Throne of Glass (32 page)

Celaena’s dinner rose in her throat. Five hundred—butchered.

Celaena became aware of Nehemia’s personal guards standing in the doorway, their eyes gleaming. How many of the rebels had been people that they knew—that Nehemia had somehow helped and protected?

“What is the point in being a princess of Eyllwe if I cannot help my people?” Nehemia said. “How can I call myself their princess, when such things happen?”

“I’m so sorry,” Celaena whispered. As if those words broke the spell that had been holding the princess in place, Nehemia rushed into her arms. Her gold jewelry pressed hard into Celaena’s skin. Nehemia wept. Unable to say anything, the assassin simply held her—for as long as it took for the pain to ease.

Chapter 34

Celaena sat by a window in her bedroom, watching the snow dance in the night air. Nehemia had long since returned to her own rooms, tears dried and shoulders squared once more. The clock chimed eleven and Celaena stretched, but then stopped as pain seized her stomach. She bent over, focusing on her breathing, and waited for the cramp to pass. She’d been like this for over an hour now, and she pulled her blanket tighter around herself, the heat of the roaring fire not adequately reaching her seat by the window. Thankfully, Philippa entered, extending a cup of tea.

“Here, child,” she said. “This will help.” She placed it on the table beside the assassin and rested a hand on the armchair. “Pity what happened to those Eyllwe rebels,” she said quietly enough that no listening ears might hear. “I can’t imagine what the princess must be feeling.” Celaena felt anger bubble alongside the pain in her stomach. “She’s fortunate to have a good friend like you, though.”

Celaena touched Philippa’s hand. “Thank you.” She grabbed her teacup and hissed, almost dropping it into her lap as the scalding-hot cup bit into her hand.

“Careful now.” Philippa chuckled. “I didn’t know assassins could be so clumsy. If you need anything, send word. I’ve had my fair share of monthly pains.” Philippa ruffled Celaena’s hair and left. Celaena would have thanked her again, but another wave of cramping took over and she leaned forward as the door closed.

Her weight gain over the past three and a half months had allowed for her monthly cycles to return after near-starvation in Endovier had made them vanish. Celaena groaned. How was she going to train like this? The duel was four weeks away.

The snowflakes sparkled and shimmered beyond the glass panes of the window, twirling and weaving as they flew to the ground in a waltz that was beyond human comprehension.

How could Elena expect her to defeat some evil in this castle, when there was so much more of it out there? What was any of this compared to what was occurring in other kingdoms? As close as Endovier and Calaculla, even? The door to her bedroom opened, and someone approached.

“I heard about Nehemia.” It was Chaol.

“What are you—isn’t it late for you to be here?” she asked, pulling the blankets tight.

“I—are you sick?”

“I’m indisposed.”

“Because of what happened to those rebels?”

Didn’t he get it? Celaena grimaced. “No. I’m
truly
feeling unwell.”

“It makes me sick, too,” Chaol murmured, glaring at the floor. “All of it. And after seeing Endovier . . .” He rubbed his face, as if he could clear away the memories of it. “Five hundred people,” he whispered. Stunned at what he was admitting, she could only watch.

“Listen,” he began, and started to pace. “I know that I’m sometimes aloof with you, and I know you complain about it to Dorian, but—” He turned to her. “It’s a good thing that you befriended the princess, and I appreciate your honesty and unwavering friendship with her. I know there are rumors about Nehemia’s connection to the rebels in Eyllwe, but . . . but I’d like to think that if my country was conquered, I would stop at nothing to win back my people’s freedom, too.”

She would have replied were it not for the deep pain that wrapped around her lower spine, and the sudden churning in her stomach.

“I might—” he started, looking at the window. “I might have been wrong.” The world began to spin and tilt, and Celaena closed her eyes. She’d always had horrible cramping, usually accompanied by nausea. But she wouldn’t vomit. Not right now.

“Chaol,” she began, putting a hand over her mouth as nausea swelled and took control.

“It’s just that I take great pride in my job,” he continued.

“Chaol,” she said again. Oh, she was going to vomit.

“And you’re Adarlan’s Assassin. But I was wondering if—if you wanted to—”

“
Chaol,
” she warned. As he pivoted, Celaena vomited all over the floor.

He made a disgusted noise, jumping back a foot. Tears sprang up as the bitter, sharp taste filled her mouth. She hung over her knees, letting drool and bile spill on the floor.

“Are you—by the Wyrd, you’re really sick, aren’t you?” He called for a servant, helping her from the chair. The world was clearer now. What had he been asking? “Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

“I’m not ill like
that
,” she groaned. He sat her on the bed, peeling back the blanket. A servant entered, frowning at the mess on the floor, and shouted for help.

“Then in what way?”

“I, uh . . .” Her face was so hot she thought it would melt onto the floor.
Oh, you idiot!
“My monthly cycles finally came back.”

His face suddenly matched hers and he stepped away, dragging a hand through his short brown hair. “I—if . . . Then I’ll take my leave,” he stammered, and bowed. Celaena raised an eyebrow, and then, despite herself, smiled as he left the room as quickly as his feet could go without running, tripping slightly in the doorway as he staggered into the rooms beyond.

Celaena looked at the servants cleaning. “I’m so sorry,” she started, but they waved her off. Embarrassed and aching, the assassin climbed farther onto her bed and nestled beneath the covers, hoping sleep would soon come.

But sleep wouldn’t soon come, and a while later, the door opened again, and someone laughed. “I intercepted Chaol, and he informed me of your ‘condition.’ You’d think a man in his position wouldn’t be so squeamish, especially after examining all of those corpses.”

Celaena opened an eye and frowned as Dorian sat on her bed. “I’m in a state of absolute agony and I can’t be bothered.”

“It can’t be that bad,” he said, fishing a deck of cards from his jacket. “Want to play?”

“I already told you that I don’t feel well.”

“You look fine to me.” He skillfully shuffled the deck. “Just one game.”

“Don’t you pay people to entertain you?”

He glowered, breaking the deck. “You should be honored by my company.”

“I’d be honored if you would
leave
.”

“For someone who relies on my good graces, you’re very bold.”

“Bold? I’ve barely begun.” Lying on her side, she curled her knees to her chest.

He laughed, pocketing the deck of cards. “Your new canine companion is doing well, if you wish to know.”

She moaned into her pillow. “Go away. I feel like dying.”

“No fair maiden should die alone,” he said, putting a hand on hers. “Shall I read to you in your final moments? What story would you like?”

She snatched her hand back. “How about the story of the idiotic prince who won’t leave the assassin alone?”

“Oh! I
love
that story! It has such a happy ending, too—why, the assassin was really feigning her illness in order to get the prince’s attention! Who would have guessed it? Such a clever girl. And the bedroom scene is
so
lovely—it’s worth reading through all of their ceaseless banter!”

“Out! Out! Out! Leave me be and go womanize someone else!” She grabbed a book and chucked it at him. He caught it before it broke his nose, and her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean—that wasn’t an attack! It was a joke—I didn’t mean to actually hurt you, Your Highness,” she said in a jumble.

“I’d hope that Adarlan’s Assassin would choose to attack me in a more
dignified
manner. At least with a sword or a knife, through preferably not in the back.”

She clutched her belly and bent over. Sometimes she hated being a woman.

“It’s Dorian, by the way. Not ‘Your Highness.’ ”

“Very well.”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say my name. Say, ‘Very well, Dorian.’ ”

She rolled her eyes. “If it pleases Your Magnanimous Holiness, I shall call you by your first name.”

“ ‘Magnanimous Holiness’? Oh, I like that one.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her face, and Dorian looked down at the book. “This isn’t one of the books that
I
sent you! I don’t even
own
books like these!”

She laughed weakly and took the tea from the servant as she approached. “Of course you don’t,
Dorian
. I had the maids send for a copy today.”

“
Sunset’s Passions
,” he read, and opened the book to a random page to read aloud. “ ‘His hands gently caressed her ivory, silky br—’ ” His eyes widened. “By the Wyrd! Do you actually
read
this rubbish? What happened to
Symbols and Power
and
Eyllwe Customs and Culture
?”

She finished her drink, the ginger tea easing her stomach. “You may borrow it when I’m done. If you read it, your literary experience will be complete. And,” she added with a coy smile, “it will give you some creative ideas of things to do with your lady friends.”

He hissed through his teeth. “I will
not
read this.”

She took the book from his hands, leaning back. “Then I suppose you’re just like Chaol.”

“Chaol?” he asked, falling into the trap. “You asked
Chaol
to read this?”

“He refused, of course,” she lied. “He said it wasn’t right for him to read this sort of material if I gave it to him.”

Dorian snatched the book from her hands. “Give me that, you demon-woman. I’ll not have
you
matching us against each other.” He glanced once more at the novel, then turned it over, concealing the title. She smiled, and resumed watching the falling snow. It was blisteringly cold now, and even the fire could not warm the blasts of wind that crept through the cracks of her balcony doors. She felt Dorian watching her—and not in the cautious way that Chaol sometimes watched her. Rather, Dorian just seemed to be watching her because he
enjoyed
watching her.

And she enjoyed watching him, too.

•

Dorian didn’t realize he’d been transfixed by her until she straightened and demanded, “What are you staring at?”

“You’re beautiful,” Dorian said before he could think.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Did I offend you?” His blood pumped through him in a strange rhythm.

“No,” she said, and quickly faced the window. Dorian watched her face turn redder and redder. He’d never known an attractive woman for so long without courting her—save for Kaltain. And he couldn’t deny that he was aching to learn what Celaena’s lips felt like, what her bare skin smelled like, how she’d react to the touch of his fingers along her body.

The week surrounding Yulemas was a time of relaxation, a time to celebrate the carnal pleasures that kept one warm on a winter’s night. Women wore their hair down; some even refused to don a corset. It was a holiday to feast on the fruits of the harvest and those of the flesh. Naturally, he looked forward to it every year. But now . . .

Now he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. How could he celebrate when word had just arrived of what his father’s soldiers had done to those Eyllwe rebels? They hadn’t spared a single life. Five hundred people—all dead. How could he ever look Nehemia in the face again? And how could he someday rule a country whose soldiers had been trained to have so little compassion for human life?

Dorian’s mouth went dry. Celaena was from Terrasen—another conquered country, and his father’s first conquest. It was a miracle Celaena bothered to acknowledge his existence—or perhaps she’d spent so long in Adarlan that she’d stopped caring. Somehow, Dorian didn’t think that was the case—not when she had the three giant scars on her back to forever remind her of his father’s brutality.

“Is there something the matter?” she asked. Cautiously; curiously. As if she cared. He took a deep breath and walked to the window, unable to look at her. The glass was cold beneath his hand, and he watched the snowflakes come crashing down to earth.

“You must hate me,” he murmured. “Hate me and my court for our frivolity and mindlessness when so many horrible things are going on outside of this city. I heard about those butchered rebels, and I—I’m ashamed,” he said, leaning his head against the window. He heard her rise and then slump into a chair. The words came out in a river, one flowing after the other, and he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “I understand why you have such ease when killing my kind. And I don’t blame you for it.”