Crown Of Midnight Part 15

The men died too quickly, but Celaena had one more task to complete before she would meet her end. She prowled back up the main tunnel that led out of the mines. Guards foolishly came rus.h.i.+ng out of tunnel mouths to meet her.

She surged upward, hacking and swinging. Two more guards went down, and she took up their swords, leaving the ax behind. The slaves didn't cheer as their oppressors fell; they just watched in silence, understanding. This was not a fight for escape.

The light of the surface made her blink, but she was ready. Her eyes having to adjust to the sun would be her greatest weakness. That was why she had waited until the softer light of afternoon. Twilight would have been better, but that time of day was too heavily guarded, and there were too many slaves about then that could be caught in the crossfire. This last hour of full daylight, when the warm sun lulled many to sleep, was when the sentries went lax on watch before the evening inspection.

The three sentries at the entrance to the mines didn't know what was happening below. Everyone was always screaming in Endovier. Everyone sounded the same when they died. And the three sentries screamed just like the others.

And then she was running, sprinting for the death that beckoned to her, making for the towering stone wall at the other end of the compound.

Arrows whizzed past, and she zigzagged. They wouldn't kill her, by order of the king. An arrow through the shoulder or leg, maybe. But she'd make them reconsider their orders once the carnage was too ma.s.sive to ignore.

Other sentries came rus.h.i.+ng from everywhere, and her blades were a song of steel fury as she cut through them. Silence settled over Endovier.

She took a gash in her leg-deep, but not deep enough to cut the tendon. They still wanted her able to work. But she wouldn't work-not again, not for them. When the body count was high enough, they'd have no choice but to put that arrow through her throat.

But then she neared the gate, and the arrows stopped.

She started laughing when she found herself surrounded by forty guards, and laughed even more when they called for irons.

She was laughing when she lashed out one last time-one final attempt to touch the wall. Four more went down in her wake.

She was still laughing when the world went black and her fingers. .h.i.t the rocky ground-barely an inch away from the wall.

Chaol stood from his seat at her foyer table as the door quietly opened. The outside hall was dark, the lights burned out; most of the castle asleep and tucked into their beds. He'd heard the clock chime midnight some time ago, but he knew it wasn't exhaustion weighing down Celaena's shoulders when she slipped into her rooms. Her eyes were purple beneath, her face wan, lips colorless.

Fleetfoot rushed to him, tail wagging, and licked him a few times on the hand before she trotted into the bedroom, leaving them alone.

Celaena glanced once at him, her turquoise-and-gold eyes weary and haunted, and began unfastening her cloak as she walked past him into the bedroom.

Wordlessly, he followed her, if only because she hadn't had a hint of warning or reproach in her expression-rather a bleakness that suggested she wouldn't have cared if she'd found the King of Adarlan himself in her rooms.

She removed her coat and then her boots, leaving them wherever she happened to discard them. He looked away as she unb.u.t.toned her tunic and walked into the dressing room. A moment later, she walked back out, wearing a nightgown that was far more modest than her usual lacy attire. Fleetfoot had already hopped into bed, sprawling against the pillows.

Chaol swallowed hard. He should have given her privacy instead of waiting here. If she'd wanted him to be here, she would have written him a note.

Celaena stopped before the dim fireplace and used the poker to stir the coals before tossing another two logs on. She stared down at the flames. Her back was still to him when she spoke.

"If you're trying to figure out what to say to me, don't bother. There's nothing that can be said, or done."

"Then let me keep you company." If she realized how much he knew, she didn't care to ask how.

"I don't want company."

"Want and need are different things." Nehemia, probably, should have been here-another child of a conquered kingdom. But he didn't want Nehemia to be the one she turned to. And despite his loyalty to the king, he couldn't turn away from her-not today.

"So you're just going to stay here all night?" She flicked her eyes to the couch between them.

"I've slept in worse places."

"I think my experience with *worse places' is a lot more horrible than yours." Again, that twisting in his gut. But then she looked through the open bedroom door to the foyer table, and her brows rose. "Is that ... chocolate cake?"

"I thought you might need some."

"Need, not want?"

A ghost of a smile was on her lips, and he almost sagged in relief as he said, "For you, I'd say that chocolate cake is most definitely a need."

She crossed from the fireplace to where he stood, stopping a hand's breadth away and staring up at him. Some of the color had returned to her face.

He should step back, put more distance between them. But instead, he found himself reaching for her, a hand slipping around her waist and the other twining itself through her hair as he held her tightly to him. His heart thundered through him so hard he knew she could feel it. After a second, her arms came up around him, her fingers digging into his back in a way that made him realize how close they stood.

He shoved that feeling down, even as the silken texture of her hair against his fingers made him want to bury his face in it, and the smell of her, laced with mist and night, had him grazing his nose against her neck. There were other kinds of comfort that he could give her than mere words, and if she needed that kind of distraction ... He shoved down that thought, too, swallowing it until he nearly choked on it.

Her fingers were moving down his back, still digging into his muscles with a fierce kind of possession. If she kept touching him like that, his control was going to slip completely.

And then she pulled back, just far enough to look up at him again, still so close their breath mingled. He found himself gauging the distance between their lips, his eyes flicking between her mouth and her eyes, the hand he had entwined in her hair stilling.

Desire roared through him, burning down every defense he'd put up, erasing every line he'd convinced himself he had to maintain.

And then she said, so quietly it was hardly more than a murmur, "I can't tell if I should be ashamed of wanting to hold you on this day, or grateful that, despite what happened before now, it somehow brought me to you."

He was so startled by the words that he let go, let go and stepped back. He had his obstacles to overcome, but so did she-perhaps more obstacles than he'd even realized.

He had no response to what she'd said. But she didn't give him time to think of the right words before she walked to the chocolate cake in the foyer, plunked down in the chair, and dug in.

Chapter 22.

The silence of the library wrapped around Dorian like a heavy blanket, interrupted only by the turning of pages as he read through his family's extensive genealogical charts, records, and histories. He couldn't be the only one; if he truly did have magic, then what about Hollin? It had taken until now to manifest, so perhaps it wouldn't reveal itself in Hollin for another nine years. Hopefully by then, he'd figure out how to suppress it and teach Hollin to do the same. He might not be fond of his brother, but he didn't wish the boy dead-especially not the kind of death their father would give them if he learned what dwelled in their blood. Beheading, dismemberment, then burning. Complete annihilation.

No wonder the Fae had fled the continent. They had been powerful and wise, but Adarlan had military might and a frantic public looking for any solution to the famine and poverty that had plagued the kingdom for decades. It hadn't just been the armies that had made the Fae run-no, it was also the people who had lived in an uneasy truce with them, as well as the mortals gifted with magic, for generations. How would those people react if they knew that the heir to the throne was plagued by the same powers?

Dorian ran a finger down his mother's family tree. It was dotted with Havilliards along the way; a close mingling of their two families for the past few centuries that had given rise to numerous kings.

But he'd been here for three hours now, and none of the rotting old books held any mention of magic-wielders. In fact, there had been a drought in the line for centuries. Several gifted people had married into the bloodline, but their children hadn't been born with the power, no matter what manner of gifts their parents posessed. Was it coincidence, or divine will?

Dorian closed the book and stalked back into the stacks. He reached the section along the back wall that held all the genealogical records and pulled out the oldest book he could find-one that held records dating back to the founding of Adarlan itself.

There, on the top of the family tree, was Gavin Havilliard, the mortal prince who had taken his war band into the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains to challenge the Dark Lord Erawan. The war had been long and brutal, and in the end, only a third of the men who had ridden in with Gavin came out of those mountains. But Gavin also emerged from that war with his bride-the princess Elena, the half-Fae daughter of Brannon, Terrasen's first king. It was Brannon himself who gave Gavin the territory of Adarlan as a wedding gift-and a reward for the prince and princess's sacrifices during the war. And since then, no Fae blood had bred into their line. Dorian followed the tree down and down. Just longforgotten families whose lands were now called by different names.

Dorian sighed, set down the book, and browsed through the stack. If Elena had gifted the line with her power, then perhaps answers could be found elsewhere ...

He was surprised to see the book sitting there, given how his father had destroyed that n.o.ble house ten years ago. But there it was: a history of the Galathynius line, starting with the Fae King Brannon himself. Dorian flipped through the pages, his brows raised high. He'd known the line was blessed with magic, but this ...

It was a powerhouse. A bloodline so mighty that other kingdoms had lived in terror of the day the Lords of Terrasen would come to claim their lands.

But they never had.

While they'd been gifted, they'd never once pushed their borders-even when wars came to their doorstep. When foreign kings had threatened them, the retribution had been swift and brutal. But always, no matter what, they kept to their borders. Kept the peace.

As my father should have done.

Despite all their power, though, the Galathynius family had fallen, and their n.o.ble lords with them. In the book he held, no one had bothered to mark the houses his father had exterminated, or the survivors sent into exile. Without the heart or the knowledge to do it himself, Dorian closed the book, grimacing as all those names burned in his vision. What sort of throne would he inherit someday?

If the heir of Terrasen, Aelin Galathynius, had lived, would she have become a friend, an ally? His bride, perhaps?

He'd met her once, in the days before her kingdom became a charnel house. The memory was hazy, but she'd been a precocious, wild girl-and had set her nasty, brutish older cousin on him in order to teach Dorian a lesson for spilling tea on her dress. Dorian rubbed his neck. Of course, as fate would have it, her cousin wound up becoming Aedion Ashryver, his father's prodigy general and the fiercest warrior in the north. He'd met Aedion a few times over the years, and at each encounter with the haughty young general, he'd gotten the distinct impression that Aedion wanted to kill him.

And with good reason.

Shuddering, Dorian replaced the book and stared at the bookcase, as if it would yield any answers. But he already knew there was nothing here that could help him.

When the time comes, I will help you.

Did Nehemia know what dwelt inside him? She had acted so strangely that day at the duel, drawing symbols in the air and then fainting. And then there had been the moment when that mark had burned on Celaena's brow ...

A clock chimed somewhere in the library, and he glanced down the aisle. He should go. It was Chaol's birthday, and he should at least say h.e.l.lo to his friend before Celaena whisked him off. Of course he hadn't been invited. And Chaol hadn't tried to suggest that Dorian was welcome, either. What did she plan to do, exactly?

The temperature in the library dropped, a frozen draft blowing in from a distant corridor.

Not that he cared. He'd meant it when he swore to Nehemia that he was done with Celaena. And maybe he should have told Chaol that he could have her. Not that she'd ever belonged to him-or that she'd even tried to suggest that he belonged to her.

He could let go. He had let go. He'd let go. Let go. Let- Books flew from their shelves, dozens upon dozens bursting into flight, and this time, they slammed into him as he staggered back toward the end of the row. He s.h.i.+elded his face, and when the sound of leather and paper stopped, Dorian braced a hand on the stone wall behind him and gaped.

Half of the books in the row had been tossed off their shelves and scattered about, as if thrown by some invisible force.

He rushed to them, shoving volumes back onto their shelves in no order whatsoever, working as fast as he could before one of the crotchety royal librarians came hobbling over to see what the noise was about. It took him a few minutes to put them all back, his heart pounding so hard he thought he'd be sick again.

His hands trembled-and not just with fear. No, there was some force still running through him, begging him to unleash it again, to open himself up ...

Dorian crammed the last book back onto the shelf and took off at a run.

He could tell no one. Trust no one.

When he reached the main hall of the library, he slowed to a walk, feigning a lazy carelessness. He even managed to smile at the old, withered librarian who bowed to him as he pa.s.sed. Dorian gave him a friendly wave before striding out the towering oak doors.

He could trust no one.

That witch at the carnival-she hadn't recognized him as the prince. Still, her gift had rung true, at least when talking to Chaol. It was a risk, but perhaps Baba Yellowlegs had the answers he needed.

Celaena wasn't nervous. She had nothing-absolutely nothing-to be worried about. It was just a dinner. A dinner she'd spent weeks arranging whenever she had a spare moment while spying on those men in Rifthold. A dinner at which she'd be alone. With Chaol. And after last night ...

Celaena took a surprisingly shaky breath and checked herself in the mirror one last time. The dress was pale blue, almost white, and encrusted with crystal beading that made the fabric look like the s.h.i.+mmering surface of the sea. Perhaps it was a bit much, but she'd told Chaol to dress well, so hopefully he'd be wearing something nice enough to make her feel less self-conscious.

Celaena huffed. G.o.ds above, she was feeling self-conscious, wasn't she? It was ridiculous, really. It was just a dinner. Fleetfoot was with Nehemia for the night, and-and if she didn't leave now, she'd be late.

Refusing to let herself sweat another second longer, Celaena grabbed her ermine cloak from where Philippa had left it on the ottoman in the center of her dressing room.

When she reached the entrance hall, Chaol was already waiting for her by the doors. Even from across the ma.s.sive s.p.a.ce, she could tell his eyes were on her as she descended the stairs. Not surprisingly, he wore black-but at least it wasn't his uniform. No, his tunic and pants looked to be of fine make, and it seemed like he'd even run a comb through his short hair.

He watched her every step across the hall, his face unreadable. At last she stopped in front of him, the cold air from the open doors biting into her face. She hadn't gone for their run this morning, and he hadn't come to drag her outside. "Happy birthday," she said before he could object to her clothes.

His eyes rose to her face, and he gave her a half smile, that unreadable, closed-off expression vanis.h.i.+ng. "Do I even want to know where you're taking me?"

She grinned at him, her nerves melting away. "Somewhere utterly inappropriate for the Captain of the Guard to be seen." She inclined her head toward the carriage that waited outside the castle doors. Good. She'd threatened to flay the driver and footmen alive if they were late. "Shall we?"

As they rode through the city, sitting on opposite sides of the carriage, they talked about anything but last night-the carnival, Fleetfoot, Hollin's daily tantrums. They even debated whether spring would start showing itself at last. When they reached the building-an old apothecary- Chaol raised his brows. "Just wait," she said, and led him into the warmly lit shop.

The owners smiled at her, beckoning them up the narrow stone staircase. Chaol said nothing as they went up and up the stairs, past the second level, and the third, until they reached a door at the uppermost landing. The landing was small enough that he brushed against the skirts of her gown, and when she turned to him, one hand on the doork.n.o.b, she gave him a small smile. "It might not be an Asterion stallion, but ..."

She opened the door, stepping aside so he could enter.

Wordlessly, he walked in.

She'd spent hours arranging everything, and in the daylight it had looked lovely, but at night ... It was exactly as she'd imagined it would be.

The roof of the apothecary was an enclosed gla.s.s greenhouse, filled with flowers and potted plants and fruit trees that had been hung with little glittering lights. The whole place had been transformed into a garden out of an ancient legend. The air was warm and sweet, and by the windows overlooking the expanse of the Avery River stood a small table set for two.

Chaol surveyed the room, turning in place. "It's the Fae woman's garden-from Rena Goldsmith's song," he said softly. His golden eyes were bright.

She swallowed hard. "I know it's not much-"

"No one has ever done anything like this for me." He shook his head in awe, looking back at the greenhouse. "No one."

"It's just a dinner," she said, rubbing her neck and walking to the table, if only because the urge to go to him was so strong that she needed a table between them.

He followed her, and an instant later, two servants appeared to pull out their chairs for them. She smiled a little as Chaol's hand shot to his sword, but upon seeing that they were not being ambushed, he gave her a sheepish glance and sat down.

The servants poured two gla.s.ses of sparkling wine, then bustled off for the food that they'd spent all day preparing in the apothecary's kitchen. She'd managed to hire the cook from the Willows for the night-for a fee that had made her consider punching the woman's throat. It was worth it, though. She lifted her flute of wine.

"Many happy returns," she said. She'd had a little speech prepared, but now that they were here, now that his eyes were so bright, and he was looking at her the way he had last night ... all the words went right out of her head.

Chaol lifted his gla.s.s and drank. "Before I forget to say it: Thank you. This is ..." He examined the glittering greenhouse again, then looked out to the river beyond the gla.s.s walls. "This is ..." He shook his head once more, setting down his gla.s.s, and she caught a glimmer of silver in his eyes that made her heart clench. He blinked it away and looked back at her with a small smile. "No one has thrown me a birthday party since I was a child."

She scoffed, fighting past the tightness in her chest. "I'd hardly call this a party-"

"Stop trying to downplay it. It's the greatest gift I've been given in a long while."

She crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair as the servants arrived, bringing their first course-roast boar stew. "Dorian got you an Asterion stallion."

Chaol was staring down at his soup, brows high. "But Dorian doesn't know what my favorite stew is, does he?" He glanced up at her, and she bit her lip. "How long have you been paying attention?"