Chaol didn’t tell Celaena what the king had said, though part of him twisted until it hurt. The king wouldn’t hurt Nehemia—not when she was such a public and well-liked figure. Not when he’d warned Chaol about that anonymous threat to Nehemia’s life. But he had a feeling that whatever was going to be said in the council room wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Celaena knowing or not knowing made no difference, he told himself as he lay curled around her in his bed. Even if Celaena knew, even if she told Nehemia, it wouldn’t stop the conversation from taking place, and it wouldn’t make the nameless threat go away. No, it would just make things worse if they knew—worse for all of them.
Chaol sighed, untangling his legs from Celaena’s as he sat up and grabbed his pants from where he’d thrown them on the floor. She stirred, but didn’t move. That was a miracle in itself, he realized—that she felt safe enough to sleep soundly with him.
He paused to gently kiss her head, then picked up the rest of his clothes from around the room and dressed, even though the clock had chimed only three not long ago.
Perhaps it was a test, he thought as he slipped out the door of his chambers. Perhaps the king was testing Chaol to see where his loyalties lay—if he could still trust him. And if he learned that Celaena and Nehemia were aware of the interrogation tomorrow, then there would be only one way for them to have learned …
He just needed some fresh air, to feel the briny breeze off the Avery on his face. He’d meant it when he told Celaena about someday leaving Rifthold with her. And he’d go to his death defending her secret about the men she wasn’t killing.
Chaol reached the dark, silent gardens and strode between the hedges. He’d kill any man who hurt Celaena; and if the king ever gave him the order to dispatch her, then he’d plunge his sword into his own heart before he would obey. His soul was bound to hers by some unbreakable chain. He snorted, imagining what his father would think when he learned that Chaol had taken Adarlan’s Assassin for his wife.
The thought stopped Chaol dead in his tracks. She was only eighteen. He forgot that sometimes, forgot that he was older than her, too. And if he asked her to marry him right now … “Gods above,” he muttered, shaking his head. That day was a long way off.
But he couldn’t help imagining it—the glimmer of the future and how it would be to forge a life together, to call her his wife, to hear her call him husband, to raise a brood of children who would probably be far too clever and talented for their own good (and for Chaol’s sanity).
He was still envisioning that impossibly beautiful future when someone grabbed him from behind and pressed something cold and reeking against his nose and mouth, and the world went black.
Chapter 27
Chaol wasn’t in his bed when she awoke, and Celaena thanked the gods for their small mercies, because she was certainly too worn out to bother running. His side of the bed was cold enough that she knew he’d left hours before—probably to fulfill his duties as Captain of the Guard.
She lay there for a while, content to daydream, to imagine a time when they could have whole, uninterrupted days with each other. When her stomach started growling, she decided it was a sign that she should drag herself out of bed. She’d taken to leaving some clothes in his room, so she bathed and dressed before returning to her own chambers.
Over breakfast, a list of names arrived from Archer—written in code, as she’d asked—with more men to hunt down. She just hoped he wouldn’t squeal on her again. Nehemia didn’t show up for their daily lesson on the Wyrdmarks, though Celaena wasn’t surprised by that, either.
She didn’t particularly feel like talking to her friend—and if the princess was foolish enough to think of starting a rebellion … She’d stay well enough away from Nehemia until she came to her senses. It did halt her hope of finding a way to use the Wyrdmarks to get through that secret door in the library, but that could wait—at least until both of their tempers had cooled.
After spending the day in Rifthold stalking the men on Archer’s list, Celaena returned to the castle, eager to tell Chaol what else she’d learned. But he didn’t show up for dinner. It wasn’t that unusual for him to be busy, so she dined alone, and curled up on the couch in her bedroom with a book.
She probably needed some rest, too, since the Wyrd knew she hadn’t been getting any sleep this past week. Not that she minded.
When the clock struck ten and he still hadn’t come to her, she found herself walking to his rooms. Perhaps he was waiting for her there. Perhaps he’d just fallen asleep without meaning to.
But she hurried down the halls and stairs, her palms turning slicker with each step. Chaol was the Captain of the Guard. He held his own against her every day. He’d bested her in their first sparring match. Yet Sam had been her equal in many ways, too. And he’d still been caught and tortured by Rourke Farran—still died the most brutal death she’d ever seen. And if Chaol …
She was running now.
Like Sam, Chaol was admired by almost everyone. And when they’d taken Sam from her, it hadn’t been because of anything Sam had done.
No, they’d done it to get at her.
She reached his rooms, part of her still praying that she was just being paranoid, that he’d be sleeping in the bed, that she could curl up with him and make love to him and hold him through the night.
But then she opened the door to his bedroom and saw a sealed note addressed to her on the table beside the door—placed atop his sword, which hadn’t been there this morning. It was placed casually enough that the servants might have just assumed it was a note from Chaol himself—and that nothing was wrong. She ripped open the red seal and unfolded the paper.
WE HAVE THE CAPTAIN. WHEN YOU’RE TIRED OF STALKING US, COME FIND US HERE.
It listed the address for a warehouse in the slums of the city.
BRING NO ONE, OR THE CAPTAIN WILL DIE BEFORE YOU SET FOOT IN THE BUILDING. IF YOU FAIL TO ARRIVE BY TOMORROW MORNING, WE’LL LEAVE WHAT’S LEFT OF HIM ON THE BANKS OF THE AVERY.
She stared at the letter.
Every one of the restraints she’d locked into place after she’d rampaged through Endovier snapped free.
An icy, endless rage swept through her, wiping away everything except the plan that she could see with brutal clarity. The killing calm, Arobynn Hamel had once called it. Even he had never realized just how calm she could get when she went over the edge.
If they wanted Adarlan’s Assassin, they’d get her.
And Wyrd help them when she arrived.