Throne of Glass

She felt Nehemia’s hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off as she took another step toward him, close enough for the curls of his breath to touch her face. Inside the castle, the guards remained loitering about, talking amongst themselves. “You’ll find out when my fangs are buried in your neck,” she said.

“Why not right now?” Cain breathed. “Come on—hit me. Hit me with all that rage you feel every time you force yourself to miss the bull’s-eye, or when you slow yourself down so you don’t scale walls as fast as me. Hit me, Lillian,” he whispered so only she could hear, “and let’s see what that year in Endovier really taught you.”

Celaena’s heart leapt into a gallop. He knew. He knew who she was, and what she was doing. She didn’t dare to look at Nehemia, and only hoped her understanding of the common language was still weak enough for her not to have understood. Verin still watched from behind them.

“You think you’re the only one whose sponsor is willing to do anything to win? You think your prince and captain are the only ones who know what you are?”

Celaena clenched her hand. Two blows, and he’d be on the ground, struggling to breathe. Another blow after that, and Verin would be beside him.

“Lillian,” Nehemia said in the common tongue, taking her by the hand. “We have business. Let us go.”

“That’s right,” Cain said. “Follow her around like the lapdog you are.”

Celaena’s hand trembled. If she hit him . . . If she hit him, if she got into a brawl right here and the guards had to pull them apart, Chaol might not let her see Nehemia again, let alone leave her rooms after lessons, or stay late to practice with Nox. So Celaena smiled and rolled her shoulders as she said brightly: “Shove it up your ass, Cain.”

Cain and Verin laughed, but she and Nehemia walked away, the princess holding her hand tightly. Not from fear or anger, but just to tell her that she understood . . . that she was there. Celaena squeezed her hand back. It had been a while since someone had looked out for her, and Celaena had the feeling she could get used to it.

?

Chaol stood with Dorian in the shadows atop the mezzanine, staring down at the assassin as she punched at the dummy situated in the center of the floor. She’d sent him a message saying she was going to train for a few hours after dinner, and he’d invited Dorian to come along to watch. Perhaps Dorian would now see why she was such a threat to him. To everyone.

Celaena grunted, throwing punch after punch, left-right-left-left-right. On and on, as if she had something burning inside of her that she couldn’t quite get out.

“She looks stronger than before,” the prince said quietly. “You’ve done a good job getting her back in shape.” Celaena punched and kicked at the dummy, dodging invisible blows. The guards at the door just watched, their faces impassive. “Do you think she stands a chance against Cain?”

Celaena swung her leg through the air, connecting with the dummy’s head. It rocked back. The blow would have knocked out a man. “I think if she doesn’t get too riled and keeps a cool head when they duel, she might. But she’s . . . wild. And unpredictable. She needs to learn to control her feelings—especially that impossible anger.”

Which was true. Chaol didn’t know if it was because of Endovier, or just being an assassin; whatever the cause of that unyielding rage, she could never entirely leash herself.

“Who’s that?” Dorian asked sharply as Nox entered the room and walked over to Celaena. She paused, rubbing her wrapped knuckles, and wiped the sweat from her eyes as she waved to him.

“Nox,” Chaol said. “A thief from Perranth. Minister Joval’s Champion.”

Nox said something to Celaena that set her chuckling. Nox laughed, too. “She made another friend?” Dorian said, raising his brows as Celaena demonstrated a move for Nox. “She’s helping him?”

“Every day. They usually stay after lessons with the others are over.”

“And you allow this?”

Chaol hid his glower at Dorian’s tone. “If you want me to put an end to it, I will.”

Dorian watched them for another moment. “No. Let her train with him. The other Champions are brutes—she could use an ally.”

“That she could.”

Dorian turned from the balcony and strode off into the darkness of the hall beyond. Chaol watched the prince disappear, his red cape billowing behind him, and sighed. He knew jealousy when he saw it, and while Dorian was clever, he was just as bad as Celaena at hiding his emotions. Perhaps bringing the prince along had done the opposite of what he’d intended.

His feet heavy, Chaol followed after the prince, hoping Dorian wasn’t about to drag them all into serious trouble.