Chaol coughed, suddenly very interested in the berries in the hedges. Dorian was on his own. “Don’t blame me,” Dorian said smoothly. “You accepted an invitation to that party in Rifthold weeks ago.” Her eyes flickered, but Dorian wouldn’t yield. He couldn’t bring her to the feast, not with so many watching. There would be too many questions. Not to mention too many people. Keeping track of her would be difficult.
Nehemia frowned at Celaena. “So you’re not going?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” Celaena said, then switched into Eyllwe and said something else. Dorian’s Eyllwe was just competent enough that he understood the gist of it to be: “His Highness certainly knows how to keep women entertained.”
Nehemia laughed, and Dorian’s face warmed. They made a formidable pair, gods help them all.
“Well, we’re very important and very busy,” Celaena said to him, linking elbows with the princess. Perhaps allowing them to be friends was a horrible, dangerous idea. “So, we must be off. Good day to you, Your Highness.” She curtsied, the red and blue gems in her belt sparkling in the sun. She looked over her shoulder, giving Dorian a sneer as she led the princess deeper into the garden.
Dorian glared at Chaol. “Thanks for your help.”
The captain clapped him on the shoulder. “You think that was bad? You should see them when they really get going.” With that, he strode after the women.
Dorian wanted to yell, to pull out his hair. He’d enjoyed seeing Celaena the other night—enjoyed it immensely. But for the past few weeks, he’d gotten caught up in council meetings and holding court, and hadn’t been able to visit her. Were it not for the feast, he’d go to her again. He hadn’t meant to annoy her with talk about the dress—though it was outdated—nor had he known she’d be that irritated about not being invited to the feast, but . . .
Dorian scowled and walked off to the kennels.
?
Celaena smiled to herself, running a finger across a neatly trimmed hedge. She thought the dress was lovely. Festive indeed!
“No, no, Your Highness,” Chaol was saying to Nehemia, slow enough that she could understand. “I’m not a soldier. I’m a guard.”
“There is no difference,” the princess retorted, her accent thick and a bit unwieldy. Still, Chaol understood enough to bristle, and Celaena could hardly contain her glee.
She’d managed to see Nehemia a fair amount over the past two weeks—mostly just for brief walks and dinners, where they discussed what it was like for Nehemia to grow up in Eyllwe, what she thought of Rifthold, and who at court had managed to annoy the princess that day. Which, to Celaena’s delight, was usually everyone.
“I’m not trained to fight in battles,” Chaol replied through his teeth.
“You kill on the orders of your king.” Your king. Nehemia might not be fully versed in their language, but she was smart enough to know the power of saying those two words. “Your king,” not hers. While Celaena could listen to Nehemia rant about the King of Adarlan for hours, they were in a garden—other people might be listening. A shudder went through Celaena, and she interrupted before Nehemia could say more.
“I think it’s useless arguing with her, Chaol,” Celaena said, nudging the Captain of the Guard with her elbow. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have given Terrin your title. Can you reclaim it? It’d prevent a lot of confusion.”
“How’d you remember my brother’s name?”
She shrugged, not quite understanding the gleam in his eye. “You told me. Why wouldn’t I remember it?” He looked handsome today. It was in the way his hair met his golden skin—in the tiny gaps between the strands, in the way it fell across his brow.
“I suppose you’ll enjoy the feast—without me there, that is,” she said morosely.
He snorted. “Are you that upset about missing it?”
“No,” she said, sweeping her unbound hair over a shoulder. “But—well, it’s a party, and everyone loves parties.”
“Shall I bring you a trinket from the revelry?”
“Only if it consists of a sizable portion of roast lamb.”
The air was bright and clear around them. “The feast isn’t that exciting,” he offered. “It’s the same as any supper. I can assure you the lamb will be dry and tough.”
“As my friend, you should either bring me along, or keep me company.”
“Friend?” he asked.
She blushed. “Well, ‘scowling escort’ is a better description. Or ‘reluctant acquaintance,’ if you prefer.” To her surprise, he smiled.
The princess grabbed Celaena’s hand. “You’ll teach me!” she said in Eyllwe. “Teach me how to better speak your language—and teach me how to write and read it better than I do now. So I don’t have to suffer through those horribly boring old men they call tutors.”
“I—” Celaena began in the common tongue, and winced. She felt guilty for leaving Nehemia out of the conversation for so long, and having the princess be fluent in both languages would be great fun. But convincing Chaol to let her see Nehemia was always a hassle—because he insisted on being there to keep watch. He’d never agree to sitting through lessons. “I don’t know how to properly teach you my language,” Celaena lied.