The Assassin and the Empire (9 page)

Thirty feet.

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

Twenty.

Ten.

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

Five.

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

Celaena reached the edge of the roof and leapt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three more guards went down.

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

Another two guards fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world jolted to the side.

No
.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was still falling as the blackness consumed her.

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Celaena,” he purred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had to get out.

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

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

Who?

Who had betrayed her so foully? She could understand hating her, but
Sam
… Everyone had adored Sam, even Wesley …

Wesley. He had tried to tell her:
It’s all just a—
And his face hadn’t been set with irritation, but with grief—grief and rage, directed not at her, but at someone else. Had Arobynn sent Wesley to warn her? Harding, the assassin who had been talking about the window, had always had an eye on her position as Arobynn’s heir. And he’d practically spoon-fed her the details about where to break in,
how
to break in … It had to be him. Maybe Wesley had figured it out just as she was breaking out of the Keep. Because the alternative … No, she couldn’t even think of the alternative.

Farran pulled back, loosening his grip on her throat. “I do wish I’d been allowed to play with you for a bit, but I swore not to harm you.” He cocked his head to the side, taking in the injuries she’d already suffered. “I think a few bruised ribs and a split lip are excusable.” He pulled out a pocket watch. “Alas, it’s eleven, and you and I both have places to be.” Eleven. An hour before Arobynn would even
leave
the Keep. And if Harding had actually been the one to betray her, then he’d probably do his best to delay them even further. Once she was brought to the royal dungeons, what odds did Arobynn have of successfully breaking her out? When the gloriella wore off, what odds did
she
have of breaking out?

Farran’s eyes were still on hers, glittering with delight. And then, without warning, his arm slashed through the air.

She heard the sound of a hand against flesh before she felt the stinging throb in her cheek and mouth. The pain was faint. She was thankful the numbness was still clinging to her, especially as the coppery tang of blood filled her mouth.

Farran gracefully rose from his crouch. “That was for getting blood on the carpet.”

Despite the sideways angle of her head, she managed to glare up at him, even as her blood slid down her throat. Farran straightened his gray tunic, then leaned down to turn her head forward. His smile returned.

“You would have been delightful to break,” he told her, and strode from the room, motioning to three tall, well-dressed men as he passed. Not petty guards. She’d seen those three men before. Somewhere—at some point that she couldn’t quite recall …

One of the men approached, smiling, despite the gore pooled around her. Celaena glimpsed the rounded pommel of his sword before it connected with her head and everything went black.

Celaena awoke with a pulsing headache.

She kept her eyes shut, letting her senses take in her surroundings before she announced to the world that she was awake. Wherever she was, it was quiet, and damp, and cold, and reeked of mildew and refuse.

She knew three things before she even opened her eyes.

The first was that at least six hours had passed, because she could wriggle her toes and her fingers, and those movements were enough to tell her that all of her weapons had been removed.

The second was that because at least six hours had passed and Arobynn and the others clearly had not found her, she was either in the royal dungeons across the city or in some cell beneath Jayne’s house, awaiting transport.

The third was that Sam was still dead, and even her rage had been a pawn in some betrayal so twisted and brutal she couldn’t begin to wrap her aching head around it.

Sam was still dead. And she was in some sort of dungeon.

She opened her eyes, finding herself indeed in a dungeon, dumped onto a rotten pallet of hay and chained to the wall. Her feet had also been shackled to the floor, and both sets of chains had just enough slack that she could make it to the filthy bucket in the corner to relieve herself.

That was the first indignity she allowed herself to suffer.

Once she’d taken care of her bladder, she looked about the cell. No windows, and not enough space between the iron door and the threshold for anything more than light to squeeze through. She couldn’t hear anything—not through the walls, nor coming from outside. She could be anywhere—still beneath Jayne’s house, or in the royal dungeons, or in some other city prison …