her
elbow through Arobynn’s.

Chapter Three
Two attendants greeted them at Arobynn’s private box,
taking their sodden cloaks and exchanging them for
glasses of sparkling wine. Immediately, one of Arobynn’s
acquaintances popped in from the hall to say hello, and
Arobynn, Sam, and Lysandra remained in the velvet-lined
antechamber as they chatted. Celaena, who had no interest
in seeing Lysandra test out her flirting with Arobynn’s friend,
strode through the crimson curtain to take her usual seat
closest to the stage.
Arobynn’s box was on the side of the cavernous hall,
near enough to the center so that she had a mostly
unobstructed view of the stage and the orchestra pit, but
still angled enough to make her look longingly at the empty
Royal Boxes. All of them occupied the coveted center
position, and all of them were vacant. What a waste.
She cast her eyes around the floor seats and the other
boxes, taking in the glittering jewels, the silk dresses, the
golden glow of sparkling wine in fluted glasses, the
rumbling murmur of the mingling crowd. If there was one
place where she felt the most at home, a place where she
felt happiest, it was here, in this theater, with the red velvet
cushions and the glass chandeliers and the gilded domed
ceiling high, high above them. Had it been coincidence or
planning that had led to the theater being constructed in the
very heart of the city, a mere twenty-minute walk from the
Assassin’s Keep? She knew it would be hard for her to
adjust to her new apartment, which was nearly double the
distance from the theater. A sacrifice she was willing to
make—if she ever found the right moment to tell Arobynn
she was paying her debt and moving out. Which she would.
Soon.She felt Arobynn’s easy, self-assured gait strutting
across the carpet, and straightened as he leaned over her
shoulder. “Doneval is straight ahead,” Arobynn whispered,
his breath hot on her skin. “Third box in from the stage,
second row of seats.”
She immediately found the man she’d been assigned
to kill. He was tall and middle-aged, with pale blond hair
and tan skin. Not particularly handsome, but not an
eyesore, either. Not heavy, but not toned. Aside from his
periwinkle tunic—which, even from this distance, looked
expensive—there was nothing remarkable about him.
There were a few others in the box. A tall, elegant
woman in her late twenties stood near the partition curtain,
a cluster of men around her. She held herself like a noble,
though no diadem glittered in her lustrous, dark hair.
“Leighfer Bardingale,” Arobynn murmured, following
her gaze. Doneval’s former wife—and the one who’d hired
her. “It was an arranged marriage. She wanted his wealth,
and he wanted her youth. But when they failed to have
children and some of his less … desirable behavior was
revealed, she managed to get out of the marriage, still
young, but far richer.”
It was smart of Bardingale, really. If she planned to
have him assassinated, then pretending to be his friend
would help keep fingers from pointing her way. Though
Bardingale might have looked the part of a polite, elegant
lady, Celaena knew there had to be some ice-cold steel
running through her veins. And an unyielding sense of
dedication to her friends and allies—not to mention to the
common rights of every human being. It was hard not to
immediately admire her.
“And the people around them?” Celaena asked.
Through a small gap in the curtains behind Doneval, she
could glimpse three towering men, all clad in dark gray—all
looking like bodyguards.
“Their friends and investors. Bardingale and Doneval
still have some joint businesses together. The three men in
the back are his guards.”
Celaena nodded, and might have asked him some
other questions had Sam and Lysandra not filed into the
box behind them, bidding farewell to Arobynn’s friend.
There were three seats along the balcony rail, and three
seats behind them. Lysandra, to Celaena’s dismay, sat
next to her as Arobynn and Sam took the rear seats.
“Oh, look at how many people are here,” Lysandra
said. Her low-cut ice-blue dress did little to hide her
cleavage as she craned her neck over the rail. Celaena
blocked out Lysandra’s prattling as the courtesan began
tossing out important names.
Celaena could sense Sam behind her, feel his gaze
focused solely on the gold velvet curtains concealing the
stage. She should say something to him—apologize or
thank him or just … say something kind. She felt him
tensing, as if he, too, wanted to say something.
Somewhere in the theater, a gong began signaling the
audience to take their seats.
It was now or never. She didn’t know why her heart
thundered the way it did, but she didn’t give herself a
chance to second-guess herself as she twisted in her seat
to look at him. She glanced once at his clothes and then
said, “You look handsome.”
His brows rose, and she swiftly turned back around in
her seat, focusing hard on the curtain. He looked better
than handsome, but … Well, at least she’d said one nice
thing. She’d tried to be nice. Somehow, it didn’t make her
feel that much better.
Celaena folded her hands in the lap of her bloodred
gown. It wasn’t cut nearly as low as Lysandra’s, but with the
slender sleeves and bare shoulders, she felt particularly
exposed to Sam. She’d curled and swept her hair over one
shoulder, certainly not to hide the scar on her neck.
Doneval lounged in his seat, eyes on the stage. How
could a man who looked so bored and useless be
responsible for not just the fate of several lives, but of his
entire country? How could he sit in this theater and not hang
his head in shame for what he was about to do to his fellow
countrymen, and to whatever slaves would be caught up in
it? The men around Bardingale kissed her cheeks and
departed for their own boxes. Doneval’s three thugs
watched the men very, very closely as they left. Not lazy,
bored guards, then. Celaena frowned.
But then the chandeliers were hauled upward into the
dome and dimmed, and the crowd quieted to hear the
opening notes as the orchestra began playing. In the dark,
it was nearly impossible to see Doneval.
Sam’s hand brushed her shoulder, and she almost
jumped out of her skin as he brought his mouth close to her
ear and murmured, “You look beautiful. Though I bet you
already know that.” She most certainly did.
She gave him a sidelong glare, and found him
grinning as he leaned back into his seat.
Suppressing her urge to smile, Celaena turned toward
the stage as the music established the setting for them. A
world of shadows and mist. A world where creatures and
myths dwelled in the dark moments before dawn.
Celaena went still as the gold curtain drew back, and
everything she knew and everything she was faded away to
nothing.
The music annihilated her.
The dancing was breathtaking, yes, and the story it
told—a legend of a prince seeking to rescue his bride, and
the cunning bird he captured to help him to do it—was
certainly lovely, but the music.
Had there ever been anything more beautiful, more
exquisitely painful? She clenched the arms of the seat, her
fingers digging into the velvet as the music hurtled toward
its finale, sweeping her away in a flood.
With each beat of the drum, each trill of the flute and
blare of the horn, she felt all of it along her skin, along her
bones. The music broke her apart and put her back
together, only to rend her asunder again and again.
And then the climax, the compilation of all the sounds
she had loved best, amplified until they echoed into eternity.
As the final note swelled, a gasp broke from her, setting the
tears in her eyes spilling down her face. She didn’t care
who saw.
Then, silence.
The silence was the worst thing she’d ever heard. The
silence brought back everything around her. Applause
erupted, and she was on her feet, crying still as she
clapped until her hands ached.
“Celaena, I didn’t know you had a shred of human
emotion in you,” Lysandra leaned in to whisper. “And I
didn’t think the performance was that good.”
Sam gripped the back of Lysandra’s chair. “Shut up,
Lysandra.”
Arobynn clicked his tongue in warning, but Celaena
remained clapping, even as Sam’s defense sent a faint
trickle of pleasure through her. The ovation continued for a
while, with the dancers emerging from the curtain again and
again to bow and be showered with flowers. Celaena
clapped through it all, even as her tears dried, even as the
crowd began shuffling out.
When she remembered to glance at Doneval, his box
was empty.
Arobynn, Sam, and Lysandra left their box, too, long
before she was ready to end her applause. But after she
finished clapping, Celaena remained, staring toward the
curtained stage, watching the orchestra begin to pack up
their instruments.
She was the last person to leave the theater.
There was another party at the Keep that night—a party for
Lysandra and her madam and whatever artists and
philosophers and writers Arobynn favored at that moment.
Mercifully, it was confined to one of the drawing rooms, but
laughter and music still filled the entirety of the second floor.
On the carriage ride home, Arobynn had asked Celaena to
join them, but the last thing she wanted to see was
Lysandra being fawned over by Arobynn, Sam, and
everyone else. So she told him that she was tired and
needed to sleep.
She wasn’t tired in the least, though. Emotionally
drained, perhaps, but it was only ten thirty, and the thought
of taking off her gown and climbing into bed made her feel
rather pathetic. She was Adarlan’s Assassin; she’d freed
slaves and stolen Asterion horses and won the respect of
the Mute Master. Surely she could do something better than
go to bed early.
So she slipped into one of the music rooms, where it
was quiet enough that she could only hear a burst of
laughter every now and then. The other assassins were
either at the party or off on some mission or other. Her
rustling dress was the only sound as she folded back the
cover of the pianoforte. She’d learned to play when she
was ten—under Arobynn’s orders that she find at least one
refined skill other than ending lives—and had fallen in love
immediately. Though she no longer took lessons, she
played whenever she could spare a few minutes.
The music from the theater still echoed in her mind.
Again and again, the same cluster of notes and harmonies.
She could feel them humming under the surface of her skin,
beating in time with her heart. What she wouldn’t give to
hear the music once more!
She played a few notes with one hand, frowned,
adjusted her fingers, and tried again, clinging to the music
in her mind. Slowly, the familiar melody began to sound
right.
But it was only a few notes, and it was the pianoforte,
not an orchestra; she pounded the keys harder, working out
the riffs. It was almost there, but not quite right. She couldn’t
remember the notes as perfectly as they sounded in her
head. She didn’t feel them the way she’d felt them only an
hour ago.
She tried again for a few minutes, but eventually
slammed the lid shut and stalked from the room. She found
Sam lounging against a wall in the hallway. Had he been
listening to her fumble with the pianoforte this whole time?
“Close, but not quite the same, is it?” he said. She
gave him a withering look and started toward her bedroom,
even though she had no desire to spend the rest of the
night sitting in there by herself. “It must drive you mad, not
being able to get it just the way you remember it.” He kept
pace beside her. His midnight-blue tunic brought out the
golden hues in his skin.
“I was just fooling around,” she said. “I can’t be the
best at everything, you know. It wouldn’t be fair to the rest
of you, would it?” Down the hall, someone had started a
merry tune on the instruments in the gaming room.
Sam chewed on his lip. “Why didn’t you trail Doneval
after the theater? Don’t you have only four days left?” She
wasn’t surprised he knew; her missions weren’t usually that
secret.
She paused, still itching to hear the music once more.
“Some things are more important than death.”
Sam’s eyes flickered. “I know.”
She tried not to squirm as he refused to drop her
stare. She knew his words implied something, though she
didn’t know what. “Why are you helping Lysandra?” She
didn’t know why she asked it.
Sam frowned. “She’s not all that bad, you know. When
she’s away from other people, she’s … better. Don’t bite off
my head for saying it, but even though you taunt her about it,
she didn’t choose this path for herself—just like us.” He
shook his head. “She just wants your attention—and
acknowledgment of her existence.”
She clenched her jaw. Of course he’d spent plenty of
time alone with Lysandra. And of course he’d find her
sympathetic. “I don’t particularly care what she wants. You
still haven’t answered my question. Why are you helping
her?”
He shrugged. “Because Arobynn told me to. And
since I have no desire to have my face beaten to a pulp
again, I’m not going to question him.”
“He—he hurt you that badly, too?”
Sam let out a low laugh, but didn’t reply until after a
servant bustled past, carrying a tray full of wine bottles.
They were probably better off talking in a room where
they’d be less likely to be overheard, but the idea of being
utterly alone with him made her pulse pound.
“I was unconscious for a day, and dozed on and off for
three more after that,” Sam said.
Celaena hissed a violent curse.
“He sent you to the Red Desert,” Sam went on, his
words soft and low. “But my punishment was having to
watch him beat you that night.”
“Why?” Another question she didn’t mean to ask.
He closed the distance between them, standing near
enough now that she could see the fine gold thread
detailing on his tunic. “After what we went through in Skull’s
Bay, you should know the answer.”
She didn’t want to know the answer, now that she
thought about it. “Are you going to make a Bid for
Lysandra?”
Sam burst out laughing. “Bid? Celaena, I don’t have
any money. And the money that I do have is going toward
paying back Arobynn. Even if I wanted to—”
“Do you want to?”
He gave her a lazy grin. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m curious whether Arobynn’s beating
damaged your brain, that’s why.”
“Afraid she and I had a summer romance?” That
insufferable grin was still there.
She could have raked her nails down his face.
Instead, she picked another weapon. “I hope you did. I
certainly enjoyed myself this summer.”
The smile faded at that. “What do you mean?”
She brushed an invisible fleck of dust off her red
gown. “Let’s just say that the son of the Mute Master was far
more welcoming than the other Silent Assassins.” It wasn’t
quite a lie. Ilias had tried to kiss her, and she had basked
in his attention, but she hadn’t wanted to start anything
between them.
Sam’s face paled. Her words had struck home, but it
wasn’t as satisfying as she thought it would be. Instead, the
mere fact that it had affected him made her feel … feel …
Oh, why had she even said anything about Ilias?
Well, she knew precisely why. Sam began to turn
away, but she grabbed his arm. “Help me with Doneval,”
she blurted. Not that she needed it, but this was the best
she could offer him in exchange for what he’d done for her.
“I’ll—I’ll give you half of the money.”
He snorted. “Keep your money. I don’t need it. Ruining
yet another slave-trade agreement will be enough for me.”
He studied her for a moment, his mouth quirking to the
side. “You’re sure you want my help?”
“Yes,” she said. It came out a bit strangled. He
searched her eyes for any sign of mockery. She hated
herself for making him distrust her that much.
But he nodded at last. “Then we’ll start tomorrow. We’ll
scope out his house. Unless you’ve already done that?”
She shook her head. “I’ll come by your room after
breakfast.”
She nodded. There was more she wanted to say to
him, and she didn’t want him to go, but her throat had
closed up, too full of all those unspoken words. She made
to turn away.
“Celaena.” She looked back at him, her red gown
sweeping around her. His eyes shone as he flashed her a
crooked grin. “I missed you this summer.”
She met his stare unflinchingly, returning the smile as
she said, “I hate to admit it, Sam Cortland, but I missed
your sorry ass, too.”
He merely chuckled before he strode toward the party,
his hands in his pockets.

Chapter Four
Crouched in the shadows of a gargoyle the following
afternoon, Celaena shifted her numb legs and groaned
softly. She usually opted to wear a mask, but with the rain, it
would have limited her vision even further. Going without,
though, made her feel somewhat exposed.
The rain also made the stone slick, and she took extra
care while adjusting her position. Six hours. Six hours spent
on this rooftop, staring across the street at the two-story
house Doneval had rented for the duration of his stay. It was
just off the most fashionable avenue in the city, and was
enormous, as far as city homes went. Made of solid white
stone and capped with green clay shingles, it looked just
like any other well-off home in the city, right down to its
intricately carved windowsills and doorways. The front lawn
was manicured, and even in the rain, servants bustled
around the property, bringing in food, flowers, and other
supplies.
That was the first thing she noticed—that people
came and went all day. And there were guards everywhere.
They looked closely at the faces of the servants who
entered, scaring the daylights out of some of them.
There was a whisper of boots against the ledge, and
Sam nimbly slipped into the shadows of the gargoyle,
returning from scouting the other side of the house.
“A guard on every corner,” Celaena murmured as
Sam settled down beside her. “Three at the front door, two
at the gate. How many did you spot in the back?”
“One on either side of the house, three more by the
stables. And they don’t look like cheap hands for hire,
either. Will we take them out, or slip past them?”
“I’d prefer not to kill them,” she admitted. “But we’ll see
if we can slip past when the time comes. Seems like
they’re rotating every two hours. The off-duty guards go into
the house.”
“Doneval’s still away?”
She nodded, inching nearer to him. Of course, it was
just to absorb his warmth against the freezing rain. She
tried not to notice when he pressed closer to her, too. “He
hasn’t returned.”
Doneval had left nearly an hour ago, closely flanked by
a hulking brute of a man who looked hewn from granite. The
bodyguard inspected the carriage, examined the
coachman and the footman, held the door until Doneval
was ensconced inside, and then slipped in himself. It
seemed like Doneval knew very well just how coveted and
delicate his list of slave sympathizers was. She’d seldom
seen this kind of security.
They’d already surveyed the house and grounds,
noting everything from the stones of the building to what
sort of latches sealed the windows to the distance between
the nearby rooftops and the roof of the house itself. Even
with the rain, she could see well enough into the secondstory
window to make out a long hallway. Some servants
came out of rooms bearing sheets and blankets—
bedrooms, then. Four of them. There was a supply closet
near the stairwell at the center of the hall. From the light that
spilled into the hallway, she knew that the main stairwell had
to be open and grand, just like the one in the Assassins’
Keep. Not a chance of hiding, unless they found the
servants’ passages.
They got lucky, though, when she spied a servant
going into the one of the second-floor rooms, carrying a pile
of the afternoon papers. A few minutes later, a maid lugged
in a bucket and tools for sweeping out a fireplace, and then
a manservant brought in what looked like a bottle of wine.
She hadn’t seen anyone changing the linens in that room,
and so they took special notice of the servants who entered
and exited.
It had to be the private study that Arobynn had
mentioned. Doneval probably maintained a formal study on
the first floor, but if he were doing dark dealings, then
moving his real business to a more hidden quarter of the
house would make sense. But they still needed to figure out
what time the meeting would take place. Right now, it could
be at any point on the arranged day.
“There he is,” Sam hissed. Doneval’s carriage pulled
up, and the hulking bodyguard got out, scouring the street
for a moment before he motioned for the businessman to
emerge. Celaena had a feeling that Doneval’s rush to get
into the house wasn’t just about the downpour.
They ducked back into the shadows again. “Where do
you suppose he went?” Sam asked.
She shrugged. His former wife’s Harvest Moon party
was tonight; perhaps that had something to do with it, or the
street festival that Melisande was hosting in the center of
the city today. She and Sam were now crouching so close
together that a toasty warmth was spreading up one side of
her. “Nowhere good, I’m sure.”
Sam let out a breathy laugh, his eyes still on the
house. They were silent for a few minutes. At last, he said,
“So, the Mute Master’s son …”
She almost groaned.
“How close were you, exactly?” He focused on the
house, though she noticed that he’d fisted his hands.
Just tell him the truth, idiot!
“Nothing happened with Ilias. It was just a bit of
flirtation, but … nothing happened,” she said again.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “nothing happened
with Lysandra. And nothing is going to. Ever.”
“And why, exactly, do you think I care?” It was her turn
to keep her eyes fixed on the house.
He nudged her with his shoulder. “Since we’re friends
now, I assumed you’d want to know.”
She was grateful that her hood concealed most of her
burning-hot face. “I think I preferred it when you wanted to
kill me.”
“Sometimes I think so, too. Certainly made my life
more interesting. I wonder, though—if I’m helping you, does
it mean I get to be your Second when you run the
Assassin’s Guild? Or does it just mean that I can boast that
the famed Celaena Sardothien finally finds me worthy?”
She jabbed him with an elbow. “It means you should
shut up and pay attention.” They grinned at each other, and
then they waited. Around sunset—which felt especially early
that day, given the heavy cloud cover—the bodyguard
emerged. Doneval was nowhere in sight, and the
bodyguard motioned to the guards, speaking quietly to
them before he strode down the street. “Off on an errand?”
Celaena pondered. Sam inclined his head after the
bodyguard, a suggestion that they follow. “Good idea.”
Celaena’s stiff limbs ached in protest as she slowly,
carefully inched away from the gargoyle. She kept her eyes
on the nearby guards, not once looking away as she
grabbed the roof ledge and hauled herself up it, Sam
following suit.
She wished she had the boots the master tinkerer
was adjusting for her, but they wouldn’t arrive until
tomorrow. Her black leather boots, while supple and
supportive, felt a bit traitorous on the rain-slick gutter of the
roof. Still, she and Sam kept low and fast as they dashed
along the roof edge, tracking the hulking man in the street
below. Luckily, he turned down a back alley, and the next
house was close enough that she could nimbly leap onto
the adjacent roof. Her boots slid, but her gloved fingers
grappled onto the green stone shingles. Sam landed
flawlessly beside her, and, to her surprise, she didn’t bite
his head off when he grabbed the back of her cloak to help
her stand.
her stand.
The bodyguard continued along the alley, and they
trailed on the rooftops, shadows against the growing dark.
At last, he came to a broader street where the gaps
between houses were too big to jump, and Celaena and
Sam shimmied down a drainpipe. Their boots were soft as
they hit the ground. They picked up a casual pace behind
their quarry, arms linked, just two citizens of the capital on
their way to somewhere, eager to get out of the rain.
It was easy to spot him in the crowd, even as they
reached the main avenue of the city. People jumped out of
his way, actually. Melisande’s street festival in honor of the
Harvest Moon was in full swing, and people flocked to it
despite the rain. Celaena and Sam followed the bodyguard
for a few more blocks, down a few more alleys. The
bodyguard turned to look behind him only once, but he
found them leaning casually against an alley wall, merely
two cloaked figures taking shelter from the rain.
With all the waste brought in by the Melisande convoy,
and the smaller street festivals that had already occurred,
the streets and sewers were nearly overflowing with
garbage. As they stalked the bodyguard, Celaena heard
people talking about how the city wardens had dammed up
parts of the sewers to let them fill with rainwater. Tomorrow
night they were going to unleash them, causing a torrent in
the sewers wild enough to sweep all the clinging trash into
the Avery River. They’d done it before, apparently—if the
sewers weren’t flushed out every now and then, the filth
would grow stagnant and reek even more. Still, Celaena
planned to be high, high above the streets by the time they
unleashed those dams. There was sure to be some instreet
flooding before it subsided, and she had no desire to
walk through any of it.
The bodyguard eventually went into a tavern on the
cusp of the crumbling slums, and they waited for him across
the street. Through the cracked windows, they could see
him sitting at the bar, drinking mug after mug of ale.
Celaena began to wish fervently that she could be at the
street festival instead.
“Well, if he has a weakness for alcohol, then perhaps
that could be our way around him,” Sam observed. She
nodded, but didn’t say anything. Sam looked toward the
glass castle, its towers wreathed in mist. “I wonder if
Bardingale and the others are having any luck convincing
the king to fund their road,” he said. “I wonder why she
would even want it built, since she seems so eager to make
sure the slave trade stays out of Melisande for as long as
possible.”
“If anything, it means she has absolute faith that we
won’t fail,” Celaena said. When she didn’t say anything
else, Sam fell silent. An hour passed, and the bodyguard
spoke to no one, paid the entire tab with a piece of silver,
and headed back to Doneval’s house. Despite the ale he’d
consumed, his steps were steady, and by the time Sam
and Celaena reached the house, she was almost bored to
tears—not to mention shivering with cold and unsure if her
numbed toes had fallen off inside her boots.
They watched from a nearby street corner as the
bodyguard went up the front steps. He held a position of
respect, then, if he wasn’t made to enter through the back.
But even with the bits of information they’d gathered that
day, when they made the twenty-minute trek across the city
to the Keep, Celaena couldn’t help feeling rather useless
and miserable. Even Sam was quiet as they reached their
home, and merely told her that he’d see her in a few hours.
The Harvest Moon party was that night—and the deal
with Doneval three days away. Considering how little they’d
been able to actually glean that day, perhaps she’d have to
work a little harder than she’d thought to find a way to take
out her quarry. Maybe Arobynn’s “gift” had been more of a
curse. What a waste.
She spent an hour soaking in her bathtub, running the hot
water until she was fairly certain there wasn’t any left for
anyone else in the Keep. Arobynn himself had
commissioned the running water outfit for the Keep, and it
had cost as much as the building did, but she was forever
grateful for it.
Once the ice had melted away from her bones, she
slipped into the black silk dressing robe Arobynn had given
her that morning—another of his presents, but still not
enough that she’d forgive him anytime soon. She padded
into her bedroom. A servant had started a fire, and she was
about to begin dressing for the Harvest Moon party when
she spotted the pile of papers on her bed.
They were tied with a red string, and her stomach
fluttered as she pulled out the note placed on top.
Try not to stain them with your tears when you play. It
took a lot of bribes to get these.
She might have rolled her eyes had she not seen what
lay before her.
Sheet music. For the performance she’d seen last
night. For the notes she couldn’t get out of her mind, even a
day later. She glanced again at the note. It wasn’t
Arobynn’s elegant script, but Sam’s hurried scrawl. When in
hell had he found the time today to get these? He must
have gone out right after they’d returned.
She sank onto the bed, flipping through the pages.
The show had only debuted a few weeks ago; sheet music
for it wasn’t even in circulation yet. Nor would it be, until it
proved itself to be a success. That could be months, even
years, from now.
She couldn’t help her smile.
Despite the ongoing rain that night, the Harvest Moon party
at Leighfer Bardingale’s riverfront house was so packed
that Celaena hardly had room to show off her exquisite
gold-and-blue dress, or the fish-fin combs she’d had
positioned along the sides of her upswept hair. Everyone
who was anyone in Rifthold was here. That is, everyone
without royal blood, though she could have sworn she saw a
few members of the nobility mingling with the bejeweled
crowd.
The ballroom was enormous, its towering ceiling
strung with paper lanterns of all colors and shapes and
sizes. Wreaths of leaves had been woven around the pillars
lining one side of the room, and on the many tables,
cornucopias overflowed with food and jewels. Young
women in nothing more than corsets and lacy lingerie
dangled from swings attached to the filigreed ceiling, and
barechested young men with ornate ivory collars handed
out wine.
Celaena had attended dozens of extravagant parties
while growing up in Rifthold; she’d infiltrated functions
hosted by foreign dignitaries and local nobility; she’d seen
everything and anything until she thought nothing could
surprise her anymore. But this party blew them all away.
There was a small orchestra accompanied by two
identical-twin singers—both young women, both darkhaired,
and both equipped with utterly ethereal voices. They
had people swaying where they stood, their voices tugging
everyone toward the packed dance floor.
With Sam flanking her, Celaena stepped from the
stairs at the top of the ballroom. Arobynn kept on her left,
his silver eyes scanning the crowd. They crinkled with
pleasure when their hostess greeted them at the bottom of
the steps. In his pewter tunic, Arobynn cut a dashing figure
as he bowed over Bardingale’s hand and pressed a kiss to
it.
The woman watched him with dark, cunning eyes, a
gracious smile on her red lips. “Leighfer,” Arobynn crooned,
half-turning to beckon to Celaena. “Allow me to introduce
my niece, Dianna, and my ward, Sam.”
His niece. That was always the story, always the ruse
whenever they attended events together. Sam bowed, and
Celaena curtsied. The glimmer in Bardingale’s gaze said
that she knew very well that Celaena was not Arobynn’s
niece. Celaena tried not to frown. She’d never liked
meeting clients face-to-face; it was better if they went
through Arobynn.
“Charmed,” Bardingale said to her, then curtsied to
Sam. “Both of them are delightful, Arobynn.” A pretty,
nonsense statement, said by someone used to wielding
pretty, nonsense words to get what she wanted. “Walk with
me?” she asked the King of the Assassins, and Arobynn
extended an elbow.
Just before they slipped into the crowd, Arobynn
glanced over his shoulder and gave Celaena a rakish
smile. “Try not to get into too much trouble.” Then Arobynn
and the lady were swallowed up by the throng of people,
leaving Sam and Celaena at the foot of the stairs.
“What now?” Sam murmured, staring after Bardingale.
His dark green tunic brought up the faint flecks of emerald
in his brown eyes. “Did you spot Doneval?”
They’d come here to see with whom Doneval
associated, how many guards were waiting outside, and if
he looked nervous. The exchange would happen three
nights from now, in his upstairs study. But at what time?
That was what she needed to find out more than anything.
And tonight was the only chance she’d have to get close
enough to him to do it.
“He’s by the third pillar,” she said, keeping her gaze
on the crowd. In the shadows of the pillars lining one half of
the room, little seating areas had been erected on raised
platforms. They were separated by black velvet curtains—
private lounges for Bardingale’s most distinguished guests.
It was to one of these alcoves that she spotted Doneval
making his way, his hulking bodyguard close behind. As
soon as Doneval plopped into the plush cushions, four of
the corset-clad girls slid into place beside him, smiles
plastered on their faces.
“Doesn’t he look cozy,” Sam mused. “I wonder how
much Clarisse stands to make off this party.” That
explained where the girls came from. Celaena just hoped
Lysandra wasn’t here.
One of the beautiful serving boys offered Doneval and
the courtesans glasses of sparkling wine. The bodyguard,
who stood by the curtains, sipped first before nodding to
Doneval to take it. Doneval, one hand already wrapped
around the bare shoulders of the girl beside him, didn’t
even thank either his manservant or the serving boy.
Celaena felt her lip curl as Doneval pressed his lips to the
neck of the courtesan. The girl couldn’t have been older
than twenty. It didn’t surprise her at all that this man found
the growing slave trade appealing—and that he was willing
to destroy his opponents to make his business
arrangement a success.
“I have a feeling he’s not going to get up for a while,”
Celaena said, and when she turned to Sam, he was
frowning. He’d always had a mixture of sorrow and
sympathy for the courtesans—and such hatred for their
clients. His mother’s end hadn’t been a happy one.
Perhaps that was why he tolerated the insufferable
Lysandra and her insipid companions.
Someone almost knocked into Celaena from behind,
but she sensed the staggering man and easily sidestepped
out of his path. “This is a madhouse,” she muttered, her
gaze rising to the girls on the swings as they floated through
the room. They arched their backs so far that it was a
miracle their breasts stayed in their corsets.
“I can’t even imagine how much Bardingale spent on
this party.” Sam was so close his breath caressed her
cheek. Celaena was actually more curious about how much
the hostess was spending on keeping Doneval distracted;
clearly, no cost was too great, if she’d hired Celaena to
help destroy Doneval’s trade agreement and get those
documents back into safe hands. But perhaps there was
more to this assignment than just the slave-trade
agreement and blackmailing list. Perhaps Bardingale was
tired of supporting her former husband’s decadent lifestyle.
Celaena couldn’t bring herself to blame her.
Even though Doneval’s cushioned alcove was meant
to be private, he certainly wanted to be seen. And from the
bottles of sparkling wine that had been set on the low table
before him, she could tell he had no intention of getting up.
A man who wanted to be approached by others—who
wanted to feel powerful. He liked to be worshipped. And at
a party hosted by his former wife, he had some nerve
associating with those courtesans. It was petty—and cruel,
if she thought about it. But what good did knowing that do
her?
He rarely spoke to other men, it seemed. But who
said his business partner had to be a man? Maybe it was a
woman. Or a courtesan.
Doneval was now slobbering over the neck of the girl
on his other side, his hand roaming along her bare thigh.
But if Doneval were in league with a courtesan, why would
he wait until three days from now before making the
document exchange? It couldn’t be one of Clarisse’s girls.
Or Clarisse herself.
“Do you think he’s going to meet with his conspirator
tonight?” Sam asked.
Celaena turned to him. “No. I have a feeling that he’s
not foolish enough to actually do any dealings here. At
least, not with anyone except Clarisse.” Sam’s face
darkened.
If Doneval enjoyed female company, well, that certainly
worked in favor of her plan to get close to him, didn’t it?
She began winding her way through the crowd.
“What are you doing?” Sam said, managing to keep
up with her.
She shot him a look over her shoulder, nudging
people out of the way as she made for the alcove. “Don’t
follow me,” she said—but not harshly. “I’m going to try
something. Just stay here. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
He stared at her for a heartbeat, then nodded.
Celaena took a long breath through her nose as she
mounted the steps and walked into the raised alcove where
Doneval sat.

Chapter Five
The four courtesans noticed her, but Celaena kept her eyes
on Doneval, who looked up from the neck of the courtesan
currently on the receiving end of his affection. His
bodyguard was alert, but didn’t stop her. Fool. She forced a
little smile to her lips as Doneval’s eyes roved freely. Up
and down, down and up. That was why she’d opted for a
lower-cut dress than usual. It made her stomach turn, but
she stepped closer, only the low-lying table between her
and Doneval’s sofa. She gave a low, elegant curtsy. “My
lord,” she purred.
He was not a lord in any sense, but a man like that
had to enjoy fancy titles, however unearned they might be.
“May I help you?” he said, taking in her dress. She
was definitely more covered-up than the courtesans around
him. But sometimes there was more allure in not seeing
everything.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, tilting her head
so that the light from the lanterns caught in her eyes and set
them sparkling. She knew well enough which of her features
men tended to notice—and appreciate—most. “But my
uncle is a merchant, and he speaks so highly of you that I
…” She now looked at the courtesans as if suddenly
noticing them, as if she were a good, decent girl realizing
the company he kept and trying not to become too
embarrassed.
Doneval seemed to sense her discomfort and sat up,
removing his hand from the thigh of the girl next to him. The
courtesans all went a bit rigid, shooting daggers in her
direction. She might have grinned at them had she not
been so focused on her act.
“Go on, my dear,” Doneval said, his eyes now fixed on
hers. Really, it was too easy.
She bit her lip, tucking her chin down—demure, shy,
waiting to be plucked. “My uncle is sick tonight and couldn’t
attend, but he was so looking forward to meeting you, and I
thought I might make an introduction on his behalf, but I’m
so terribly sorry to have interrupted you.” She made to turn,
counting down the heartbeats until …
“No, no—I’d be pleased to make the acquaintance.
What is your name, my dear girl?”
She turned back, letting the light catch in her blue-gold
eyes again. “Dianna Brackyn; my uncle is Erick Brackyn …”
She glanced at the courtesans, giving her best alarmedinnocent-
maiden look. “I—I truly don’t wish to interrupt you.”
Doneval kept drinking her in. “Perhaps, if it would not be an
inconvenience or an impertinence, we could call on you?
Not tomorrow or the day after, since my uncle has some
contract with the court in Fenharrow to work on, but the day
after that? Three days from now, is what I mean.” She
made a little coo of a laugh.
“It wouldn’t be an impertinence in the least,” Doneval
crooned, leaning forward. Mentioning Fenharrow’s wealthy
court had done the trick. “In fact, I much admire you for
having the nerve to approach me. Not many men would, let
alone young women.”
She almost rolled her eyes, but she just fluttered her
eyelashes ever so slightly. “Thank you, my lord. What time
would be convenient for you?”
“Ah,” Doneval said. “Well, I have dinner plans that
night.” Not a hint of nerves, or a flicker of anxiety in his eyes.
“But I am free for breakfast, or lunch,” he added with a
growing smile.
She sighed dramatically. “Oh, no—I think I might have
committed myself then, actually. What about tea that
afternoon? You say you have dinner plans, but perhaps
something before … ? Or maybe we’ll just see you at the
theater that night.”
He fell silent, and she wondered if he was growing
suspicious. But she blinked, tucking her arms into her sides
enough that her chest squeezed a bit more out of her
neckline. It was a trick she’d used often enough to know it
worked. “I would certainly like to have tea,” he said at last,
“but I’ll also be at the theater after my dinner.”
She gave him a bright smile. “Would you like to join us
in our box? My uncle has two of his contacts from
Fenharrow’s court joining us, but I just know he’d be
honored to have you with us as well.”
He cocked his head, and she could practically see the
cold, calculating thoughts churning behind his eyes. Come
on, she thought, take the bait … Contacts with a wealthy
businessman and Fenharrow’s court should be enough.
“I’d be delighted,” he said, giving her a smile that
reeked of trained charm.
“I’m sure you have a fine carriage to escort you to the
theater, but we’d be doubly honored if you’d use ours. We
could pick you up after your dinner, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid my dinner is rather late—I’d hate to make
you or your uncle tardy for the theater.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be a problem. What time does your
dinner begin—or end, I suppose is the better question!” A
giggle. A twinkle in her eye that suggested the sort of
curiosity in what a man like Doneval would be eager to
show an inexperienced girl. He leaned farther forward. She
wanted to claw at the skin his gaze raked over with such
sensual consideration.
“The meal should be over within an hour,” he drawled,
“if not sooner; just a quick meal with an old friend of mine.
Why don’t you stop by the house at eight thirty?”
Her smile grew, genuine this time. Seven thirty, then.
That’s when the deal would occur. How could he be that
foolish, that arrogant? He deserved to die just for being so
irresponsible—so easily lured by a girl who was far too
young for him.
“Oh, yes!” she said. “Of course.” She rattled off details
about her uncle’s business and how well they’d get along,
and soon she was curtsying again, giving him another long
look at her cleavage before she walked away. The
courtesans were still glaring at her, and she could feel
Doneval’s hungry gaze on her disappearing form until the
crowd swallowed her up. She made a show of going over
to the food, keeping up the demure maiden façade, and
when Doneval finally stopped watching her, she let out a
sigh. That had certainly gone well. She loaded a plate with
food that made her mouth water—roast boar, berries and
cream, warm chocolate cake …
From a few feet away, she found Leighfer Bardingale
watching her, the woman’s dark eyes remarkably sad.
Pitying. Or was it regret for what she had hired Celaena to
do? Bardingale approached, brushing against Celaena’s
skirts on her way to the buffet table, but Celaena chose not
to acknowledge her. Whatever Arobynn had told the woman
about her, she didn’t care to know. Though she would have
liked to know what perfume Bardingale was wearing; it
smelled like jasmine and vanilla.
Sam was suddenly beside her, appearing in that
silent-as-death way of his. “Did you get what you needed?”
He followed Celaena as she added more food to her plate.
Leighfer took a few scoops of berries and a dollop of
cream and disappeared back into the crowd.
Celaena grinned, glancing to the alcove where
Doneval had now returned to his hired company. She
deposited her plate on the table. “I certainly did. It appears
he’s unavailable at seven thirty in the evening that day.”
“So we have our meeting time,” Sam said.
“Indeed we do.” She turned to him with a triumphant
smirk, but Sam was now watching Doneval, his frown
growing as the man continued pawing at the girls around
him.
The music shifted, becoming livelier, the twins’ voices
rising in a wraithlike harmony. “And now that I got what I
came here for, I want to dance,” Celaena said. “So drink
up, Sam Cortland. We’re not washing our hands in blood
tonight.”
She danced and danced. The beautiful youths of Melisande
had gathered near the platform that held the twin singers,
and Celaena had gravitated toward them. Bottles of
sparkling wine passed from hand to hand, mouth to mouth.
Celaena swigged from all of them.
Around midnight, the music changed, going from
organized, elegant dances to a frenzied, sensual sound that
had her clapping her hands and stomping her feet in time.
The Melisanders seemed eager to writhe and fling
themselves about. If there were music and movements that
embodied the wildness and recklessness and immortality
of youth, they were here, on this dance floor.
Doneval remained where he sat on the cushions,
drinking bottle after bottle. He never once glanced in her
direction; whoever he had thought Dianna Brackyn was,
she was now forgotten. Good.
Sweat ran along every part of her body, but she flung
her head back, arms upraised, content to bask in the
music. One of the courtesans on the swings flew by so low
that their fingers brushed. The touch sent sparks shooting
through her. This was more than a party: it was a
performance, an orgy, and a call to worship at the altar of
excess. Celaena was a willing sacrifice.
The music shifted again, a riot of pounding drums and
the staccato notes of the twins. Sam kept a respectful
distance—dancing alone, occasionally detangling himself
from the arms of a girl who saw his beautiful face and tried
to seize him for her own. Celaena tried not to smirk when
she saw him politely, but firmly, telling the girl to find
someone else.
Many of the older partygoers had long since left,
ceding the dance floor to the young and beautiful. Celaena
focused long enough to check on Doneval—and to see
Arobynn sitting with Bardingale in another one of the nearby
alcoves. A few others sat with them, and though glasses of
wine littered their table, they all had lowered brows and
tight-lipped expressions. While Doneval had come here to
feast off his former wife’s fortune, it seemed like she had
other thoughts on how to enjoy her party. What sort of
strength had it taken to accept that assassinating her
former husband was the only option left? Or was it
weakness?
The clock struck three—three! How had so many
hours passed? A glimmer of movement caught her eye by
the towering doors atop the stairs. Four young men wearing
masks stood atop the steps, surveying the crowd. It took all
of two heartbeats for her to see that the dark-haired youth
was their ringleader, and that the fine clothes and the
masks they wore marked them as nobility. Probably nobles
looking to escape a stuffy function and savor the delights of
looking to escape a stuffy function and savor the delights of
Rifthold.
The masked strangers swaggered down the steps,
one of them keeping close to the dark-haired youth. That
one had a sword, she noticed, and from his tensed
shoulders, she could tell he wasn’t entirely pleased to be
here. But the lips of the ringleader parted in a grin as he
stalked into the crowd. Gods above, even with the mask
obscuring half of his features, he was handsome.
She danced as she watched him, and, as if he had
somehow sensed her all this time, their eyes met from
across the room. She gave him a smile, then deliberately
turned back toward the singers, her dancing a little more
careful, a little more inviting. She found Sam frowning at
her. She gave him a shrug.
It took the masked stranger a few minutes—and a
knowing smile from her to suggest that she, too, knew
exactly where he was—but soon she felt a hand slide
around her waist.
“Some party,” the stranger whispered in her ear. She
twisted to see sapphire eyes gleaming at her. “Are you
from Melisande?”
She swayed with the music. “Perhaps.”
His smile grew. She itched to pull off the mask. Any
young nobles who were out at this hour were certainly not
here for innocent purposes. Still—who was to say that she
couldn’t have some fun, too? “What’s your name?” he
asked above the roar of the music.
She leaned close. “My name is Wind,” she whispered.
“And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a
half-remembered song.”
He chuckled, a low, delightful sound. She was drunk,
and silly, and so full of the glory of being young and alive
and in the capital of the world that she could hardly contain
herself.
“I have no name,” she purred. “I am whoever the
keepers of my fate tell me to be.”
He grasped her by her wrist, running a thumb along
the sensitive skin underneath. “Then let me call you Mine for
a dance or two.”
She grinned, but someone was suddenly between
them, a tall, powerfully built person. Sam. He ripped the
stranger’s hand off of her wrist. “She’s spoken for,” he
growled, all too close to the young man’s masked face. The
stranger’s friend was behind him in an instant, his bronze
eyes fixed on Sam.
Celaena grabbed Sam’s elbow. “Enough,” she
warned him.
The masked stranger looked Sam up and down, then
held up his hands. “My mistake,” he said, but winked at
Celaena before he disappeared into the crowd, his armed
friend close behind.
Celaena whirled to face Sam. “What in hell was that
for?”
“You’re drunk,” he told her, so close her chest brushed
his. “And he knew it, too.”
“So?” Even as she said it, someone dancing wildly
crashed into her and set her reeling. Sam caught her
around the waist, his hands firm on her as he kept her from
falling to the ground.
“You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“Just because we’re working together doesn’t mean
I’m suddenly incapable of handling myself.” His hands were
still on her waist.
“Let me take you home.” She glanced toward the
alcoves. Doneval was passed out cold on the shoulder of a
very bored-looking courtesan. Arobynn and Bardingale
were still deep in their conversation.
“No,” she said. “I don’t need an escort. I’ll go home
when I feel like it.” She slipped out of his grasp, slamming
into the shoulder of someone behind her. The man
apologized and moved away. “Besides,” Celaena said,
unable to stop the words or the stupid, useless jealousy that
grabbed control of her, “don’t you have Lysandra or
someone equally for hire to be with?”
“I don’t want to be with Lysandra, or anyone else for
hire,” he said through gritted teeth. He reached for her
hand. “And you’re a damned fool for not seeing it.”
She shook off his grip. “I am what I am, and I don’t
particularly care what you think of me.” Maybe once he
might have believed that, but now …
“Well, I care what you think of me. I care enough that I
stayed at this disgusting party just for you. And I care
enough that I’d attend a thousand more like it so I can
spend a few hours with you when you aren’t looking at me
like I’m not worth the dirt beneath your shoes.”
That made her anger stumble. She swallowed hard,
her head spinning. “We have enough going on with
Doneval. I don’t need to be fighting with you.” She wanted
to rub her eyes, but she would have ruined the cosmetics
on them. She let out a long sigh. “Can’t we just … try to
enjoy ourselves right now?”
Sam shrugged, but his eyes were still dark and
gleaming. “If you want to dance with that man, then go
ahead.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then tell me what it’s about.”
She began wringing her fingers, then stopped herself.
“Look,” she said, the music so loud it was hard to hear her
own thoughts. “I—Sam, I don’t know how to be your friend
yet. I don’t know if I know how to be anyone’s friend. And …
Can we just talk about this tomorrow?”
He shook his head slowly, but gave her a smile, even
though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. If you can remember
anything tomorrow,” he said with forced lightness. She
made herself smile back at him. He jerked his chin toward
the dancing. “Go have fun. We’ll talk in the morning.” He
stepped closer, as if he’d kiss her cheek, but then thought
better of it. She couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or not
as he squeezed her shoulder instead.
With that, he vanished into the crowd. Celaena stared
after him until a young woman pulled her into a circle of
dancing girls, and the revelry took hold of her again.
The rooftop of her new apartment looked out over the Avery
River, and Celaena sat on the walled edge, her legs
dangling off the side. The stone beneath her was chill and
damp, but the rain had stopped during the night, and fierce
winds had blown the clouds away as the stars faded and
the sky lightened.
The sun broke over the horizon, flooding the snaking
arm of the Avery with light. It became a living band of gold.
The capital began to stir, chimneys puffing up smoke
from the first of the day’s fires, fishermen calling to each
other from the nearby docks, young children rushing through
the streets with bundles of wood or the morning papers or
buckets of water. Behind her, the glass castle shimmered
in the dawn.
She hadn’t been to her new apartment since she’d
returned from the desert, so she’d taken a few minutes to
walk through the spacious rooms hidden on the upper floor
of a fake warehouse. It was the last place anyone would
expect her to purchase a home, and the warehouse itself
was filled with bottles of ink—a supply no one was likely to
break in and steal. This was a place that was hers and hers
alone. Or it would be, as soon as she told Arobynn she was
leaving. Which she’d do as soon as she finished this
business with Doneval. Or sometime soon after that.
Maybe.
She inhaled the damp morning air, letting it wash
through her. Seated on the roof ledge, she felt wonderfully
insignificant—a mere speck in the vastness of the great
city. Yet she also felt as if all of it were hers for the taking.
Yes, the party had been delightful, but there was more
to the world than that. Bigger things, more beautiful things,
more real things. Her future was hers, and she had three
trunks of gold hidden in her room that would solidify it. She
could make of her life what she wanted.
Celaena leaned back on her hands, drinking in the
awakening city. And as she watched the capital, she had
the joyous feeling that the capital watched her back.

Chapter Six
Since she’d forgotten to do it at the party the night before,
she meant to thank Sam for the music during their usual
tumbling lesson after breakfast. But several of the other
assassins were also in the training hall, and she had no
desire to explain the gift to any of the older men. They
would undoubtedly take it the wrong way. Not that they
particularly cared about what she was up to; they did their
best to stay out of her way, and she didn’t bother to get to
know them, either. Besides, her head was throbbing thanks
to staying up until dawn and drinking all that sparkling wine,
so she couldn’t even think of the right words just now.
She went through her training exercises until noon,
impressing their instructor with the new ways she’d learned
to move while she was in the Red Desert. She felt Sam
watching her from the mats a few feet away. She tried not
to look at his shirtless chest, gleaming with sweat, as he
took a running jump, nimbly flipping through the air and
landing almost soundlessly on the ground. By the Wyrd, he
was fast. He’d certainly spent the summer training, too.
“Milady,” the instructor coughed, and she turned to
him, giving a glare that warned him not to comment. She
slid into a backbend, then flipped out of it, her legs
smoothly rising over her head and back to the floor.
She landed in a kneel, and looked up to see Sam
approaching. Stopping before her, he gave the instructor a
sharp jerk of his chin, and the stocky, compact man found
sharp jerk of his chin, and the stocky, compact man found
somewhere else to be.
“He was helping me,” Celaena said. Her muscles
quivered as she stood. She’d trained hard this morning,
despite how little sleep she’d gotten—which had nothing to
do with the fact that she hadn’t wanted to spend a moment
alone with Sam in the training hall.
“He’s here every other day. I don’t think you’re missing
anything vital,” Sam replied. She kept her gaze on his face.
She’d seen Sam shirtless before—she’d seen all of the
assassins in various stages of undress thanks to their
training—but this felt different.
“So,” she said, “are we breaking into Doneval’s house
tonight?” She kept her voice down. She didn’t particularly
like sharing anything with her fellow assassins. Ben she’d
once told everything to, but he was dead and buried. “Now
that we know the meeting time, we should get into that
upstairs study and get a sense of what and how many
documents there are before he shares them with his
partner.” Since the sun had finally decided to make an
appearance, it made daytime stalking next to impossible.
He frowned, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t. I
want to, but I can’t. Lysandra has a pre-Bidding rehearsal,
and I’m on guard duty. I could meet you after, if you want to
wait for me.”
“No. I’ll go myself. It shouldn’t be that hard.” She
started from the training room, and Sam followed her,
keeping close to her side.
“It’s going to be dangerous.”
“Sam, I freed two hundred slaves in Skull’s Bay and
took down Rolfe. I think I can handle this.” They reached the
main entranceway of the Keep.
“And you did that with my help. Why don’t I stop by
Doneval’s after I finish and see if you need me?”
She patted his shoulder, his bare skin sticky with
sweat. “Do whatever you want. Though I have a feeling I’ll
already be done by that point. But I’ll tell you all about it
tomorrow morning,” she crooned, pausing at the foot of the
grand staircase.
He grabbed her hand. “Please be careful. Just get a
look at the documents and go. We’ve still got two days until
the exchange; if it’s too dangerous, then we can try
tomorrow. Don’t put yourself at risk.”
The doors to the Keep swung open and Sam dropped
her hand, turning to see Lysandra and Clarisse come
sweeping in.
Lysandra’s face was flushed, making her green eyes
sparkle. “Oh, Sam,” Lysandra said, rushing toward him with
outstretched hands. Celaena bristled. Sam grasped
Lysandra’s slender fingers politely. From the way she drank
him in—especially his shirtless torso—Celaena had no
trouble believing that two days from now, as soon as her
Bidding Night was over and she could be with whoever she
wanted, she’d seek out Sam. And who wouldn’t?
“Another luncheon with Arobynn?” Sam asked, but
Lysandra wouldn’t let go of his hands. Madam Clarisse
gave Celaena a curt nod as she bustled past, heading
straight for Arobynn’s study. The brothel madam and the
King of the Assassins had been friends for as long as
Celaena had been here, and Clarisse had never said more
than a few words to her.
“Oh, no—we’re here for tea. Arobynn promised a
silver tea service,” Lysandra said, her words somehow
feeling tossed in Celaena’s direction. “You must join us,
Sam.” Ordinarily, Celaena would have bitten the girl’s head
off for the insult. Lysandra was still grasping Sam’s hands.
As if he sensed it, Sam wriggled his fingers away. “I
—” he started.
“You should go,” Celaena said. Lysandra looked
between them. “I have work to do, anyway. I don’t get to be
the best simply by lying on my back all day.” A cheap shot,
but Lysandra’s eyes flashed. Celaena gave her a razorsharp
smile. Not that she had wanted to keep talking to
Sam, or invite him to listen to her practice the music he’d
gotten her, or spend any more time with him than was
absolutely necessary.
He swallowed. “Have lunch with me, Celaena.”
Lysandra clicked her tongue and strode off muttering,
“Why would you want to have lunch with her?”
“I’m busy,” Celaena said. It wasn’t a lie; she did still
have to finalize her plan to break into the house to find out
more about Doneval’s documents. She jerked her chin
toward Lysandra and the sitting room beyond her. “Go
enjoy yourself.”
Without wanting to see what he chose, she kept her
eyes on the marble floors, the teal drapes, and the gilded
ceiling as she walked to her room.
The walls of Doneval’s house were unguarded. Wherever
he’d gone tonight—from the look of his clothes, probably to
the theater or a party—he’d taken several of his guards with
him, though she hadn’t counted his hulking bodyguard in
their ranks. Perhaps the bodyguard had the night off. It still
left several guards patrolling the grounds, not to mention
whoever was inside.
While she loathed the thought of getting her new black
suit wet, Celaena was grateful for the rain that had started
again at sundown, even if it meant forgoing her usual mask
in order to keep her weather-limited senses open.
Thankfully, the heavy downpour also meant that the guard
on the side of the house didn’t even notice her slipping right
past him. The second floor was fairly high up, but the
window was darkened, and the latch was easily unlocked
from the outside. She’d mapped the house already. If she
was correct—and she was certain she was—that window
led right into the second-floor study.
Listening carefully, she waited until the guard was
looking the other way, and began to climb. Her new boots
found their grip on the stone, and her fingers had no trouble
at all seeking out cracks. The suit was a little heavier than
her usual tunic, but with the built-in blades in the gauntlets,
she didn’t have the additional encumbrance of a sword on
her back or daggers at her waist. There were even two
knives built into her boots. This was one gift from Arobynn
that she’d get a lot of use out of.
But while the rain quieted and clouded her, it also
masked the sound of anyone approaching. She kept her
eyes and ears wide open, but no other guards rounded the
corner of the house. The additional risk was worth it. Now
that she knew what time the meeting would take place, she
had two days to gather as much specific information as she
could about the documents, namely how many pages there
were and where Doneval hid them. In a few moments, she
was at the sill of the study window. The guard below didn’t
even look up at the house towering behind him. Top-notch
guards indeed.
One glance inside showed a darkened room—a desk
littered with papers, and nothing else. He wouldn’t be so
foolish as to leave the lists out in plain sight, but …
Celaena hauled herself onto the ledge, and the
slender knife from her boot gleamed dully as it wedged into
the slight gap between the window doors. Two angled jabs,
a flick of her wrist, and—
She eased the window open, praying for silent hinges.
One of them creaked quietly, but the other swung away
without a sound. She slid into the study, boots quiet on the
ornate rug. Carefully, holding her breath, she eased the
windows shut again.
She sensed the attack a heartbeat before it
happened.

Chapter Seven
Celaena whirled and ducked, the other knife from her boot
instantly in her hand, and the guard went down with a groan.
She struck fast as an asp—a move she’d learned in the
Red Desert. As she yanked the knife from his thigh, hot
blood pumped onto her hand. Another guard swiped a
sword at her, but she met it with both her knives before
kicking him squarely in the stomach. He staggered back,
yet not fast enough to escape the blow to his head that
knocked him out. Another maneuver the Mute Master had
taught her while she’d been studying how the desert
animals moved. In the darkness of the room, she felt the
reverberations as the guard’s body slammed into the floor.
But there were others, and she counted three more—
three more grunting and moaning as they crumpled around
her—before someone grabbed her from behind. There was
a vicious thump against her head, and something wet and
putrid pressed to her face, and then—
Oblivion.
Celaena awoke, but she didn’t open her eyes. She kept her
breathing steady, even as she inhaled the reek of filth and
the damp, rotten air around her. And she kept her ears
open, even as she heard the chuckle of male voices and
the gurgle of water. She kept very still, even as she felt the
ropes that bound her to the chair, and the water that was
already up to her calves. She was in the sewer.
Splashes approached—heavy enough that the sewer
water showered her lap.
“I think that’s enough sleeping,” said a deep voice. A
powerful hand slapped her cheek. Through stinging eyes,
she found the hatchet-hewn face of Doneval’s bodyguard
smiling at her. “Hello, lovely. Thought we didn’t notice you
spying on us for days, did you? You might be good, but
you’re not invisible.”
Behind him, four guards loitered by an iron door—and
beyond it was another door, through which she could see a
set of steps that led upward. It must be a door into the cellar
of the house. Several of the older houses in Rifthold had
such doors: escape routes during wars, ways to sneak in
scandal-worthy guests, or merely an easy way to deposit
the household’s waste. The double doors were to keep out
the water—airtight, and made long ago by skilled craftsmen
who had used magic to coat the thresholds with waterrepellent
spells.
“There are a lot of rooms to break into in this house,”
the bodyguard said. “Why’d you choose the upstairs study?
And where’s your friend?”
She gave him a crooked grin, all the while taking in
the cavernous sewer around her. The water was rising. She
didn’t want to think about what was floating in it.
“Will this be an interrogation, then torture, then
death?” she asked him. “Or am I getting the order wrong?”
The man grinned right back at her. “Smart-ass. I like
it.” His accent was thick, but she understood him well
enough. He braced his hands on either arm of her chair.
With her own arms bound behind her back, she only had
the freedom to move her face. “Who sent you?”
Her heart beat wildly, but her smile didn’t fade.
Withstanding torture was a lesson she’d learned long ago.
“Why do you assume anyone sent me? Can’t a girl be
independent?”
The wooden chair groaned under his weight as he
leaned so close their noses were almost touching. She
tried not to inhale his hot breath. “Why else would a little
bitch like you break into this house? I don’t think you’re after
jewels or gold.”
She felt her nostrils flare. But she wouldn’t make her
move—not until she knew she had no chance to glean
information from him.
“If you’re going to torture me,” she drawled, “then get it
started. I don’t particularly enjoy the smell down here.”
The man pulled back, his grin unfaltering. “Oh, we’re
not going to torture you. Do you know how many spies and
thieves and assassins have tried to take down Doneval?
We’re beyond asking questions. If you don’t want to talk,
then fine. Don’t talk. We’ve learned how to deal with you
filth.”
“Philip,” one of the guards said, pointing with his
sword down the dark tunnel of the sewer. “We’ve got to go.”
“Right,” Philip said, turning back to Celaena. “See, I
figure if someone was foolish enough to send you here,
then you must be expendable. And I don’t think anyone will
look for you when they flood the sewers, not even your
friend. In fact, most people are staying off the streets right
now. You capital-dwellers don’t like getting your feet dirty,
do you?”
Her heart pounded harder, but she didn’t break his
gaze. “Too bad they won’t get all the trash,” she said,
batting her eyelashes.
“No,” he said, “but they’ll get you. Or at least, the river
will get your remains, if the rats have left enough.” Philip
patted her cheek hard enough to sting. As if the sewers had
heard him, a rush of water began sounding from the
darkness.
Oh, no. No.
He splashed back to the landing where the guards
stood. She watched them stride out through the second
door, then up the stairs, then—
“Enjoy your swim,” Philip said, and slammed the iron
door shut behind him.
Darkness and water. In the moments it took for her to adjust
to the dim streetlight leaking in through the grate high, high
above, she could feel a sudden gush of water against her
legs. It was up to her lap in an instant.
She cursed violently and wriggled hard against the
ropes. But as the ropes cut into her arms, she
remembered: the built-in blades. It was a testament to the
inventor’s skill that Philip hadn’t found them, even though he
must have searched her. Yet the bindings were almost too
tight for her to release them …
She twisted her wrists, fighting for any shred of space
to flick her hand. The water pooled around her waist. They
must have built the sewer dam at the other end of the city; it
would take a few minutes before it completely flooded this
part.
The rope wouldn’t budge, but she flicked her wrist,
doing as the master tinkerer had told her, again and again.
Then, at last, the whine and splash of the blade as it shot
out. Pain danced down the side of her hand, and she
swore. She’d cut herself on the damn thing. Thankfully, it
didn’t feel deep.
Immediately she started on the ropes, her arms
aching while she twisted them as far as she could to angle
against the bindings. They should have used iron shackles.
There was a sudden release of tension around her
middle, and she almost fell face-first into the swirling black
water as the rope gave. Two heartbeats later, the rest of the
ropes were off, though she cringed as she plunged her
hands into the filthy water to cut her feet from the chair legs.
When she stood, the water was at her thighs. And
cold. Icy, icy cold. She felt things sliding against her as she
splashed for the landing, struggling to keep upright in the
fierce current. Rats were being swept past by the dozen,
their squeals of terror barely audible over the roar of the
water. By the time she reached the stone steps, the water
was already pooling there, too. She tried the iron handle. It
was locked. She tried to plunge one of her blades in
alongside the threshold, but it bounced back. The door was
sealed so tightly that nothing was getting through.
She was trapped.
Celaena looked down the length of the sewer. Rain
was still pouring in from above, but the streetlights were
bright enough that she could see the curved walls. There
had to be some ladder to the street—there had to be.
She couldn’t see any—not near her. And the grates
were so high up that she’d have to wait until the sewer filled
entirely before trying her luck. But the current was so strong
that she’d probably be swept away.
“Think,” she whispered. “Think, think.”
Water rose higher on the landing, lapping now at her
ankles.
She kept her breathing calm. Panicking would
accomplish nothing. “Think.” She scanned the sewer.
There might be a ladder, but it would be farther down.
That meant braving the water—and the dark.
On her left, the water rose endlessly, rushing in from
the other half of the city. She looked to her right. Even if
there wasn’t a grate, she might make it to the Avery.
It was a very, very big “might.”
But it was better than waiting here to die.
Celaena sheathed her blades and plunged into the
smelly, oily water. Her throat closed up, but she willed
herself to keep from vomiting. She was not swimming
through the entire capital’s refuse. She was not swimming
through rat-infested waters. She was not going to die.
The current was faster than she expected, and she
pulled against it. Grates passed overhead, ever nearer, but
still too distant. And then there, on the right! Midway up the
wall, still several feet above the water line, was a small
tunnel opening. It was made for a solitary worker. Rainwater
leaked out over the lip of the tunnel—somewhere, it had to
lead to the street.
She swam hard for the wall, fighting to keep the
current from sweeping her past the tunnel. She hit the wall
and clung to it, easing down the side. The tunnel was high
up enough that she had to reach, her fingers aching as they
dug into the stone. But she had a grip, and even though
pain lanced through her nails, she hauled herself into the
narrow passage.
It was so small inside that she had to lie flat on her
belly. And it was full of mud and the gods knew what else,
but there—far ahead—was a shaft of lamplight. An upward
tunnel that led to the street. Behind her, the sewer continued
flooding, the roaring waters near deafening. If she didn’t
hurry, she’d be trapped.
With the ceiling so low, she had to keep her head
down, her face nearly in the putrid mud as she stretched out
her arms and pulled. Inch by inch, she dragged herself
through the tunnel, staring at the light ahead.
Then the water reached the level of the tunnel. Within
moments, it swept past her feet, past her legs, then her
abdomen, and then her face. She crawled faster, not
needing light to tell how bloody her hands were. Each bit of
grit inside the cuts was like fire. Go, she thought to herself
with each thrust and pull of her arms, each kick of her feet.
Go, go, go. The word was the only thing that kept her from
screaming. Because once she started screaming … that
was when she’d concede to death.
The water in the passage was a few inches deep by
the time she hit the upward tunnel, and she nearly sobbed
at the sight of the ladder. It was probably fifteen feet to the
surface. Through the circular holes in the large grate she
could see a hovering streetlamp. She forgot the pain in her
hands as she climbed the rusted ladder, willing it not to
break. Water filled the tunnel bottom, swirling with debris at
her feet.
She was quickly at the top, and even allowed herself a
little smile as she pushed against the round grate.
But it didn’t budge.
She balanced her feet on the rickety ladder and
pushed with both hands. It still didn’t move. She angled her
body on the upper rung so that her back and shoulders
braced against the grate and threw herself into it. Nothing.
Not a groan, not a hint of metal giving way. It had to be
rusted shut. She pounded against it until she felt something
crack in her hand. Her vision flashed with pain, black and
white sparks dancing, and she made sure the bone wasn’t
broken before pounding again. Nothing. Nothing.
The water was close now, its muddy froth so near that
she could reach down and touch it.
She threw herself into the grate one last time. It didn’t
move.
If people were off the streets until the mandatory
flooding was over … Rain water poured into her mouth, her
eyes, her nose. She banged against the metal, praying for
anyone to hear her over the roar of the rain, for anyone to
see the muddy, bloodied fingers straining upward from an
ordinary city grate. The water hit her boots. She shoved her
fingers through the grate holes and began screaming.
She screamed until her lungs burned, screamed for
help, for anyone to hear. And then—
“Celaena?”
It was a shout, and it was close, and Celaena sobbed
when she heard Sam’s voice, nearly muffled by the rain and
roaring waters beneath her. He said he’d come by after
helping with Lysandra’s party—he must have been on his
way to or from Doneval’s house. She wriggled her fingers
through the grate hole, pounding with her other hand
against the grate. “HERE! In the sewer!”
She could feel the rumble of steps, and then … “Holy
gods.” Sam’s face swam into view through the grate. “I’ve
been looking for you for twenty minutes,” he said. “Hold on.”
His callused fingers latched onto the holes. She saw them
go white with strain, saw his face turn red, then … He
swore.
The water had reached her calves. “Get me the hell
out of here.”
“Shove with me,” he breathed, and as he pulled, she
pushed. The grate wouldn’t move. They tried again, and
again. The water hit her knees. By whatever luck, the grate
was far enough away from Doneval’s house that the guards
couldn’t hear them.
“Get as high as you can,” he barked. She already was,
but she didn’t say anything. She caught the flash of a knife
and heard the scrape of a blade against the grate. He was
trying to loosen the metal by using the blade as a lever.
“Push on the other side.”
She pushed. Dark water lapped at her thighs.
The knife snapped in two.
Sam swore violently and began yanking on the grate
cover again. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself
than to her. “Come on.”
The water was around her waist now, and over her
chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in
through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said.
“I’m trying!”
“Sam,” she repeated.
“No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “No.”
He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed
her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn’t going
to come—not fast enough.
She’d never given much thought to how she’d die, but
drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native
country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine
years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain
she’d struck with the gods that night was finally over. The
water would have her, one way or another, no matter how
long it took.
“Please,” Sam begged as he beat and yanked on the
grate, then tried to wedge another dagger under the lid.
“Please don’t.”
She knew he wasn’t speaking to her.
The water hit her neck.
“Please,” Sam moaned, his fingers now touching
hers. She’d have one last breath. Her last words.
“Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam,” she
whispered. And with a gasping breath, she went under.

Chapter Eight
“Breathe!” Someone was roaring as they pounded on her
chest. “Breathe!”
And just like that, her body seized, and water rushed
out of her. She vomited onto the cobblestones, coughing so
hard her whole body convulsed.
“Oh, gods,” Sam moaned. Through her streaming
eyes, she found him kneeling beside her, his head hung
between his shoulders as he braced his palms on his
knees. Behind him, two women were exchanging relieved,
yet confused, expressions. One of them held a crowbar.
Beside her lay the grate cover, and around them spilled
water from the sewer.
She vomited again.
She took three baths in a row and ate food only with the
intention of vomiting it up to clear out any trace of the vile
liquid inside of her. She plunged her torn, aching hands into
a vat of hard liquor, biting down her scream but savoring
the disinfectant burning through whatever had been in that
water. Once that proved calming to her repulsion, she
ordered her bathtub filled with the same liquor and
submerged herself in it, too.
She’d never feel clean again. Even after her fourth
bath—which had been immediately after her liquor-bath—
she felt like grime coated every part of her. Arobynn had
cooed and fussed, but she’d ordered him out. She ordered
everyone out. She’d take another two baths in the morning,
she promised herself as she climbed into bed.
There was a knock on her door, and she almost
barked at the person to go away, but Sam’s head popped
in. The clock read past twelve, but his eyes were still alert.
“You’re awake,” he said, slipping inside without so much as
a nod of permission from her. Not that he needed it. He’d
saved her life. She was in his eternal debt.
On the way home, he’d told her that after Lysandra’s
Bidding rehearsal, he’d gone to Doneval’s house to see if
she needed any help. But when he got there, the house was
quiet—except for the guards who kept sniggering about
something that had happened. He’d been searching the
surrounding streets for any sign of her when he heard her
screaming.
She looked at him from where she lay in bed. “What
do you want?” Not the most gracious words to someone
who had saved her life. But, hell, she was supposed to be
better than him—and yet he had saved her! How could she
say she was the best when she’d needed Sam to rescue
her? The thought made her want to hit him.
He just smiled slightly. “I wanted to see if you were
finally done with all the washing. There’s no hot water left.”
She frowned. “Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”
“Do I ever expect you to apologize for anything?”
In the candlelight, the lovely panes of his face seemed
velvet-smooth and inviting. “You could have let me die,” she
mused. “I’m surprised you weren’t dancing with glee over
the grate.”
He let out a low laugh that traveled along her limbs,
warming her. “No one deserves that sort of horrible death,
Celaena. Not even you. And besides, I thought we were
beyond that.”
She swallowed hard, but was unable to break his
gaze. “Thank you for saving me.”
His brows rose. She’d said it once on their way back,
but it had been a quick, breathless string of words. This
time, it was different. Though her fingers ached—especially
her broken nails— she reached for his hand. “And … And
I’m sorry.” She made herself look at him, even as his
features crossed into incredulity. “I’m sorry for involving you
in what happened in Skull’s Bay. And for what Arobynn did
to you because of it.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he somehow understood some
great puzzle. He examined their linked hands, and she
quickly let go.
The silence was suddenly too charged, his face too
beautiful in the light. She lifted her chin and found him
looking at the scar along her neck. The narrow ridge would
fade—someday. “Her name was Ansel,” she said, her
throat tightening. “She was my friend.” Sam slowly sat on
the bed. And then the whole story came out.
Sam only asked questions when he needed
clarification. The clock chimed one by the time she finished
telling him about the final arrow she’d fired at Ansel, and
how, even with her heart breaking, she’d given her friend an
extra minute before releasing what would have been a
killing shot. When she stopped speaking, Sam’s eyes were
bright with sorrow and wonder.
“So, that was my summer,” she said with a shrug. “A
grand adventure for Celaena Sardothien, isn’t it?”
But he merely reached out and ran his fingers down
the scar on her neck, as if he could somehow erase the
wound. “I’m sorry,” he said. And she knew he meant it.
“So am I,” she murmured. She shifted, suddenly aware
of how little her nightgown concealed. As if he’d noticed,
too, his hand dropped from her neck and he cleared his
throat. “Well,” she said, “I suppose our mission just got a
little more complicated.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
She shook off the blush his touch had brought to her
face and gave him a slow, wicked smile. Philip had no idea
who he’d just tried to dispatch, or of the world of pain that
was headed his way. You didn’t try to drown Adarlan’s
Assassin in a sewer and get away with it. Not in a thousand
lifetimes. “Because,” she said, “my list of people to kill just
got one person longer.”

Chapter Nine
She slept until noon, took the two baths she’d promised
herself, and then went to Arobynn’s study. He was nursing a
cup of tea as she opened the door.
“I’m surprised to see you out of the bathtub,” he said.
Telling Sam the story about her month in the Red
Desert had reminded her of why she’d wanted so badly to
come home this summer, and of what she had
accomplished. She had no reason now to tiptoe around
Arobynn—not after what he’d done, and what she’d been
through. So Celaena merely smiled at the King of the
Assassins as she held open the door for the servants
outside. They carried in a heavy trunk. Then another. And
another.
“Do I dare ask?” Arobynn massaged his temples.
The servants hurried out, and Celaena shut the door
behind them. Without a word, she opened the lids of the
trunks. Gold shone in the noontime sun.
She turned to Arobynn, clinging to the memory of what
it had felt like to sit on the roof after the party. His face was
unreadable.
“I think this covers my debt,” she said, forcing herself
to smile. “And then some.”
Arobynn remained seated.
She swallowed, suddenly feeling sick. Why had she
thought this was a good idea?
“I’d like to keep working with you,” she said carefully.
He’d looked at her like this before—on the night he’d
beaten her. “But you don’t own me anymore.”
His silver eyes flicked to the trunks, then to her. In a
moment of silence that lasted forever, she stood still as he
took her in. Then he smiled, a bit ruefully. “Can you blame
me for hoping that this day would never come?”
She almost sagged with relief. “I mean it: I want to
keep working with you.”
She knew in that moment that she couldn’t tell him
about the apartment and that she was moving out—not right
now. Small steps. Today, the debt. Perhaps in a few
weeks, she could mention that she was leaving. Perhaps
he wouldn’t even care that she was getting her own home.
“And I’ll always be happy to work with you,” he said,
but remained seated. He took a sip from his tea. “Do I want
to know where that money came from?”
She became aware of the scar on her neck as she
said, “The Mute Master. Payment for saving his life.”
Arobynn picked up the morning paper. “Well, allow me
to extend my congratulations.” He looked at her over the top
of the paper. “You’re now a free woman.”
She tried not to smile. Perhaps she wasn’t free in the
entire sense of the word, but at least he wouldn’t be able to
wield the debt against her anymore. That would suffice for
now.
“Good luck with Doneval tomorrow night,” he added.
“Let me know if you need any help.”
“As long as you don’t charge me for it.”
He didn’t return her smile, and set down the paper. “I
would never do that to you.” Something like hurt flickered in
his eyes.
Fighting her sudden desire to apologize, she left his
study without another word.
The walk back to her bedroom was long. She’d
expected to crow with glee when she gave him the money,
expected to strut around the Keep. But seeing the way he’d
looked at her made all that gold feel … cheap.
A glorious start to her new future.
Though Celaena never wanted to set foot in the vile sewer
again, she found herself back there that afternoon. There
was still a river flowing through the tunnel, but the narrow
walkway alongside it was dry, even with the rain shower
that was now falling on the street above them.
An hour before, Sam had just showed up at her
bedroom, dressed and ready to spy on Doneval’s house.
Now he crept behind her, saying nothing as they
approached the iron door she remembered all too well.
She set down her torch beside the door and ran her hands
along the worn, rusty surface.
“We’ll have to get in this way tomorrow,” she said, her
voice barely audible above the gurgle of the sewer river.
“The front of the house is too well-guarded now.”
Sam traced a finger through the groove between the
door and the threshold. “Aside from finding a way to haul a
battering ram down here, I don’t think we’re getting
through.”
She shot him a dark look. “You could try knocking.”
Sam laughed under his breath. “I’m sure the guards
would appreciate that. Maybe they’d invite me in for an ale,
too. That is, after they finished pumping my gut full of
arrows.” He patted the firm plane of his stomach. He was
wearing the suit Arobynn had forced him to buy, and she
tried not to look too closely at how well it displayed his form.
“So we can’t get in this door,” she murmured, sliding
her hand along it again. “Unless we figure out when the
servants dump the trash.”
“Unreliable,” he countered, still studying the door. “The
servants might empty the trash whenever they feel like it.”
She swore and glanced about the sewer. What a
horrible place to have almost died. She certainly hoped that
she’d run into Philip tomorrow. That arrogant ass wouldn’t
see what was coming until she was right in front of him. He
hadn’t even recognized her from the party the other night.
She smiled slowly. What better way to get back at
Philip than to break in through the very door he’d revealed
to her? “Then one of us will just have to sit out here for a few
hours,” she whispered, still staring at the door. “With the
landing outside the door, the servants need to take a few
steps to reach the water.” Celaena’s smile grew. “And I’m
sure that if they’re lugging a bunch of trash, they probably
won’t think to look behind them.”
Sam’s teeth flashed in the torchlight as he smiled.
“And they’ll be preoccupied long enough for someone to
slip in and find a good hiding spot in the cellar to wait out
the rest of the time until seven thirty.”
“What a surprise they’ll have tomorrow, when they find
their cellar door unlocked.”
“I think that’ll be the least of their surprises tomorrow.”
She picked up her torch. “It certainly will be.” He
followed her back down the sewer walkway. They’d found a
grate in a shadowy alley, far enough away from the house
that no one would suspect them. Unfortunately, it meant a
long walk back through the sewers.
“I heard you paid off Arobynn this morning,” he said,
his eyes on the dark stones beneath their feet. He still kept
his voice soft. “How does it feel to be free?”
She glanced at him sidelong. “Not the way I thought it
would.”
“I’m surprised he took the money without a fight.”
She didn’t say anything. In the dim light, Sam took a
ragged breath.
“I think I might leave,” he whispered.
She almost tripped. “Leave?”
He wouldn’t look at her. “I’m going down to Eyllwe—to
Banjali, to be precise.”
“For a mission?” It was common for Arobynn to send
them all over the continent, but the way Sam was speaking
felt … different.
“Forever,” he said.
“Why?” Her voice sounded a little shrill in her ears.
He faced her. “What do I have to tie me here?
Arobynn already mentioned that it might be useful to firmly
establish ourselves in the south, too.”
“Arobynn—” she seethed, fighting to keep her voice to
a whisper. “You talked to Arobynn about this?”
Sam gave her a half shrug. “Casually. It’s not official.”
“But—but Banjali is a thousand miles away.”
“Yes, but Rifthold belongs to you and Arobynn. I’ll
always be … an alternative.”
“I’d rather be an alternative in Rifthold than ruler of the
assassins in Banjali.” She hated that she had to keep her
voice so soft. She was going to splatter someone against a
wall. She was going to rip down the sewer with her bare
hands.
“I’m leaving at the end of the month,” he said, still
calm.
“That’s two weeks away!”
“Do I have any reason why I should stay here?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed as loudly as she could while still
maintaining a hushed tone. “Yes, you do.” He didn’t reply.
“You can’t go.”
“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Because I’ll miss you, damn it!” she hissed, splaying
her arms. “Because what was the point in anything if you
just disappear forever?”
“The point in what, Celaena?” How could he be so
calm when she was so frantic?
“The point in Skull’s Bay, and the point in getting me
that music, and the point in … the point in telling Arobynn
that you’d forgive him if he never hurt me again.”
“You said you didn’t care what I thought. Or what I did.
Or if I died, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I lied! And you know I lied, you stupid bastard!”
He laughed quietly. “You want to know how I spent this
summer?” She went still. He ran a hand through his brown
hair. “I spent every single day fighting the urge to slit
Arobynn’s throat. And he knew I wanted to kill him.”
I’ll kill you! Sam had screamed at Arobynn.
“The moment I woke up after he beat me, I realized I
had to leave. Because I was going to kill him if I didn’t. But I
couldn’t.” He studied her face. “Not until you came back.
Not until I knew you were all right—until I saw that you were
safe.”
Breathing became very, very hard.
“He knew that, too,” Sam went on. “So he decided to
exploit it. He didn’t recommend me for missions. Instead,
he made me help Lysandra and Clarisse. He made me
escort them around the city on picnics and to parties. It
became a game between the two of us—how much of his
horseshit I could take before I snapped. But we both knew
he’d always have the winning hand. He’d always have you.
Still, I spent every day this summer hoping you’d come
back in one piece. More than that—I hoped you’d come
back and take revenge for what he’d done to you.”
But she hadn’t. She’d come back and let Arobynn
shower her with gifts.
“And now that you’re fine, Celaena, now that you’ve
paid off your debt, I can’t stay in Rifthold. Not after all the
things he’s done to us.”
She knew it was selfish, and horrible, but she
whispered, “Please don’t go.”
He let out an uneven breath. “You’ll be fine without me.
You always have been.”
Maybe once, but not now. “How can I convince you to
stay?”
“You can’t.”
She threw down the torch. “Do you want me to beg, is
that it?”
“No—never.”
“Then tell me—”
“What more can I say?” he exploded, his whisper
rough and harsh. “I’ve already told you everything—I’ve
already told you that if I stay here, if I have to live with
Arobynn, I’ll snap his damned neck.”
“But why? Why can’t you let it go?”
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Because I
love you!”
Her mouth fell open.
“I love you,” he repeated, shaking her again. “I have for
years. And he hurt you and made me watch because he’s
always known how I felt, too. But if I asked you to pick, you’d
choose Arobynn, and I. Can’t. Take. It.”
The only sounds were their breathing, an uneven beat
against the rushing of the sewer river.
“You’re a damned idiot,” she breathed, grabbing the
front of his tunic. “You’re a moron and an ass and a
damned idiot.” He looked like she had hit him. But she
went on, and grasped both sides of his face, “Because I’d
pick you.”
And then she kissed him.

Chapter Ten
She’d never kissed anyone. And as her lips met his and he
wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close
against him, she honestly had no idea why she’d waited so
long. His mouth was warm and soft, his body wondrously
solid against hers, his hair silken as she threaded her
fingers through it. Still, she let him guide her, forced herself
to remember to breathe as he eased her lips apart with his
own.
When she felt the brush of his tongue against hers,
she was so full of lightning she thought she might die from
the rush of it. She wanted more. She wanted all of him.
She couldn’t hold him tight enough, kiss him fast
enough. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat, so full of
need she felt it in her core. Lower than that, actually.
She pushed him against the wall, and his hands
roamed all over her back, her sides, her hips. She wanted
to bask in the feeling—wanted to rip off her suit so she
could feel his callused hands against her bare skin. The
intensity of that desire swept her away.
She didn’t give a damn about the sewers. Or Doneval,
or Philip, or Arobynn.
Sam’s lips left her mouth to travel along her neck.
They grazed a spot beneath her ear and her breath hitched.
No, she didn’t give a damn about anything right now.
It was nighttime when they left the sewers, hair disheveled
and mouths swollen. He wouldn’t let go of her hand during
the long walk back to the Keep, and when they got there,
she ordered the servants to send dinner for them to her
room. Though they stayed up long into the night, doing a
minimal amount of talking, their clothes remained on.
Enough had happened today to change her life, and she
was in no particular mood to alter yet another major thing.
But what had happened in the sewer …
Celaena lay awake that night, long after Sam had left
her room, staring at nothing.
He loved her. For years. And he’d endured so much
for her sake.
For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. She’d
been nothing but horrible to him, and had repaid any
kindness on his part with a sneer. And what she felt for him
…
She hadn’t been in love with him for years. Until Skull’s
Bay, she wouldn’t have minded killing him.
But now … No, she couldn’t think about this now. And
she couldn’t think about it tomorrow, either. Because
tomorrow, they’d infiltrate Doneval’s house. It was still risky,
but the payoff … She couldn’t turn down that money, not
now that she would be supporting herself. And she wouldn’t
let the bastard Doneval get away with his slave-trade
agreement, or blackmailing those who dared to stand
against it.
She just prayed Sam wouldn’t get hurt.
In the silence of her bedroom, she swore an oath to
the moonlight that if Sam were hurt, no force in the world
would hold her back from slaughtering everyone
responsible.
After lunch the next afternoon, Celaena waited in the
shadows beside the sewer door to the cellar. A ways down
the tunnel, Sam also waited, his black suit making him
almost invisible in the darkness.
With the household lunch just ending, it was a good
bet that Celaena would soon have her best chance to slip
inside. She’d been waiting for an hour already, each noise
whetting the edge she’d been riding since dawn. She’d
have to be quick and silent and ruthless. One mistake, one
shout—or even a missing servant—might ruin everything.
A servant had to come down here to deposit the trash
at some point soon. She pulled a little pocket watch out of
her suit. Carefully, she lit a match to glance at the face. Two
o’clock. She had five hours until she needed to creep into
Doneval’s study to await the seven-thirty meeting. And she
was willing to bet he wouldn’t enter the study until then; a
man like that would want to greet his guest at the door, to
see the look on his partner’s face as he led him through the
opulent halls. Suddenly, she heard the first, interior door to
the sewers groan, and footsteps and grunts sounded. Her
trained ear heard the noises of one servant—female.
Celaena blew out the match.
She pressed herself into the wall as the lock to the
outer door snapped open, and the heavy door slid against
the ground. She could hear no other footsteps, save for the
woman who hauled a vat of garbage onto the landing. The
servant was alone. The cellar above was empty, too.
The woman, too preoccupied with depositing the
metal pail of garbage, didn’t think to look to the shadows
beside the door. She didn’t even pause as Celaena
slipped past her. Celaena was through both doors, up the
stairs, and into the cellar before she even heard the plop
and splatter of the trash landing in the water.
As Celaena rushed toward the darkest corner of the
vast, dimly lit cellar, she took in as many details as she
could. Countless barrels of wine and shelves crammed full
of food and goods from across Erilea. One staircase
leading up. No other servants to be heard, save for
somewhere above her. The kitchen, probably.
The outer door slammed shut, the lock sounding. But
Celaena was already crouched behind a giant keg of wine.
The interior door also shut and locked. Celaena slid on the
smooth black mask she’d brought with her, tossing the
hood of her cloak over her hair. The sound of footsteps and
light panting, and then the servant reappeared at the top of
the sewer stairs, empty garbage pail creaking as it swung
from one hand. She walked right by, humming to herself as
she mounted the stairs that led toward the kitchen.
Celaena loosed a breath when the woman’s footsteps
faded, then grinned to herself. If Philip had been smart, he
would have slit her throat in the sewer that night. Perhaps
when she killed him, she’d let him know exactly how she got
into the house.
When she was absolutely certain that the servant
wasn’t returning with a second pail of garbage, Celaena
hurried toward the small set of steps that led down to the
sewer. Quiet as a jackrabbit in the Red Desert, she
unlocked the first door, crept through, then unlocked the
second. Sam wouldn’t sneak in until right before the
meeting—or else someone might come down and discover
him preparing the cellar for the fire that would serve as a
distraction. And if someone found the two unlocked doors
before then, it could just be blamed on the servant who’d
dumped the trash.
Celaena carefully shut both doors, making sure the
locks remained disabled, and then returned to her place in
the shadows of the cellar’s vast wine collection.
Then she waited.
At seven, she left the cellar before Sam could arrive with his
torches and oil. The ungodly amount of alcohol stocked
inside would do the rest. She just hoped he made it out
before the fire blew the cellar to bits.
She needed to be upstairs and hidden before that
happened—and before the exchange was made. Once the
fire started a few minutes after seven thirty, some of the
guards would be called downstairs immediately, leaving
Doneval and his partner with far fewer men to protect them.
The servants were eating their evening meal, and from
the laughter inside the sub-level kitchen, none of them
seemed aware of the deal that was to occur three flights
above them. Celaena crept past the kitchen door. In her
suit, cloak, and mask, she was a mere shadow on the pale
stone walls. She held her breath the entire way up the
servants’ narrow spiral staircase.
With her new suit, it was far easier to keep track of her
weapons, and she slid a long dagger out of the hidden flap
in her boot. She peered down the second floor hallway.
The wooden doors were all shut. No guards, no
servants, no members of Doneval’s household. She eased
a foot onto the wooden floorboards. Where the hell were
the guards?
Swift and quiet as a cat, she was at the door to
Doneval’s study. No light shone from beneath the door. She
saw no shadows of feet, and heard no sound.
The door was locked. A minor inconvenience. She
sheathed her dagger and pulled out two narrow bits of
metal, wedging and jamming them into the lock until—click.
Then she was inside, door locked again, and she
stared into the inky black of the interior. She lit a match. No
one. Frowning, Celaena fished the pocket watch out of her
suit.
She still had enough time to look around.
Celaena flicked out the match and rushed to the
curtains, shutting them tight against the night outside. Rain
still plinked faintly against the covered windows. She
moved to the massive oak desk in the center of the room
and lit the oil lamp atop it, dimming it until only a faint blue
flame gave off a flicker of light. She shuffled through the
papers on the desk. Newspapers, casual letters, receipts,
the household expenses …
She opened every drawer in the desk. More of the
same. Where were those documents?
Swallowing her violent curse, Celaena put a fist to her
mouth. She turned in place. An armchair, an armoire, a
hutch … She searched the hutch and armoire, but they had
nothing. Just empty papers and ink. Her ears strained for
any sound of approaching guards.
She scanned the books on the bookcase, tapping her
fingers across the spines, trying to hear if any were
hollowed out, trying to hear if—
A floorboard creaked beneath her feet. She was down
on her knees in an instant, rapping on the dark, polished
wood. She knocked all around the area, until she found a
hollow sound.
Carefully, heart hammering, she dug her dagger
between the floorboards and wedged it upward. Papers
stared back at her.
She pulled them out, replaced the floorboard, and was
back at the desk a moment later, spreading the papers
before her. She’d only glance at them, just to be sure she
had the right documents …
Her hands trembled as she flipped through the
papers, one after another. Maps with red marks in random
places, charts with numbers, and names—list after list of
names and locations. Cities, towns, forests, mountains, all
in Melisande.
These weren’t just Melisanders opposed to slavery—
these were locations for planned safe houses to smuggle
slaves to freedom. This was enough information to get all
these people executed or enslaved themselves.
And Doneval, that wretched bastard, was going to use
this information to force those people to support the slave
trade—or be turned over to the king.
Celaena gathered up the documents. She’d never let
Doneval get away with this. Never.
She took a step toward the trick floorboard. Then she
heard the voices.

Chapter Eleven
She had the lamp off and the curtains opened in a
heartbeat, swearing silently as she tucked the documents
into her suit and hid in the armoire. It would only take a few
moments before Doneval and his partner found that the
documents were missing. But that was all she needed—
she just had to get them in here, away from the guards, long
enough to take them both down. The fire would start in the
cellar any minute now, hopefully distracting many of the
other guards, and hopefully happening before Doneval
noticed the papers were gone. She left the armoire door
open a crack, peering out.
The study door unlocked and then swung open.
“Brandy?” Doneval was saying to the cloaked and
hooded man who trailed in behind him.
“No,” the man said, removing his hood. He was of
average height and plain, his only notable features his sunkissed
face and high cheekbones. Who was he?
“Eager to get it over with?” Doneval chuckled, but
there was a hitch to his voice.
“You could say that,” the man replied coolly. He looked
about the room, and Celaena didn’t dare move—or breathe
—as his blue eyes passed over the armoire. “My partners
know to start looking for me in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll have you out in ten. I have to be at the theater
tonight, anyway. There’s a young lady I’m particularly keen
to see,” Doneval said with a businessman’s charm. “I take it
that your associates are prepared to act quickly and give
me a response by dawn?”
“They are. But show me your documents first. I need to
see what you’re offering.”
“Of course, of course,” Doneval said, drinking from the
glass of brandy that he’d poured for himself. Celaena’s
hands became slick and her face turned sweaty under the
mask. “Do you live here, or are you visiting?” When the man
didn’t respond, Doneval said with a grin, “Either way, I hope
you’ve stopped by Madam Clarisse’s establishment. I’ve
never seen such fine girls in all my life.”
The man gave Doneval a distinctly displeased stare.
Had Celaena not been here to kill them, she might have
liked the stranger.
“Not one for chitchat?” Doneval teased, setting down
the brandy and walking toward the floorboard. From the
slight tremble in Doneval’s hands, she could tell that his
talking was all nervous babble. How had such a man come
into contact with such incredibly delicate and important
information?
Doneval knelt before the loose floorboard and pulled it
up. He swore.
Celaena flicked the sword out of the hidden
compartment in her suit and moved.
She was out of the closet before they even looked at her,
and Doneval died a heartbeat after that. His blood sprayed
from the spine-severing wound she gave him through the
back of his neck, and the other man let out a shout. She
whirled toward him, the sword flicking blood.
An explosion rocked the house, so strong that she lost
her footing.
What in hell had Sam detonated down there?
That was all the man needed—he was out the study
door. His speed was admirable; he moved like someone
used to a lifetime of running.
She was through the threshold almost instantly.
Smoke was already rising from the stairs. She turned left
after the man, only to run into Philip, the bodyguard.
She rebounded away as he swiped with a sword for
her face. Behind him, the man was still running, and he
glanced over his shoulder once before he sprinted down
the stairs.
“What have you done?” Philip spat, noticing the blood
on her blade. He didn’t need to see whose face was under
the mask to identify her—he must be as good at marking
people as she was, or at least he recognized the suit.
She deployed the sword in her other arm, too. “Get the
hell out of my way.” The mask made her words low and
gravely—the voice of a demon, not a young woman. She
slashed the swords in front of her, a deadly whine coming
off of them.
“I’m going to rip you limb from limb,” Philip growled.
“Just try it.”
Philip’s face twisted in rage as he launched himself at
her.
She took the first blow on her left blade, her arm
aching at the impact, and Philip barely moved away fast
enough to avoid her punching the right blade straight
through his gut. He struck again, a clever thrust toward her
ribs, but she blocked him.
He pressed both her blades. Up close, she could see
his weapon was of fine make.
“I wanted to make this last,” Celaena hissed. “But I
think it’s going to be quick. Far cleaner than the death you
tried to give me.”
Philip shoved her back with a roar. “You have no idea
what you’ve just done!”
She swung her swords in front of her again. “I know
exactly what I’ve just done. And I know exactly what I’m
about to do.”
Philip charged, but the hallway was too narrow and his
blow too undisciplined. She got past his guard instantly. His
blood soaked her gloved hand.
Her sword whined against bone as she whipped it out
again.Philip’s eyes went wide and he staggered back,
clutching the slender wound that went up through his ribs
and into his heart. “Fool,” he whispered, slumping to the
ground. “Did Leighfer hire you?”
She didn’t say anything as he struggled for breath,
blood bubbling from his lips.
“Doneval … ,” Philip rasped, “… loved his country …”
He took a wet breath, hate and grief mingling in his eyes.
“You don’t know anything.” And just like that, he was dead.
“Maybe,” she said as she looked down at his body.
“But I knew enough just then.”
It had taken just less than two minutes—that was it. She
knocked out two guards as she catapulted down the stairs
of the burning house and out the front door, disarming
another three when she vaulted over the iron fence and into
the streets of the capital.
Where in hell had the man gone?
There were no alleys from the house to the river, so he
hadn’t gone left. Which meant he had gone either straight
through the alley ahead of her or to the right. He wouldn’t
have gone to the right—that was the main avenue of the
city, where the wealthy lived. She took the alley straight
ahead.
She sprinted so fast she could hardly breathe,
snapping her swords back into their hidden compartment.
No one noticed her; most people were too busy
rushing toward the flames now licking the sky above
Doneval’s house. What had happened to Sam?
She spotted the man then, sprinting down an alley that
led toward the Avery. She almost missed him, because he
was around the corner and gone the next instant. He’d
mentioned his partners—was he was headed to them now?
Would he be that foolish?
She splashed through puddles and leaped over trash
and grabbed the wall of a building as she hauled herself
around the corner. Right into a dead end.
The man was trying to scale the large brick wall at the
other end. The buildings surrounding them had no doors—
and no windows low enough for him to reach.
Celaena popped out both of her swords as she
slowed to a stalking gait.
The man made one last leap for the top of the wall, but
couldn’t reach. He fell hard against the cobblestone streets.
Sprawled on the ground, he twisted toward her. His eyes
were bright as he pulled out a pile of papers from his worn
jacket. What sort of documents had he been bringing to
Doneval? Their official business contract?
“Go to hell,” he spat, and a match flared. The papers
were instantly alight, and he threw them to the ground. So
fast she could hardly see it, he grabbed a vial from his
pocket and swallowed the contents.
She lunged toward him, but she was too late.
By the time she grabbed him, he was dead. Even with
his eyes closed, the rage remained on his face. He was
gone. Irrevocably gone. But for what—some business deal
gone sour?
Easing him to the ground, she jumped swiftly to her
feet. She stomped on the papers, extinguishing the flame in
seconds. But half of them had already burned, leaving only
scraps.
In the moonlight, she knelt on the damp cobblestones
and picked up the remnants of the documents he’d been so
willing to die to keep from her.
It wasn’t merely a trade agreement. Like the papers
she had in her pocket, these contained names and
numbers and locations of safe houses. But these were in
Adarlan—even stretching as far north as the border with
Terrasen.
She whipped her head to the body. It didn’t make any
sense; why kill himself to keep this information secret, when
he’d planned to share it with Doneval and use it for his own
profit? Heaviness rushed through her veins. You know
nothing, Philip had said.
Somehow, it suddenly felt very true. How much had
Arobynn known? Philip’s words sounded in her ears again
and again. It didn’t add up. Something was wrong—
something was off.
No one had told her these documents would be this
extensive, this damning to the people they listed. Her hands
shaking, she shifted his body into a sitting position so he
wouldn’t be face-first on the filthy ground. Why had he
sacrificed himself to keep this information safe? Noble or
not, foolish or not, she couldn’t let it go. She straightened
his coat.
Then she picked up his half-destroyed documents, lit
a match, and let them burn until they were nothing but
ashes. It was the only thing she had to offer.
She found Sam slumped against the wall of another alley.
She rushed to him where he knelt with a hand over his
chest, panting heavily.
“Are you hurt?” she demanded, scanning the alley for
any sign of guards. An orange glow spread behind them.
She hoped the servants had gotten out of Doneval’s house
in time.
“I’m fine,” Sam rasped. But in the moonlight, she could
see the gash on his arm. “The guards spotted me in the
cellar and shot at me.” He grabbed at the breast of his suit.
“One of them hit me right in the heart. I thought I was dead,
but the arrow clattered right out. It didn’t even touch my
skin.”
He peeled open the gash in the front of his suit, and a
glimmer of iridescence sparkled. “Spidersilk,” he
murmured, his eyes wide.
Celaena smiled grimly and pulled off the mask from
her face.
“No wonder this damned suit was so expensive,” Sam
said, letting out a breathy laugh. She didn’t feel the need to
tell him the truth. He searched her face. “It’s done, then?”
She leaned down to kiss him, a swift brush of her
mouth against his.
“It’s done,” she said onto his lips.

Chapter Twelve
The rain clouds had vanished and the sun was just rising
when Celaena strode into Arobynn’s study and stopped in
front of his desk. Wesley, Arobynn’s manservant, didn’t
even try to stop her. He just shut the study doors behind her
before resuming his sentry position in the hall outside.
“Doneval’s partner burned his own documents before I
could see them,” she said to Arobynn by way of greeting.
“And then poisoned himself.” She’d slipped Doneval’s
documents under his bedroom door last night, but had
decided to wait to explain everything to him until that
morning.
Arobynn looked up from his ledger. His face was
blank. “Was that before or after you torched Doneval’s
house?”
She crossed her arms. “Does it make a difference?”
Arobynn looked at the window and the clear sky
beyond. “I sent the documents to Leighfer this morning. Did
you look through them before you slid them under my
door?”She snorted. “Of course I did. Right in between killing
Doneval and fighting my way out of his house, I found the
time to sit down for a cup of tea and read them.”
Arobynn still wasn’t smiling.
“I’ve never seen you leave such a mess in your wake.”
“At least people will think Doneval died in the fire.”
Arobynn slammed his hands onto his desk. “Without
an identifiable body, how can anyone be sure he’s dead?”
She refused to flinch, refused to back down. “He’s
dead.”Arobynn’s silver eyes hardened. “You won’t be paid
for this. I know for certain Leighfer won’t pay you. She
wanted a body and both documents. You only gave me one
of the three.”
She felt her nostrils flare. “That’s fine. Bardingale’s
allies are safe now, anyway. And the trade agreement isn’t
happening.” She couldn’t mention that she hadn’t even
seen a trade agreement document among the papers—not
without revealing that she’d read the documents.
Arobynn let out a low laugh. “You haven’t figured it out
yet, have you?”
Celaena’s throat tightened.
Arobynn leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I
expected more from you. All the years I spent training you,
and you couldn’t piece together what was happening right
before your eyes.”
“Just spit it out,” she growled.
“There was no trade agreement,” Arobynn said,
triumph lighting his silver eyes. “At least, not between
Doneval and his source in Rifthold. The real meetings
about the slave-trade negotiations have been going on in
the glass castle—between the king and Leighfer. It was a
key point of persuasion in convincing him to let them build
their road.”
She kept her face blank, kept herself from flinching.
The man who poisoned himself—he hadn’t been there to
trade documents to sell out those opposed to slavery. He
and Doneval had been working to—
Doneval loves his country, Philip had said.
Doneval had been working to set up a system of safe
houses and form an alliance of people against slavery
across the empire. Doneval, bad habits or not, had been
working to help the slaves.
And she’d killed him.
Worse than that, she’d given the documents over to
Bardingale—who didn’t want to stop slavery at all. No, she
wanted to profit from it and use her new road to do it. And
she and Arobynn had concocted the perfect lie to get
Celaena to cooperate.
Arobynn was still smiling. “Leighfer has already seen
to it that Doneval’s documents are secured. If it’ll ease your
conscience, she said she won’t give them to the king—not
yet. Not until she’s had a chance to speak to the people on
this list and … persuade them to support her business
endeavors. But if they don’t, perhaps those documents will
find their way into the glass castle after all.”
Celaena fought to keep from trembling. “Is this
punishment for Skull’s Bay?”
Arobynn studied her. “While I might regret beating you,
Celaena, you did ruin a deal that would have been
extremely profitable for us.” “Us,” like she was a part of this
disgusting mess. “You might be free of me, but you
shouldn’t forget who I am. What I’m capable of.”
“As long as I live,” she said, “I’ll never forget that.” She
turned on her heel, striding for the door, but stopped.
“Yesterday,” she said, “I sold Kasida to Leighfer
Bardingale.” She’d visited Bardingale’s estate in the
morning of the day she was set to infiltrate Doneval’s
house. The woman had been more than happy to purchase
the Asterion horse. She hadn’t once mentioned her former
husband’s impending death.
And last night, after Celaena had killed Doneval, she’d
spent a while staring at the signature at the end of the
transfer of ownership receipt, so stupidly relieved that
Kasida was going to a good woman like Bardingale.
“And?” Arobynn asked. “Why should I care about your
horse?”
Celaena looked at him long and hard. Always power
games, always deceit and pain. “The money is on its way to
your vault at the bank.”
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 sitting room. Is that all right?”
She nodded. “We’ll find room 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.


CHAPTER 1
After a year of slavery in the Salt Mines of Endovier,
Celaena Sardothien was accustomed to being escorted
everywhere in shackles and at sword-point. Most of the
thousands of slaves in Endovier received similar treatment
—though an extra half-dozen guards always walked
Celaena to and from the mines. That was expected by
Adarlan’s most notorious assassin. What she did not
usually expect, however, was a hooded man in black at her
side—as there was now.
He gripped her arm as he led her through the shining
building in which most of Endovier’s officials and overseers
were housed. They strode down corridors, up flights of
stairs, and around and around until she hadn’t the slightest
chance of finding her way out again.
At least, that was her escort’s intention, because she
hadn’t failed to notice when they went up and down the
same staircase within a matter of minutes. Nor had she
missed when they zigzagged between levels, even though
the building was a standard grid of hallways and stairwells.
As if she’d lose her bearings that easily. She might have
been insulted, if he wasn’t trying so hard.
They entered a particularly long hallway, silent save for
their footsteps. Though the man grasping her arm was tall
and fit, she could see nothing of the features concealed
beneath his hood. Another tactic meant to confuse and
intimidate her. The black clothes were probably a part of it,
too. His head shifted in her direction, and Celaena flashed
him a grin. He looked forward again, his iron grip
tightening.
It was flattering, she supposed, even if she didn’t know
what was happening, or why he’d been waiting for her
outside the mine shaft. After a day of cleaving rock salt
from the innards of the mountain, finding him standing there
with six guards hadn’t improved her mood.
But her ears had pricked when he’d introduced
himself to her overseer as Chaol Westfall, Captain of the
Royal Guard, and suddenly, the sky loomed, the mountains
pushed from behind, and even the earth swelled toward her
knees. She hadn’t tasted fear in a while—hadn’t let herself
taste fear. When she awoke every morning, she repeated
the same words: I will not be afraid. For a year, those
words had meant the difference between breaking and
bending; they had kept her from shattering in the darkness
of the mines. Not that she’d let the captain know any of that.
Celaena examined the gloved hand holding her arm.
The dark leather almost matched the dirt on her skin.
She adjusted her torn and filthy tunic with her free
hand and held in her sigh. Entering the mines before
sunrise and departing after dusk, she rarely glimpsed the
sun. She was frightfully pale beneath the dirt. It was true that
she had been attractive once, beautiful even, but— Well, it
didn’t matter now, did it?
They turned down another hallway, and she studied
the stranger’s finely crafted sword. Its shimmering pommel
was shaped like an eagle midflight. Noticing her stare, his
gloved hand descended to rest upon its golden head.
Another smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
“You’re a long way from Rifthold, Captain,” she said,
clearing her throat. “Did you come with the army I heard
thumping around earlier?” She peered into the darkness
beneath his hood but saw nothing. Still, she felt his eyes
upon her face, judging, weighing, testing. She stared right
back. The Captain of the Royal Guard would be an
interesting opponent. Maybe even worthy of some effort on
her part.
Finally, the man raised his sword hand, and the folds
of his cloak fell to conceal the blade. As his cloak shifted,
she spied the gold wyvern embroidered on his tunic. The
royal seal.
“What do you care for the armies of Adarlan?” he
replied. How lovely it was to hear a voice like her own—
cool and articulate—even if he was a nasty brute!
“Nothing,” she said, shrugging. He let out a low growl
of annoyance.
Oh, it’d be nice to see his blood spill across the
marble. She’d lost her temper once before—once, when
her first overseer chose the wrong day to push her too hard.
She still remembered the feeling of embedding the pickax
into his gut, and the stickiness of his blood on her hands
and face. She could disarm two of these guards in a
heartbeat. Would the captain fare better than her late
overseer? Contemplating the potential outcomes, she
grinned at him again.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” he warned, and his
hand drifted back toward his sword. Celaena hid her smirk
this time. They passed a series of wooden doors that she’d
seen a few minutes ago. If she wanted to escape, she
simply had to turn left at the next hallway and take the stairs
down three flights. The only thing all the intended
disorientation had accomplished was to familiarize her with
the building. Idiots.
“Where are we going again?” she said sweetly,
brushing a strand of her matted hair from her face. When he
didn’t reply, she clenched her jaw.
The halls echoed too loudly for her to attack him
without alerting the whole building. She hadn’t seen where
he’d put the key to her irons, and the six guards who trailed
them would be nuisances. Not to mention the shackles.
They entered a hallway hung with iron chandeliers.
Outside the windows lining the wall, night had fallen;
lanterns kindled so bright they offered few shadows to hide
in.
From the courtyard, she could hear the other slaves
shuffling toward the wooden building where they slept. The
moans of agony amongst the clank of chains made a
chorus as familiar as the dreary work songs they sang all
day. The occasional solo of the whip added to the
symphony of brutality Adarlan had created for its greatest
criminals, poorest citizens, and latest conquests.
While some of the prisoners were people accused of
attempting to practice magic—not that they could, given
that magic had vanished from the kingdom—these days,
more and more rebels arrived at Endovier. Most were from
Eyllwe, one of the last countries still fighting Adarlan’s rule.
But when she pestered them for news, many just stared at
her with empty eyes. Already broken. She shuddered to
consider what they’d endured at the hands of Adarlan’s
forces. Some days, she wondered if they would have been
better off dying on the butchering blocks instead. And if she
might have been better off dying that night she’d been
betrayed and captured, too.
But she had other things to think about as they
continued their walk. Was she finally to be hanged?
Sickness coiled in her stomach. She was important enough
to warrant an execution from the Captain of the Royal
Guard himself. But why bring her inside this building first?
At last, they stopped before a set of red and gold
glass doors so thick that she couldn’t see through them.
Captain Westfall jerked his chin at the two guards standing
on either side of the doors, and they stomped their spears
in greeting.
The captain’s grip tightened until it hurt. He yanked
Celaena closer, but her feet seemed made of lead and she
pulled against him. “You’d rather stay in the mines?” he
asked, sounding faintly amused.
“Perhaps if I were told what this was all about, I
wouldn’t feel so inclined to resist.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Her palms became
sweaty. Yes, she was going to die. It had come at last.
The doors groaned open to reveal a throne room. A
glass chandelier shaped like a grapevine occupied most of
the ceiling, spitting seeds of diamond fire onto the windows
along the far side of the room. Compared to the bleakness
outside those windows, the opulence felt like a slap to the
face. A reminder of how much they profited from her labor.
“In here,” the Captain of the Guard growled, and
shoved her with his free hand, finally releasing her. Celaena
stumbled, her callused feet slipping on the smooth floor as
she straightened herself. She looked back to see another
six guards appear.
Fourteen guards, plus the captain. The gold royal
emblem embroidered on the breast of black uniforms.
These were members of the Royal Family’s personal
guard: ruthless, lightning-swift soldiers trained from birth to
protect and kill. She swallowed tightly.
Lightheaded and immensely heavy all at once,
Celaena faced the room. On an ornate redwood throne sat
a handsome young man. Her heart stopped as everyone
bowed.
She was standing in front of the Crown Prince of
Adarlan.
Enter the Kingdom of Endovier, where one’s freedom can
come with a deadly price …
Throne of Glass Novellas
The Assassin and the Pirate Lord
On a remote island in a tropical sea, Celaena Sardothien,
feared assassin, has come for retribution. She’s been sent
by the Assassin’s Guild to collect on a debt they are owed
by the Lord of the Pirates. But when Celaena learns that the
agreed payment is not in money but in slaves, her mission
suddenly changes—and she will risk everything to right the
wrong she’s been sent to bring about.
The Assassin and the Desert
The Silent Assassins of the Red Desert aren’t much for
conversation, and Celaena Sardothien wouldn’t have it any
other way. She’s not there to chatter; she’s there to hone
her craft as the world’s most feared killer for hire. When the
quiet is shattered by forces who want to destroy the Silent
Assassins, Celaena must find a way to stop them or she’ll
be lucky to leave the desert alive.
The Assassin and the
Underworld
The King of the Assassins has given Celaena Sardothien a
special assignment. Since it is an assignment that will help
fight slavery in the kingdom, she jumps at the chance to
strike a blow against the evil practice. The mission is a
dark and deadly affair that takes Celaena from the rooftops
of the city to the bottom of the sewer—and she doesn’t like
what she finds there.
Throne of Glass
In a land without magic, where the king rules with an iron
hand, an assassin is summoned to the castle. She comes
not to kill the king but to win her freedom. If she defeats
twenty-three killers, thieves, and warriors in a competition,
she is released from prison to serve as the king’s
champion. Her name is Celaena Sardothien.
The Crown Prince will befriend her. The Captain of the
Guard will protect her. But something evil dwells in the
castle of glass—and it’s there to kill. When her competitors
start dying one by one, Celaena’s fight for freedom
becomes a fight for survival, and a desperate quest to root
out the evil before it destroys her world.
ON SALE AUGUST 2012!
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For more information on Sarah J. Maas, visit
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Copyright © 2012 by Sarah Maas
All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit,
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the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person
who does any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil
claims for damages.
First published in the United States of America in May
2012
by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers
www.bloomsburyteens.com
For information about permission to reproduce selections
from this book, write to
Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New
York, New York 10010
ISBN 978-1-59990-986-8 (e-book)