Though she'd never admit it, Celaena didn't really know what to expect at their first Test. With all the training over the past five days and fiddling with various weapons and techniques, her body ached. Which was another thing she'd never admit, even though hiding the throbbing pain in her limbs was nearly impossible. As Celaena and Chaol entered the giant sparring room in the morning, she glanced at her competitors and remembered she wasn't the only one who hadn't a clue what to expect. A towering black curtain had been swept across half of the room, blocking the other half from sight. Whatever lay beyond that curtain, she realized, was to decide the fate of one of them.
The normal ruckus had been replaced by a rustling quiet—and rather than mill about, the competitors lingered by their trainers' sides. She kept close to Chaol, which wasn't a change from the ordinary. But the sponsors atop the mezzanine looking over the black-and-white checkered floor were. Her throat tightened as her gaze met with that of the Crown Prince. Aside from sending her his books, she hadn't seen or heard from him since the meeting with the king. He flashed her a grin, those sapphire eyes gleaming in the morning light. She offered him a tight smile in return and quickly looked away.
Brullo stood by the curtain, a scarred hand upon his sword, and Celaena studied the scene. Someone stepped to her side. She knew who it was before he spoke. "It's a bit dramatic, don't you think?"
She glanced sidelong at Nox. Chaol tensed next to her, and she could feel him watching the thief closely, no doubt wondering if she and Nox were formulating some escape plan that would include the deaths of every member of the royal family.
"After five days of mindless training," she replied quietly, all too aware that very few people were speaking in the hall, "I'm glad for a bit of excitement."
Nox laughed under his breath. "What do you think it is?"
She shrugged, keeping her attention on the curtain. More and more competitors were arriving, and soon the clock would strike nine—the time when the Test would begin. Even if she knew what was behind the curtain, she certainly wouldn't help him. "Hopefully it's a pack of man-eating wolves that we have to take on with our bare hands." She looked at him fully now, a half smile on her lips. "Wouldn't that be fun?"
Chaol subtly cleared his throat. Now was not the time for talking. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her black pants. "Best of luck," she said to Nox before she strode toward the curtain, Chaol following her. When they were far enough away, she asked under her breath, "No idea what's behind that curtain?" Chaol shook his head.
She adjusted the thick leather belt slung low across her hips. It was the kind of belt intended to bear the weight of multiple weapons. Its lightness now only reminded her of what she'd lost—and what she had to gain. The death of the Eye Eater yesterday had been fortunate in one aspect: one less man to compete with.
She glanced up at Dorian. He could probably see what was behind the curtain from his place on the mezzanine. Why not help her cheat a little? She flicked her attention to the other sponsors—noblemen in fine clothing—and ground her teeth at the sight of Perrington. He smirked as he watched Cain, who was stretching out his muscular arms. Had he already told Cain what was beyond the curtain?
Brullo cleared his throat. "Attention now!" he called to them. All of the competitors tried to look calm as he strode to the center of the curtain. "Your first Test has arrived." He grinned broadly, as if whatever the curtain concealed was going to torment the hell out of them. "As His Majesty has ordered, one of you will be eliminated today—one of you will be deemed unworthy."
Just get on with it! she thought, her jaw clenched tight.
As if he'd read her thoughts, Brullo snapped his fingers, and a guard standing by the wall pulled the curtain back. Inch by inch, it swayed away, until—
Celaena bit down her laugh. Archery? It was an archery contest?
"Rules are simple," Brullo said. Behind him, five targets were staggered at various distances through the hall. "You get five shots—one per target. The one with the worst aim goes home."
Some competitors began murmuring, but it was all she could do to keep from beaming. Unfortunately, Cain didn't bother to hide his triumphant grin. Why couldn't he have been the Champion who was found dead?
"You'll go one at a time," Brullo said, and behind them a pair of soldiers rolled out a cart of bows and quivers loaded with arrows. "Form a line at the table to determine your order. The Test begins now."
She expected them to rush to the long table stacked with identical bows and arrows, but apparently none of the twenty-one other competitors were in much of a hurry to go home. Celaena made to join the forming line, but Chaol grasped her shoulder. "Don't show off," he warned.
She smiled sweetly and pried his fingers off her. "I'll try not to," she purred, and joined the line.
It was an enormous leap of faith to give them arrows, even if the tips were blunted. A dull head wouldn't stop it from going through Perrington's throat—or Dorian's, if she wanted.
Though the thought was entertaining, she kept her attention on the competitors. With twenty-two Champions and five shots each, the Test took a dreadfully long time. Thanks to Chaol pulling her aside, she'd been in the back of the line—not dead last, but three from the end. Far enough back that she had to watch everyone else go before her, including Cain.
The other competitors did well enough. The giant circular targets were composed of five colored rings—yellow marking the center, with only a tiny black dot to mark the bull's-eye. Each target got smaller the farther back it was placed, and because the room was so long, the final target was nearly seventy yards away.
Celaena ran her fingers along the smooth curve of her yew bow. Archery was one of the first skills Arobynn had taught her—a staple of any assassin's training. Two of the assassins further proved it with easy, skilled shots. Though they didn't hit the bull's-eyes, and their shots got sloppier the farther the target, whoever their masters had been, they'd known what they were teaching.
Pelor, the gangly assassin, wasn't yet strong enough to manage a longbow, and barely made any shots. When he finished, his eyes gleaming with resentment, the Champions sniggered, and Cain laughed the loudest.
Brullo's face was grim. "Didn't anyone ever teach you how to use a bow, boy?"
Pelor lifted his head, glaring at the Weapons Master with surprising brazenness. "I'm more skilled in poisons."
"Poisons!" Brullo threw his hands up. "The king wants a Champion—and you couldn't shoot a cow in a pasture!" The Weapons Master waved Pelor off. The other Champions laughed again, and Celaena wanted nothing more than to smile with them. But Pelor took a shuddering breath, his shoulders relaxing, and joined the other finished competitors. If he wound up being eliminated, where would they bring him? To prison—or some other hellhole? Despite herself, Celaena felt badly for the boy. His shots hadn't been that bad.
It was Nox, actually, who surprised her most, with three bull's-eyes into the nearer targets and the two final shots along the border of the inner ring. Perhaps she should consider him for an ally. From the way the other competitors watched him as he strode to the back of the room, she knew they were thinking the same thing.
Grave, the repulsive assassin, did fine, she supposed. Four bull's-eyes, and the final shot right on the border of the innermost ring. But then Cain stepped up to the white line painted at the back of the room, drew back his yew bow, his black ring glinting, and fired.
Again, and again, and again, within the span of a few seconds.
And when the sound of his final shot stopped echoing in the suddenly silent chamber, Celaena's stomach turned over. Five bull's-eyes.
Her one consolation was that none of them had been on that black dot—the absolute center. One had come close, though.
For some reason, the line started moving quickly. All she could think about was Cain—Cain getting applauded by Perrington, Cain getting clapped on the back by Brullo, Cain getting all of that praise and attention, not because he was a mountain of muscle, but because he actually deserved it.
Suddenly, Celaena found herself standing at the white line, looking at the vast length of the room before her. Some of the men chuckled—albeit quietly—and she kept her head held high as she reached over her shoulder for an arrow and nocked it into her bow.
They'd done some archery practice a few days earlier, and she'd been excellent. Or, as excellent as she could be without attracting attention. And she'd killed men from longer shots than the farthest target. Clean shots, too. Right through the throat.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.
I am Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan's Assassin. If these men knew who I was, they'd stop laughing. I am Celaena Sardothien. I am going to win. I will not be afraid.
She pulled back her bow, the sore muscles in her arm aching with the effort. She shut out noise, shut out movement, shut out anything other than the sound of her breathing as her focus narrowed on the first target. She took a steady breath. As she exhaled, she let the arrow fly.
Bull's-eye.
The tightness in her stomach abated, and she sighed through her nose. It wasn't an absolute bull's-eye, but she hadn't been aiming for it, anyway.
Some men stopped laughing, but she paid them no heed as she nocked another arrow and fired at the second target. She aimed for the edge of the innermost ring, which she hit with deadly precision. She could have made an entire circle of arrows, if she'd wanted. And if she'd had enough ammunition.
She got another bull's-eye on the third target—aiming for the edge, but landing within the border. She did the same for the fourth target, but aimed for the opposite side of the bull's-eye. Where she aimed, the arrow met its mark.
As she reached for her last arrow, she heard one of the competitors, a red-haired mercenary named Renault, snigger. She clenched her bow tightly enough for the wood to groan, and pulled back her final shot.
The target was little more than a blur of color, so far back that its bull's-eye was a grain of sand in the vastness of the room. She couldn't see the little dot in its center—the dot that no one had yet to touch, even Cain. Celaena's arm trembled with effort as she pulled the string back a bit farther and fired.
The arrow hit the absolute center, obliterating the black dot. They stopped laughing.
No one said anything to her when she stalked away from the line and tossed her bow back onto the cart. Chaol only scowled at her—obviously, she hadn't been that inconspicuous—but Dorian smiled. She sighed and joined the competitors waiting for the competition to finish, keeping well away from all of them.
When their marks were compared by himself, one of the army soldiers, not young Pelor, wound up being eliminated. But though she hadn't lost by any means, Celaena couldn't stand—absolutely could not stand—the feeling that she hadn't really won anything at all.
Despite her attempt to keep her breathing steady, Celaena gasped for air as she ran beside Chaol in the game park. If he was winded, he didn't show it, other than the gleam of sweat on his face and the dampness of his white shirt.
They ran toward a hill, its top still shrouded in morning mist. Her legs buckled at the sight of the incline, and her stomach rose in her throat. Celaena let out a loud gasp to get Chaol's attention before she slowed to a stop, and braced her hands against a tree trunk.
She took a shuddering breath, holding on tightly to the tree as she vomited. She hated the warmth of the tears that leaked from her eyes, but couldn't wipe them away as she heaved again, gagging. Chaol stood nearby, just watching. She leaned her brow into her upper arm, calming her breathing, willing her body to ease. It had been three days since the first Test, ten since her arrival in Rifthold, and she was still horribly out of shape. The next elimination was in four days, and though training had resumed as usual, she had started waking up a little earlier than normal. She would not lose to Cain, or Renault, or any of them.
"Done?" Chaol asked. She lifted her head to give him a withering glare, but everything spun, dragging her down with it, and she retched again. "I told you not to eat before we left."
"Are you done being smug?"
"Are you done vomiting your guts up?"
"For the time being," she snapped. "Perhaps I won't be so courteous next time, and I'll just vomit all over you instead."
"If you can catch me," he said with a half smile.
She wanted to punch the smirk off his face, but as she took a step, her knees shook, and she put her hands against the tree again, waiting for the retching to renew. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him looking at her back, most of which was exposed by her damp, white undershirt. She stood. "Are you enjoying looking at my scars?"
He sucked on his lower lip for a moment. "When did you get those?" She knew he meant the three enormous lines that ran down her back.
"When do you think?" she said. He didn't reply, and she looked up at the canopy of leaves above them. A morning breeze sent them all shuddering, ripping a few from where they clung to the skeletal branches. "Those three, I received my first day in Endovier."
"What did you do to deserve it?"
"Deserve it?" She laughed sharply. "No one deserves to be whipped like an animal." He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "I arrived in Endovier, and they dragged me into the center of the camp, and tied me between the whipping posts. Twenty-one lashes." She stared at him without entirely seeing him as the ash-gray sky turned into the bleakness of Endovier, and the hiss of the wind became the sighing of slaves. "That was before I had befriended any of the other slaves—and I spent that first night wondering if I would make it until morning, if my back would become infected, or if I would bleed out and die before I knew what was happening."
"No one helped you?"
"Only in the morning. A young woman slipped me a tin of salve while we were waiting in line for breakfast. I never got to thank her. Later that day, four overseers raped and killed her." She clenched her hands into fists as her eyes stung. "The day I snapped, I stopped by their section of the mines to repay them for what they did to her." Something frozen rushed through her veins. "They died too quickly."
"But you were a woman in Endovier," Chaol said, his voice rough and quiet. "No one ever . . ." He trailed off, unable to form the word.
She gave him a slow, bitter smile. "They were afraid of me to begin with. And after the day I almost touched the wall, none of them dared to come too close to me. But if one guard tried to get too friendly . . . Well, he'd become the example that reminded the others I could easily snap again, if I felt like it." The wind stirred around them, ripping strands of hair from her braid. She didn't need to voice her other suspicion—that perhaps somehow Arobynn had bribed the guards in Endovier for her safety. "We each survive in our own way."
Celaena didn't quite understand the softness in the look he gave her as he nodded. She only stared at him for a moment longer before she burst into a run, up toward the hill—where the first rays of sunshine began to peek through.
The following afternoon, the Champions stood gathered around Brullo, who lectured them on different weapons and other nonsense she'd learned years ago and didn't need to hear again. She was just contemplating whether she could sleep while standing up when, from the corner of her eye, a sudden movement by the balcony doors caught her attention. Celaena turned just in time to see one of the larger Champions—one of the discharged soldiers—shove a nearby guard, knocking him to the ground. The guard's head hit the marble with a crack, and he was instantly unconscious. She didn't dare to move—none of the Champions did—as the man hurtled toward the door, toward the gardens and escape.
But Chaol and his men moved so fast that the fleeing Champion didn't have time to touch the glass door before an arrow went clean through his throat.
Silence fell, and half of the guards encircled the Champions, hands on their swords, while the others, Chaol included, rushed to the dead Champion and fallen guard. Bows groaned as the archers on the mezzanine pulled their strings taut. Celaena kept still, as did Nox, who was standing close beside her. One wrong movement and a spooked guard could kill her. Even Cain didn't breathe too deeply.
Through the wall of Champions, guards, and their weapons, Celaena beheld Chaol kneeling by the unconscious guard. No one touched the fallen Champion, who lay facedown, his hand still outstretched toward the glass door. Sven had been his name—though she didn't know why he'd been expelled from the army.
"Gods above," Nox breathed, so softly that his lips barely moved. "They just . . . killed him." She thought about telling him to shut up, but even snapping at him seemed risky. Some of the other Champions were murmuring to each other, but no one dared to take a step. "I knew they were serious about not letting us leave, but . . ." Nox swore, and she felt him glance sidelong at her. "I was granted immunity by my sponsor. He tracked me down and said I wouldn't go to prison if I lost the competition." At that point, she knew he was speaking more to himself, and when she didn't respond, Nox stopped talking. She stared and stared at the dead Champion.
What had made Sven risk it? And why here, right now? There were still three days until their second Test; what had made this moment so special? The day she snapped at Endovier, she hadn't been thinking about freedom. No, she'd picked the time and place, and started swinging. She'd never meant to escape.
The sunlight shone through the doors, illuminating the Champion's splattered blood like stained glass.
Maybe he'd realized he had no chance of winning, and that this kind of death was far better than returning to whatever place he'd come from. If he'd wanted to escape, he would have waited until dark, when he was away from everyone at the competition. Sven had wanted to prove a point, she understood, and understood only because of that day she had come within a fingertip of touching the wall at Endovier.
Adarlan could take their freedom, it could destroy their lives and beat and break and whip them, it could force them into ridiculous contests, but, criminal or not, they were still human. Dying—rather than playing in the king's game—was the only choice left to him.
Still staring at his outstretched hand, forever pointing toward an unreachable horizon, Celaena said a silent prayer for the dead Champion, and wished him well.
With heavy eyelids, Dorian Havilliard tried not to slouch as he sat upon his throne. Music and chatter flitted through the air, wooing him to sleep. Why must his mother insist on his attending court? Even the weekly afternoon visit was too much. But it was better than studying the corpse of the Eye Eater, which Chaol had spent the past few days investigating. He'd worry about that later—if it became an issue. Which it wouldn't, if Chaol was looking into it. It had probably just been a drunken brawl.
And then there was the Champion who'd tried to escape this afternoon. Dorian shuddered at the thought of what it must have been like to witness it—and at the mess Chaol had to deal with, from the injured soldier to the sponsor who'd lost his Champion to the dead man himself. What had his father been thinking when he decided to host this contest?
Dorian glanced at his mother, seated on a throne beside his own. She certainly didn't know anything about it, and probably would have been horrified if she knew what kind of criminals were living under her roof. His mother was still beautiful, though her face was a bit wrinkled and cracked with powder, and her auburn hair had a few silver streaks. Today she was swathed in yards of forest-green velvet and floating scarves and shawls of gold, and her crown upheld a sparkling veil that gave Dorian the distinct impression she was wearing a tent upon her head.
Before them, the nobility strutted across the floor of the court, gossiping, scheming, seducing. An orchestra played minuets in a corner, and servants slipped through the gathered nobles in a dance of their own as they refilled and cleared plates and cups and silverware.
Dorian felt like an ornament. Of course, he was wearing an outfit of his mother's choosing, sent to him this morning: a vest of dark bluish-green velvet, with almost ridiculously billowy white sleeves bursting from the blue-and-white-striped shoulders. The pants, mercifully, were light gray, though his chestnut suede boots looked too new for masculine pride.
"Dorian, my dear. You're sulking." He gave Queen Georgina an apologetic grin. "I received a letter from Hollin. He sends his love."
"Did he say anything of interest?"
"Only that he loathes school and wishes to come home."
"He says that every letter."
The Queen of Adarlan sighed. "If your father didn't prevent me, I'd have him home."
"He's better off at school." When it came to Hollin, the farther away he was, the better.
Georgina surveyed her son. "You were better behaved. You never disobeyed your tutors. Oh, my poor Hollin. When I am dead, you'll care for him, won't you?"
"Dead? Mother, you're only—"
"I know how old I am." She waved a ring-encrusted hand. "Which is why you must marry. And soon."
"Marry?" Dorian ground his teeth. "Marry whom?"
"Dorian, you are the Crown Prince. And already nineteen, at that. Do you wish to become king and die without an heir so Hollin can take the throne?" He didn't answer. "I thought so." After a moment, she said, "There are plenty of young women who might make a good wife. Though a princess would be preferred."
"There are no princesses left," he said a bit sharply.
"Except for the Princess Nehemia." She laughed and put a hand on his. "Oh, don't worry. I wouldn't force you to marry her. I'm surprised your father allows for her to still bear the title. The impetuous, haughty girl—do you know she refused to wear the dress I sent her?"
"I'm sure the princess has her reasons," Dorian said warily, disgusted by his mother's unspoken prejudice. "I've only spoken to her once, but she seemed . . . lively."
"Then perhaps you shall marry her." His mother laughed again before he could respond.
Dorian smiled weakly. He still couldn't figure out why his father had granted the King of Eyllwe's request that his daughter visit their court to become better acquainted with the ways of Adarlan. As far as ambassadors went, Nehemia wasn't exactly the best choice. Not when he'd heard rumors of her support of the Eyllwe rebels—and her efforts to shut down the labor camp at Calaculla. Dorian couldn't blame her for that, though, not after he'd seen the horror that was Endovier, and the destruction it had wrought upon Celaena Sardothien's body. But his father never did anything without a reason—and from the few words he'd exchanged with Nehemia, he couldn't help but wonder if she had her own motivations in coming here, too.
"It's a pity that Lady Kaltain has an agreement with Duke Perrington," his mother went on. "She's such a beautiful girl—and so polite. Perhaps she has a sister."
Dorian crossed his arms, swallowing his repulsion. Kaltain stood at the far end of the court, and he was all too aware of her eyes creeping over every inch of him. He shifted in his seat, his tailbone aching from sitting for so long.
"What about Elise?" the queen said, indicating a blond young woman clad in lavender. "She's very beautiful. And can be quite playful."
As I've already learned.
"Elise bores me," he said.
"Oh, Dorian." She put a hand over her heart. "You're not about to inform me that you wish to marry for love, are you? Love does not guarantee a successful marriage."
He was bored. Bored of these women, bored of these cavaliers who masqueraded as companions, bored of everything.
He'd hoped his journey to Endovier would quell that boredom, and that he'd be glad to return home, but he found home to be the same. The same ladies still looked at him with pleading eyes, the same serving girls still winked at him, the same councilmen still slipped pieces of potential legislation under his door with hopeful notes. And his father . . . his father would always be preoccupied with conquest—and wouldn't stop until every continent bore Adarlan's flag. Even gambling over the so-called Champions had become achingly dull. It was clear Cain and Celaena would ultimately face each other, and until then . . . well, the other Champions weren't worth his time.
"You're sulking again. Are you upset over something, my pet? Have you heard from Rosamund? My poor child—how she broke your heart!" The queen shook her head. "Though it was over a year ago . . ." He didn't reply. He didn't want to think about Rosamund—or about the boorish husband she'd left him for.
Some nobles started dancing, weaving in and out among each other. Many were his age, but he somehow felt as if there existed a vast distance between them. He didn't feel older, nor did he feel any wiser, but rather he felt . . . He felt . . .
He felt as if there were something inside him that didn't fit in with their merriment, with their willing ignorance of the world outside the castle. It went beyond his title. He had enjoyed their company early in his adolescence, but it had become apparent that he'd always be a step away. The worst of it was that they didn't seem to notice he was different—or that he felt different. Were it not for Chaol, he would have felt immensely lonely.
"Well," his mother said, snapping her ivory fingers at one of her ladies-in-waiting, "I'm sure your father has you busy, but when you find a moment to bother thinking of me, and the fate of your kingdom, look through this." His mother's lady curtsied as she extended to him a folded piece of paper, stamped with his mother's bloodred seal. Dorian ripped it open, and his stomach twisted at the long line of names. All ladies of noble blood, all of marriageable age.
"What is this?" he demanded, fighting the urge to rip up the paper.
She gave him a winning smile. "A list of potential brides. Any one of them would be suitable to take the crown. And all, I've been told, are quite capable of producing heirs."
Dorian stuffed the list of names into the pocket of his vest. The restlessness within him would not cease. "I'll think about it," he said, and before she could reply, he stepped from the awning-covered podium. Immediately, five young women flocked to him and began asking him to dance, how he fared, if he would attend the Samhuinn ball. Around and around their words circled, and Dorian stared at them blankly. What were their names?
He peered over their jewel-encrusted heads to find the path to the door. He'd suffocate if he remained here for too long. With only polite good-byes, the Crown Prince strode from the jangle and jingle of the court, the list of would-be brides burning a hole through his clothes and straight into his skin.
Dorian put his hands in his pockets as he strode down the halls of the castle. The kennels were empty—the dogs were at the track. He'd wished to inspect one of the pregnant hounds, though he knew it was impossible to predict the outcome of the litter until she gave birth. He hoped the pups would be pure, but their mother had a tendency to escape from her pen. She was his fastest, but he'd never been able to quell the wildness within her.
He didn't really know where he was going now; he just needed to walk—anywhere.
Dorian loosened the top button on his vest. The clash of swords echoed from an open doorway, and he paused. He faced the Champions' training room, and even though training was supposed to be over by now, there—
There she was.
Her golden hair shone as she wove in and out of a knot of three guards, her sword little more than a steel extension of her hand. She didn't balk at the guards as she dodged and twirled around them.
Someone began clapping to the left, and the four dueling figures stopped, panting. Dorian watched a grin spread across the assassin's face as she beheld the source. The sheen of sweat illuminated her high cheekbones, and her blue eyes sparkled. Yes, she was truly lovely. But—
Princess Nehemia approached, clapping. She was clad not in her usual white gown, but rather in a dark tunic and loose trousers, and she clutched an ornately carved wooden staff in one hand.
The princess clasped the assassin on the shoulder, and said something to the girl that made her laugh. Dorian looked around. Where was Chaol or Brullo? Why was Adarlan's Assassin here with the Princess of Eyllwe? And with a sword! This could not go on, especially after that Champion's attempted escape the other day.
Dorian approached, and smiled at the princess as he bowed. Nehemia only deigned to give him a terse nod. Not surprising. Dorian took Celaena's hand. It smelled of metal and sweat, but he kissed it anyway, raising his eyes to her face as he did so. "Lady Lillian," he muttered onto her skin.
"Your Highness," she said, trying to pull her hand from his. But Dorian held fast to her calloused palm.
"Might I have a word?" he said, leading her away before she could agree. When they were out of hearing distance, he demanded, "Where's Chaol?"
She crossed her arms. "Is this any way to speak to your beloved Champion?"
He frowned. "Where is he?"
"I don't know. If I were to bet, though, I'd wager that he's inspecting the Eye Eater's mangled corpse, or disposing of Sven's body. Besides, Brullo said I could stay here as long as I liked after we were done. I do have another Test tomorrow, you know."
Of course he knew. "Why is Princess Nehemia here?"
"She called on me, and when Philippa told her I was here, she insisted on joining. Apparently, a woman can only go so long without a sword between her hands." She bit her lip.
"I don't recall you being so talkative."
"Well, perhaps if you'd taken the time to speak with me, you'd have found me to be so."
He snorted, but took the bait, gods damn him. "And when would have I spoken to you?"
"You do recall the little fact that we traveled together from Endovier, don't you? And that I've been here for weeks now."
"I sent you those books," he offered.
"And did you ever ask me if I had read them?"
Had she forgotten to whom she was speaking? "I've spoken to you once since we've been here."
She shrugged and made to turn away. Irritated, but slightly curious, he grabbed her arm. Her turquoise eyes glittered as she stared at his hand, and his heart quickened when her gaze rose to his face. Yes, sweaty as she was, she was beautiful.
"Aren't you afraid of me?" She glanced at his sword belt. "Or are you as deft at handling your sword as Captain Westfall?"
He stepped closer, tightening his grip. "Better," he whispered in her ear. There: she was blushing and blinking.
"Well," she began, but the timing was off. He'd won. She crossed her arms. "Very amusing, Your Highness."
He bowed dramatically. "I do what I can. But you can't have Princess Nehemia here with you."
"And why is that? Do you believe I'm going to kill her? Why would I kill the one person in this castle who isn't a babbling idiot?" She gave him a look that suggested he was part of the majority. "Not to mention, her guards would kill me before I even lifted a hand."
"It simply can't happen. She's here to learn our customs, not to spar."
"She's a princess. She can do what she likes."
"And I suppose you're going to teach her about weaponry?"
She cocked her head. "Perhaps you're just a little bit afraid of me."
"I'll escort her back to her chambers."
She gestured widely for him to pass. "Wyrd help you."
He ran a hand through his black hair and approached the princess, who waited for them with a hand on her hip. "Your Highness," Dorian said, motioning to her personal guard to join them. "I'm afraid we must return you to your chambers."
The princess looked behind his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. To his dismay, Celaena began speaking in Eyllwe to the princess, who stomped her staff. She hissed something at him. Dorian's skill with the Eyllwe language was spotty at best, and the princess spoke too fast for him to understand. Thankfully, the assassin translated.
"She says you can return to your cushions and dancing and leave us be," Celaena said.
He tried his best to look serious. "Tell her it's unacceptable for her to spar."
Celaena said something, to which the princess only waved a hand and strode past them and onto the sparring floor.
"What did you say?" Dorian said.
"I said you volunteered to be her first partner," she said. "Well? You don't want to upset the princess."
"I will not spar with the princess."
"Would you rather spar with me?"
"Perhaps if we had a private lesson in your chambers," he said smoothly. "Tonight."
"I'll be waiting." She curled her hair around a finger.
The princess twirled her staff with strength and precision that made him gulp. Deciding that he didn't feel like having the daylights walloped out of him, he walked to the rack of weapons and selected two wooden swords. "How about some basic swordplay instead?" he asked Nehemia. To his relief, the princess nodded and handed her staff to one of her guards, then took the practice sword Dorian extended to her. Celaena would not make a fool out of him!
"You stand like this," he said to the princess, taking a defensive stance.