Three days passed. And every meal they brought her was drugged with that sedative.
Celaena stared into the abyss that now filled her dreams, both sleeping and awake. The forest on the other side was gone, and there was no stag; only barren terrain all around, crumbling rocks and a vicious wind that whispered the words again and again.
You are nothing more than a coward.
So Celaena drank the drugged water every time they offered it, and let it sweep her away.
“She drank the water about an hour ago,” Ress said to Chaol on the morning of the fourth day.
Chaol nodded. She was unconscious on the floor, her face gaunt. “Has she been eating?”
“A bite or two. She hasn’t tried to escape. And she hasn’t said one word to us, either.”
Chaol unlocked the cell door, and Ress and the other guards tensed.
But he couldn’t bear another moment without seeing her. Kaltain was asleep next door and didn’t stir as he strode across Celaena’s cell.
He knelt by Celaena. She reeked of old blood, and her clothes were stiff with it. His throat tightened.
In the castle above, it had been sheer pandemonium for the past several days. He had men combing the castle and city for Nehemia’s assassin. He had gone before the king multiple times already to try to explain what happened: how he’d gotten himself kidnapped, and how, even with extra men watching Nehemia, someone had slipped past them all. He was stunned the king hadn’t dismissed him—or worse.
The worst part was that the king seemed smug. He hadn’t had to dirty his hands to get rid of a problem. His main annoyance was dealing with the uproar that was sure to happen in Eyllwe. He hadn’t spared one moment to mourn Nehemia, or shown one flicker of remorse. It had taken a surprising amount of self-control for Chaol not to throttle his own sovereign.
But more than just his fate relied on his submission and good behavior. When Chaol had explained Celaena’s situation to the king, he had barely looked surprised. He’d just said to get her in line, and left it at that.
Get her in line.
Chaol gently picked up Celaena, trying not to grunt at the weight, and carried her out of the cell. He’d never forgive himself for throwing her in this rotting dungeon, even though he hadn’t had a choice. He hadn’t even let himself sleep in his own bed—the bed that still smelled like her. He’d laid down on it that first night and realized what she was lying on, and opted for his couch instead. The least he could do right now was get her back to her own rooms.
But he didn’t know how to get her in line. He didn’t know how to fix what had been broken. Both inside of her, and between them.
His men flanked him as he brought her up to her rooms.
Nehemia’s death hung around him, followed his every step. It had been days since he’d dared look in the mirror. Even if it hadn’t been the king who had ordered Nehemia dead, if Chaol had warned Celaena about the unknown threat, at least she would have been looking out. If he’d warned Nehemia, her men would have been on alert, too. Sometimes the reality of his decision hit him so hard he couldn’t breathe.
And then there was this reality, the reality he held in his arms as Ress opened the door to her rooms. Philippa was already waiting, beckoning him to the bathing chamber. He hadn’t even thought of that—that Celaena might need to be cleaned up before getting into bed.
He couldn’t meet the servant’s gaze as he walked into the bathing chamber, because he knew the truth he’d find there.
He’d realized it the moment Celaena had turned to him in Nehemia’s bedroom.
He had lost her.
And she would never, in a thousand lifetimes, let him in again.