An hour later, flanked by guards, Celaena held her chin high as they strode through the halls toward the library. She smiled at the young chevaliers they passed—and smirked at the court women who eyed her pink-and-white gown. She couldn’t blame them; the dress was spectacular. And she was spectacular in it. Even Ress, one of the handsomer guards posted outside her rooms, had said so. Naturally, it hadn’t been too difficult to convince him to escort her to the library.
Celaena smiled smugly to herself as she nodded to a passing nobleman, who raised his eyebrows at the sight of her. He was immensely pale, she noticed as he opened his mouth to say something, but Celaena continued down the hall. Her steps quickened at the rumblings of arguing male voices that echoed off the stones as they neared a bend.
Hurrying farther, Celaena ignored the click of Ress’s tongue as she rounded the corner. She knew that smell all too well. The tang of blood and the stinging reek of decomposing flesh.
But she hadn’t expected the sight of it. “Half-eaten” was a pleasant way to describe what was left of Xavier’s rail-thin body.
One of her escorts cursed under his breath, and Ress stepped closer to her, a light hand on her back, encouraging her to keep walking. None of the gathered men looked at her as she passed, skirting the edge of the scene, and getting a better look at the body in the process.
Xavier’s chest cavity had been split open and his vital organs removed. Unless someone had moved them upon finding the body, there was no trace of them. And his long face, stripped of its flesh, was still contorted in a silent scream.
This was no accidental killing. There was a hole in the crown of Xavier’s head, and she could see that his brain was gone, too. The smears of blood on the wall looked like someone had been writing, and then rubbed it away. But even now, some of the writing remained, and she tried not to gape at it. Wyrdmarks. Three Wyrdmarks, forming an arcing line that had to have once been a circle near the body.
“Holy Gods,” one of her guards muttered as they left behind the throng at the crime scene.
No wonder Chaol had looked so disheveled this morning! She straightened. He’d thought she did this? Fool. If she wanted to knock off her competitors one by one, she’d do it quick and clean—a slit throat, a knife in the heart, a poisoned glass of wine. This was just plain tasteless. And strange; the Wyrdmarks made this something more than a brutal killing. Ritualistic, perhaps.
Someone approached from the opposite direction. It was Grave, the vicious assassin, staring at the body from a distance. His eyes, dark and still like a forest pool, met hers. She ignored his rotting teeth as she jerked her chin toward the remnants of Xavier. “Too bad,” she said, deliberately not sounding very sorry at all.
Grave chuckled, sticking his gnarled fingers into the pockets of his worn and dirty pants. Didn’t his sponsor bother to properly clothe him? Obviously not, if his sponsor was nasty and foolish enough to pick him as a Champion.
“Such a pity,” Grave said, shrugging as she passed by him.
She nodded tersely, and despite herself, she kept her mouth shut as she continued down the hall. There were only sixteen of them left now—sixteen Champions, and four of them were to duel. The competition was getting steeper. She should thank whatever grim god had decided to end Xavier’s life. But for some reason, she couldn’t.
?
Dorian swung his sword, grunting as Chaol easily deflected the blow and parried. His muscles were sore from weeks of not practicing, and his breath was ragged in his throat as he thrust and thrust again.
“This is what comes from such idle behavior,” Chaol chuckled, stepping to the side so that Dorian stumbled forward. He remembered a time when they’d been of equal skill—though that had been long ago. Dorian, while he still enjoyed swordplay, had grown to prefer books.
“I’ve had meetings and important things to read,” Dorian said, panting. He lunged.
Chaol deflected, feigned, then thrust so hard that Dorian stepped back. His temper rose. “Meetings which you used as an excuse to start arguing with Duke Perrington.” Dorian made a wide sweep of his sword, and Chaol took up the defensive. “Or maybe you’re just too busy visiting Sardothien’s rooms in the middle of the night.” Sweat dripped from Chaol’s brow. “How long has that been going on?”
Dorian growled as Chaol switched to the offensive, and conceded step after step, his thighs aching. “It’s not what you think,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t spend my nights with her. Aside from last night, I’ve only visited her once, and she was less than warm, don’t worry.”
“At least one of you has some common sense.” Chaol delivered each blow with such precision that Dorian had to admire him. “Because you’ve clearly lost your mind.”