“I had to get you away from Nehemia. And when I took that arrow for you, I knew you’d trust me, if only for that night. I apologize if my methods were … harsh. Trick of the trade, I’m afraid.”
Trust him, lose Nehemia, and lose Chaol. He had isolated her from her friends—the same thing she’d suspected Roland had wanted to do with Dorian.
“And that threat the king received before Nehemia’s death—the threat on her life,” Celaena said, her lips curling upward. “You planted that threat, didn’t you? To show me who my real friends are—who I can really trust.”
“It was a gamble. Just as I’m gambling now. I didn’t know whether or not the captain would warn you. Seems I was right.”
“Why me? I’m flattered, of course, but—you’re clever. Why couldn’t you have figured the riddle out on your own?”
Archer bowed his head. “Because I know what you are, Celaena. Arobynn told me one night, after you went to Endovier.” She shoved the twinge of genuine pain and betrayal down until it couldn’t distract her. “And for our cause to succeed, we need you. I need you. Some members of the movement are already starting to fight me, to question my leadership. They think my methods are too rough.” That explained the fight she’d seen with that young man. He took a step toward her. “But you … Gods, from the moment I saw you outside the Willows, I’ve known how good we’d be together. The things we’ll accomplish …”
“I know,” she said, looking into those green eyes, so bright in the matching lights of the portal. “Archer, I know.”
He didn’t see the dagger coming until she’d shoved it into him.
But he was fast—too fast—and turned just in time to have it pierce his shoulder instead of his heart.
He staggered back with dazzling speed, wrenching her dagger so swiftly that she lost her grip on the blade and had to brace a hand on the arch of the portal to keep from stumbling. Her bloodied palm slapped against the stones, and a greenish light flared beneath her fingers. A Wyrdmark burned, then faded.
Not giving herself time to look at what she’d done, she leapt for him with a roar, dropping Damaris to grab two more daggers. He had his own blade up in a moment, dancing away lightly as she sliced for him.
“I’m going to tear you apart piece by piece,” she hissed, circling him.
But then a shudder ran through the floor, and something in the void made a sound. A guttural growl.
Fleetfoot let out a low warning whine. She rushed toward Celaena, pushing against her shins, herding her toward the stairs.
The void shifted, mist now swirling inside, parting long enough to reveal rocky, ashen ground. And then a figure emerged through the mist.
“Nehemia?” she whispered. She’d come back—come back to help, to explain everything.
But it was not Nehemia who stepped through the portal.
Chaol couldn’t sleep. He stared up at the canopy of his bed, the will he’d seen on Celaena’s desk glaring in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d just let her kick him out of her rooms without telling her what the will meant to him. And maybe he deserved her hate, but—but she had to know that he didn’t want her money.
He had to see her. Just long enough to explain.
He ran a finger along the scab down his cheek.
Rushing footsteps sounded down the hall, and Chaol was already out of bed and half-dressed by the time someone began pounding on his door. The person on the other side got all of one knock in before Chaol flung open the door, a dagger concealed behind his back.
He lowered the blade the second he beheld Dorian’s face, shining with sweat, but he didn’t sheath it. Not when he saw the raw panic in Dorian’s eyes, the sword belt and scabbard dangling from the prince’s clenched fingers.
Chaol believed in trusting his instinct. He didn’t think humans had survived for so long without developing some ability to tell when things were wrong. It wasn’t magic—it was just … gut feeling.
And it was Chaol’s instinct that told him who this was about before Dorian opened his mouth.
“Where?” was all Chaol asked.
“Her bedroom,” Dorian said.
“Tell me everything,” Chaol ordered, hurrying back into his room.
“I don’t know, I—I think she’s in trouble.”
Chaol was already shrugging on a shirt and tunic; then he stomped his feet into his boots before grabbing his sword. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that had me coming to get you, instead of the other guards.”
That could mean anything; but Chaol knew Dorian was too smart, too aware of how easily words could be overheard in this castle. He sensed the tightening in Dorian’s body a heartbeat before the prince launched into a run, and grabbed him by the back of his tunic. “Running,” Chaol said under his breath, “will attract attention.”
“I already wasted too much time coming to get you,” Dorian retorted, but he matched Chaol’s brisk but calm pace. It would take five minutes to get to her rooms if they kept this speed. If there were no distractions.
“Is anyone hurt?” Chaol said quietly, trying to keep his breathing even, keep his focus.
“I don’t know,” Dorian said.
“You have to give me more than that,” Chaol snapped. The leash on his temper strained with each step.
“I had a dream,” Dorian said, so soft only he could hear. “I was warned that she was in danger—that she was a danger to herself.”
Chaol almost stopped, but Dorian had said it with such conviction.
“You think I wanted to come get you?” Dorian said, not looking at him.
Chaol didn’t reply but hurried his steps as much as he could without attracting undue attention from the servants and guards still on duty. He could feel his heart hammering through every inch of his body by the time they got to her suite doors. Chaol didn’t bother knocking and nearly took the front door off its hinges as he burst through, Dorian on his heels.
He was at her bedroom door in an instant, and didn’t bother knocking on it, either. But the handle didn’t move. The door was locked. He shoved into it again.
“Celaena?” Her name was more of a growl that rippled out of him. No answer. He fought his rising panic, even as he drew a dagger, even as he listened for any signs of trouble. “Celaena.”
Nothing.