Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)

Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) Page 49

“Grave didn’t recognize that you weren’t Mullison?” she asked as calmly as she could.

“You’d be surprised how easily men see what they want to see. A cloak, a mask, and some fine clothes, and he didn’t think twice.”

Oh, gods. Gods.

“So the night at the warehouse,” she went on, raising an eyebrow—an intrigued coconspirator. “Why did you really kidnap Chaol?”

“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.

Chaol waited all of a second before he slammed his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. The lock snapped. The door burst open, revealing her empty bedroom.

“Holy gods,” Dorian whispered.

The tapestry on the wall had been folded back to reveal an open door—a secret, stone door that opened into a dark passage.

It was how she’d gotten out to kill Grave.

Dorian drew his sword from the scabbard. “In my dream, I was told I would find this door.”

The prince stepped forward, but Chaol stopped him with an arm. He’d think about Dorian and his clairvoyant dreams later—much later. “You’re not going down there.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed. “Like hell I’m not.”

As if in answer, a guttural, bone-grinding growl sounded from within. And then a scream—a human scream, followed by a highpitched bark.

Chaol was running for the passage before he could think.

It was pitch-black, and Chaol almost tumbled down the stairs, but Dorian, close behind, grabbed a candle.

“Stay upstairs!” Chaol ordered, still charging down. If he’d had time, he would have locked Dorian in the closet rather than risk bringing the Crown Prince into danger, but … What the hell had that growl been? The bark he knew—the bark was Fleetfoot. And if Fleetfoot was down there …

Dorian kept following him. “I was sent here,” he said. Chaol took the stairs by twos and threes, hardly hearing the prince’s words. Had that scream been hers? It had sounded male. But who else could be down here with her?

Blue light flashed from the bottom of the stairs. What was that?

A roar shook the ancient stones. That was not human, nor was it Fleetfoot. But what—

They had never found the creature that had been killing the champions. The murders had just stopped. But the damage he’d seen to those corpses … No, Celaena had to be alive.

Please, he begged any gods who would listen.

Chaol leapt onto the landing and found three doorways. The blue light had flashed from the right. They ran.

How had such a massive cavern of chambers been forgotten? And how long had she known about them?

He flew down a spiral staircase. And then a new, greenish light began shining steadily, and he turned onto a landing to see—

He didn’t know where to look first—at the long hallway, where one wall glowed with an arch of green symbols, or at the … the world that showed through the arch, depicting a land of mist and rock.

At Archer, cowering against the opposite wall, chanting strange words from a book held in his hands.

At Celaena, prostrate on the floor.

Or at the monster: a tall, sinewy thing, but definitely not human. Not with those unnaturally long fingers tipped with claws, white skin that looked like crumpled paper, a distended jaw that revealed fishlike teeth, and those eyes—milky and tinged with blue.

And there was Fleetfoot, hackles raised and fangs bared, refusing to let the demon anywhere near Celaena, even as the half-grown pup limped, even as the blood pooled from the wound in her right hind leg.

Chaol had all of two heartbeats to size up the monster, to take in every detail, to mark his surroundings. “Go,” he snarled at Dorian before launching himself at the creature.

Chapter 49

She didn’t remember anything after the first two swings of her sword, only that she’d suddenly seen Fleetfoot come flying at the creature. The sight had distracted her enough for the demon to get past her guard, its long, white fingers grabbing her by the hair and slamming her head into the wall.

Then darkness.

She wondered whether she’d died and awoken in hell as she opened her eyes to a pulsing headache—and the sight of Chaol, circling the pale demon, blood dripping from both of them. And then there were cool hands on her head, on her neck, and Dorian crouching in front of her as he said, “Celaena.”

She struggled to her feet, her head aching even more. She had to help Chaol. Had to—

She heard a rip of clothing and a yelp of pain, and she looked at Chaol in time to see him grasp the cut on his shoulder, inflicted by those filthy, jagged nails. The creature roared, its overlong jaw gleaming with saliva, and it lunged again for the captain.

Celaena tried to move, but she wasn’t fast enough.

But Dorian was.

Something invisible slammed into the creature, sending it flying into the wall with a crunch. Gods. Dorian didn’t just have magic—he had raw magic. The rarest, and deadliest, kind. Sheer undiluted power, capable of being shaped into whatever form the wielder desired.

The creature crumpled but instantly got up, whirling toward her and Dorian. The prince just stood there, hand outstretched.

The milky-blue eyes were ravenous now.

Through the portal Celaena heard the rocky earth crunching beneath more pairs of bare, pale feet. Archer’s chanting grew louder.

Chaol attacked the thing again. It surged toward him just before his sword struck, swiping with those long fingers, forcing the captain to dart back.