Celaena awoke the next day, unsure what time it was. There had been a knock on her door, and she blinked the sleep from her eyes in time to see Dorian enter. He stared at her for a moment from the doorway, and she managed a smile. “Hello,” she said hoarsely. She remembered him carrying her, holding her down as the healers stitched her leg . . .
He came forward, his steps heavy. “You look even worse today,” he whispered. Despite the pain, Celaena sat up.
“I’m fine,” she lied. She wasn’t. Cain had cracked one of her ribs, and it ached every time she breathed. He clenched his jaw, staring out the window. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked. She tried to reach out to grab his jacket, but it hurt too much and he was too far.
“I—I don’t know,” he said. The vacant, lost look in his eyes increased the tempo of her heart. “I haven’t been able to sleep since the duel.”
“Here,” she said as gently as she could, patting a space beside her. “Come sit.”
Obediently, he sat, though he kept his back to her as he put his head in his hands and took several deep breaths. Celaena gingerly touched his back. He stiffened, and she almost pulled away. But his spine relaxed, and he continued his controlled breathing. “Are you ill?” she asked.
“No,” he mumbled. “Dorian. What happened?”
“What do you mean, ‘what happened’?” he said, keeping his face in his hands. “One minute, you were walloping Grave, and the next, Cain was beating the living daylights out of you—”
“You lost sleep because of that?”
“I can’t—I can’t . . .” He groaned. She gave him a moment, letting him sort through his thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he said, removing his hands from his face and straightening. She nodded. She wouldn’t push him. “How are you truly feeling?” The fear still lay beneath his words.
“Awful,” she said cautiously. “And I suspect I look as bad as I feel.”
He smiled slightly. He was trying to fight it—whatever feeling had been hounding him. “I’ve never seen you look lovelier.” He eyed the bed. “Do you mind if I lie down? I’m exhausted.”
She didn’t object as he removed his boots and unbuttoned his jacket. With a groan, he stretched out beside her, putting his hands on his stomach. She watched him close his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. Some
semblance of normalcy returned to his face.
“How’s Chaol?” she asked, tensing. She remembered the spray of blood and his staring, horrified face.
Dorian opened an eye. “He’ll be fine. He took yesterday and today off. I think he needs it.” Celaena’s heart tightened. “You shouldn’t feel responsible,” he said, turning onto his side to look directly into her face. “He did what he saw fit.”
“Yes, but—”
“No,” insisted Dorian. “Chaol knew what he was doing.” He brushed a finger down her cheek. His finger was icy, but she held in her shiver. “I’m sorry,” he said again, taking his finger from her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t save you.”
“What are you talking about? That is what you’ve been agonizing over?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stop Cain the moment I knew something was wrong. Kaltain drugged you, and I should have known—I should have found a way to prevent her from doing it. And when I realized you were hallucinating, I . . . I’m sorry I didn’t find a way to stop it.”
Green skin and yellow fangs flashed before her eyes, and Celaena’s aching fingers curled into a fist. “You shouldn’t be sorry,” she said, not wanting to speak about the horrors that she’d seen, or of Kaltain’s treachery, or what Nehemia had confided in her. “You did as anyone would have—should have done. If you’d interfered, I would have been disqualified.”
“I should have sliced Cain open the moment he laid a hand on you. Instead, I stood there as Chaol knelt at the sidelines. I should have been the one to kill Cain.”
The demons faded, and a smirk spread. “You’re starting to sound like an assassin, my friend.”
“Perhaps I spend too much time around you.” Celaena moved her head from the pillow to rest in the soft space between his shoulder and chest. Heat rushed through her. Though her body almost seized up in agony as she turned over, Celaena put her injured hand on his stomach. Dorian’s breath was warm on her head, and she smiled as he brought his arm around her, cupping her shoulder. They were silent for a while.
“Dorian,” she began, and he flicked her on the nose. “Ow,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Though her face was peppered with bruises, miraculously, Cain hadn’t marred her in any permanent way, though the cut on the leg would leave yet another scar.
“Yes?” he said, resting his chin on her head.
She listened to the sound of his heart beating, the steadiness of it. “When you retrieved me from Endovier—did you actually think I’d win?”
“Of course. Why else would I have bothered to journey so far to find you?”
She snorted onto his chest, but he gently lifted her chin. His eyes were familiar—like something she’d forgotten. “I knew you’d win the moment I met you,” he whispered, and her heart writhed as she understood what lay before them. “Though I’ll admit that I didn’t quite see this coming. And . . . no matter how frivolous and twisted that competition was, I’m grateful it brought you into my life. As long as I live, I’ll always be thankful for that.”
“Do you intend to make me cry, or are you just foolish?” Dorian leaned forward and kissed her. It made her jaw hurt.
•
Seated on his glass throne, the King of Adarlan stroked Nothung’s pommel. Perrington knelt before him, waiting. Let him wait.
Though the assassin was his Champion, he had yet to send her contract. She was close with both his son and Princess Nehemia; would appointing her somehow be a risk?
But the Captain of the Guard trusted the assassin well enough to save her life. The king’s face became like stone. He wouldn’t punish Chaol Westfall—if only to avoid Dorian raising hell in the captain’s defense. If only Dorian had been born a soldier, not a reader.
But there was a man somewhere in Dorian—a man who could be honed into a warrior. Perhaps a few months at the battlefront would do him some good. A helmet and a sword could do wondrous things to a young man’s temperament. And after that show of will and power in his throne room . . . Dorian could be a strong general, if he was pushed.
And as for the assassin . . . once her injuries were healed, what better person to have at his bidding? Besides, there were no others in whom he could place his trust. Celaena Sardothien was his best and only choice now that Cain was dead.
The king traced a mark on the glass arm of his seat. He was well versed in Wyrdmarks, but he’d never seen one like hers. He would find out. And if it were an indication of some fell deed or prophecy, he’d have the girl hanging by nightfall. Seeing her thrash about while drugged had almost convinced him to order her death. But then he’d felt them—felt the angry and furious eyes of the dead . . . Someone had interfered and saved her. And if these creatures both protected and attacked her . . .
Perhaps she was not a person to die at his command. Not before he discovered the meaning of her mark. For now, though, he had more important things to worry about.
“Your manipulation of Kaltain was interesting,” said the king at last.
Perrington remained kneeling. “Were you using the power on her?”
“No; I’ve relaxed it recently, as you suggested,” the duke replied, rotating the obsidian ring around his thick finger. “Besides, she was starting to look noticeably affected—drained and pale, and she even mentioned the headaches.”
The treachery of Lady Kaltain was disturbing, but had he known of Perrington’s plan to reveal her character—even to prove how easily she’d adapt to their plans, and how strong her determination ran—he would have prevented it. Such a public revelation only brought about irritating questions.
“It was clever of you to experiment on her. She’s become a strong ally—and still suspects nothing of our influence. I have high hopes for this power,” the king confided, looking at his own black ring. “Cain proved the physical transformative effects, and Kaltain proves the ability to influence thoughts and emotions. I would like to test its full ability to hone the minds of a few others.”
“Part of me wishes Kaltain hadn’t been so susceptible,” grumbled Perrington. “She wanted to use me to get to your son, but I don’t want the power to turn her into Cain. Despite myself, I don’t like the thought of her rotting in those dungeons for long.”
“Do not fear for Kaltain, my friend. She won’t remain in the dungeons forever. When the scandal has been forgotten and the assassin is busy with my work, we’ll make Kaltain an offer she can’t refuse. But there are ways of controlling her, if you think she can’t be trusted.”
“Let’s first see how the dungeons change her mind,” Perrington said quickly. “Of course, of course. It’s only a suggestion.”
They were silent, and the duke rose.
“Duke,” the king said, his voice echoing through the chamber. The fire in the mouth-shaped fireplace flickered, and green light filled the shadows of the room. “We will soon have much to do in Erilea. Prepare yourself. And stop pushing your plan to use the Eyllwe princess—it’s attracting too much attention.”
The duke only nodded, bowed, and strode out of the chamber.
