As the assassin laughed quietly to herself, head bowed to the ground, Dorian surveyed her body. The cut along her thigh wouldn’t stop bleeding, her arm hung limp, and her face and arms were a patchwork of cuts and rapidly forming bruises. Cain, his features set with fury, stood not too far behind, blood seeping through his fingers as he clutched his side. Let him suffer.
“She needs a healer,” he said to his father. The king said nothing. “You, boy,” Dorian snapped to a page. “Fetch a healer—as fast as you can!” Dorian found it difficult to breathe. He should have stopped it when Cain first hit her. He should have done something other than watch when she had so clearly been drugged. She would have helped him; she wouldn’t have hesitated. Chaol, even, had helped her—he’d knelt down beside the edge of the ring. And who had drugged her?
Carefully putting his arms around Celaena, Dorian glanced toward Kaltain and Perrington. In doing so, he missed the look exchanged between Cain and his father. The soldier pulled out his dagger.
But Chaol saw. Cain raised his dagger to strike the girl in the back.
Without thinking, without understanding, Chaol leapt between them and plunged his sword through Cain’s heart.
Blood erupted everywhere, showering Chaol’s arms, his head, his clothes. The blood reeked, somehow, of death and decay. Cain fell, hitting the ground hard.
The world became silent. Chaol watched the last breath issue from Cain’s mouth, watched him die. When it was over and Cain’s eyes stopped seeing him, Chaol’s sword clattered to the ground. He dropped to his knees beside Cain, but didn’t touch him. What had he done?
Chaol couldn’t stop staring at his blood-soaked hands. He’d killed him.
“Chaol,” Dorian breathed. In his arms, Celaena had gone utterly still.
“What have I done?” Chaol asked him. Celaena made a small noise and began shaking.
Two guards helped lift him up, but Chaol could only stare at his bloody hands as they helped him away.
Dorian watched his friend disappear into the castle, and then returned to the assassin. His father was already yelling about something.
She trembled so badly that her wounds leaked further. “He shouldn’t have killed him . . . Now he—he . . .” She let out a gasping breath. “She saved me,” she said, burying her face in his chest. “Dorian, she took the poison out of me. She—she . . . Oh, gods, I don’t even know what happened.” Dorian had no idea what she was speaking about, but he held her tighter.
Dorian felt the eyes of the council upon them, weighing and considering every word out of her mouth, every move or reaction of his. Damning the council to hell, Dorian kissed her hair. The mark on her brow had faded. What had that meant? What had any of it meant? Cain had touched a nerve in her today—when he had mentioned her parents, she’d lost control entirely. He’d never seen her that wild, that frantic.
He hated himself for not acting, for standing like a damned coward. He would make it up to her—he would see to it that she was freed, and after that . . . After that . . .
She didn’t fight him when he carried her to her rooms, instructing the physician to follow.
He was done with politics and intrigue. He loved her, and no empire, no king, and no earthly fear would keep him from her. No, if they tried to take her from him, he’d rip the world apart with his bare hands. And for some reason, that didn’t terrify him.
?
Kaltain watched in despair and bewilderment as Dorian carried the weeping assassin in his arms. How had she beaten Cain, when she’d been drugged? Why was she not dead?
Seated beside the glowering king, Perrington fumed. The councilmen scribbled on paper. Kaltain drew the empty vial from her pocket. Hadn’t the duke given her enough bloodbane to seriously impair the assassin? Why wasn’t Dorian crying over her corpse? Why wasn’t she holding Dorian, comforting him? The pain in her head erupted, so violent that her vision went obsidian, and she stopped thinking clearly.
Kaltain approached the duke and hissed in his ear. “I thought you said this would work.” She fought to keep her voice in a whisper. “I thought you said this damned drug would work!”
The king and the duke stared at her, and the councilmen exchanged glances as Kaltain straightened. Then, slowly, the duke rose from his seat. “What is that in your hand?” the duke asked a bit too loudly.
“You know what it is!” she seethed, still trying to keep her voice down, even as the pain in her head turned into a thunderous roar. She could scarcely think straight; she could only answer to the fury inside of her. “The damned poison I gave her,” she murmured so only Perrington could hear.
“Poison?” Perrington asked, so loud Kaltain’s eyes grew wide. “You poisoned her? Why would you do that?” He motioned to three guards.
Why did the king not speak? Why did he not come to her aid? Perrington had given her the poison based on the king’s command, hadn’t he? The council members looked at her accusingly, whispering among themselves.
“You gave it to me!” she said to the duke.
Perrington’s orange brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”