She was mad. Celaena clamped down the urge to make a cutting remark, the memory of Kaltain’s bruises staying her tongue. “Thank you for your help.”
Kaltain wrapped Celaena’s cloak around herself. “Something is coming,” she whispered. “And I am to greet it.”
Celaena loosed the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. This conversation was pointless. “Good-bye, Kaltain.”
The girl only laughed softly, and the sound followed Celaena long after she’d left the freezing dungeons behind.
“Those bastards,” Nehemia spat, clenching her teacup so hard Celaena thought the princess would shatter it. They sat together in her bed, a large breakfast tray spread between them. Fleetfoot watched their every bite, ready to devour any stray crumbs. “How could the guards just turn their backs like that? How can they keep her in such conditions? Kaltain is a member of the court—and if they treat her like that, then I can’t begin to imagine how they treat criminals from the other classes.” Nehemia paused, glancing apologetically at Celaena.
Celaena shrugged and shook her head. After seeing Kaltain, she’d gone out to stalk Archer, but a snowstorm had struck, so fierce that visibility was nearly impossible. After an hour of trying to track him through the snow-swept city, she’d given up and come back to the castle.
The storm had continued all night, leaving a blanket of snow too deep for Celaena to take her usual morning run with Chaol. So she’d invited Nehemia to join her for breakfast in bed, and the princess—who was now thoroughly sick of snow—was more than happy to dash to Celaena’s rooms and hop under the warm covers.
Nehemia set down her tea. “You have to tell Captain Westfall about how she’s being treated.”
Celaena finished her scone and leaned back in her fluffed-up pillows. “I already did. He dealt with it.” No need to mention that after Chaol had returned to his bedroom, where Celaena had been reading, his tunic was rumpled, his knuckles were raw, and there was a deadly sort of gleam in his chestnut eyes that told Celaena the dungeon guard was going to have some serious changes—and new members.
“You know,” Nehemia mused, using her foot to gently shove Fleetfoot away as the dog tried to snatch some food off their tray, “the courts weren’t always like this. There was a time when people valued honor and loyalty—when serving a ruler wasn’t about obedience and fear.” She shook her head, her gold-tipped braids tinkling. In the early morning sun, her hazelnut skin was smooth and lovely. Honestly, it was a tad unfair that Nehemia naturally looked so beautiful—especially at the crack of dawn.
Nehemia went on. “I think such honor faded from Adarlan generations ago, but before Terrasen fell, its royal court was the one that set the example. My father used to tell me stories of Terrasen’s court—of the warriors and lords who served King Orlon in his inner circle, of the unrivaled power and bravery and loyalty of his court. That was why the King of Adarlan targeted Terrasen first. Because it was the strongest, and because if Terrasen had been given the chance to raise an army against him, Adarlan would have been annihilated. My father still says that if Terrasen were to rise again, it might stand a chance; it would be a genuine threat to Adarlan.”
Celaena looked toward the hearth. “I know,” she managed to get out.
Nehemia turned to look at her. “Do you think another court like that could ever rise again? Not just in Terrasen, but anywhere? I’ve heard the court in Wendlyn still follows the old ways, but they’re across the ocean, and do us no good. They looked in the other direction while the king enslaved our lands, and they still refuse all calls for aid.”
Celaena forced herself to snort, to wave her hand in dismissal. “This is an awfully heavy discussion for breakfast.” She filled her mouth with toast. When she dared a glance at the princess, Nehemia’s expression remained contemplative. “Any news about the king?”
Nehemia clicked her tongue. “Only that he’s added that little grub, Roland, to his council, and Roland seems to have been given the task of handling me. Apparently, I’ve been too pushy with Minister Mullison, the councilman responsible for dealing with Calaculla’s labor camp. Roland is supposed to placate me.”
“I can’t tell who I feel worse for: you or Roland.”
Nehemia jabbed her in the side, and Celaena chuckled, batting her hand away. Fleetfoot used their temporary distraction to swipe a piece of bacon right off the platter, and Celaena squawked. “You brazen thief!”
But Fleetfoot leapt off the bed, scuttled to the hearth, and stared right at Celaena as she gobbled down the rest of the bacon.
Nehemia laughed, and Celaena found herself joining in before she tossed Fleetfoot another piece of bacon. “Let’s just stay in bed all day,” Celaena said, throwing herself back onto the pillows and nestling into the blankets.
“I certainly wish I could,” Nehemia said, sighing loudly. “Alas, I have things to do.”
And so did she, Celaena realized. Like preparing for her dinner that evening with Archer.
Chapter 10
Dorian shivered as he entered the kennels that afternoon, brushing snow from his red cloak. Beside him, Chaol puffed air into his cupped hands, and the two young men hurried farther inside, the straw-coated floors crunching underfoot. Dorian hated winter—the intolerable cold and the way his boots never seemed completely dry.
They had chosen to enter the castle through the kennels because it was the easiest way to avoid Hollin, Dorian’s ten-year-old brother, who had returned from school that morning and was already shrieking demands at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Hollin would never look for them here. He hated animals.
They strode through the chorus of barking and whining, Dorian pausing every now and then to greet a favorite hound. He could have spent the rest of the day here—if only to avoid the court dinner in honor of Hollin. “I can’t believe my mother pulled him out of school,” he muttered.
“She missed her son,” Chaol said, still rubbing his hands together, though the kennels were deliciously warm compared to outside. “And now that there’s this movement growing against your father, he wants Hollin where we can keep an eye on him until it gets sorted out.”
Until Celaena kills all the traitors, was what Chaol didn’t need to say.
Dorian sighed. “I don’t even want to imagine what sort of absurd gift my mother bought him. Do you remember the last one?”
Chaol grinned. It was hard not to remember the last gift Georgina had bought her younger son: four white ponies with a tiny golden carriage for Hollin to drive about himself. He’d trampled half of the queen’s favorite garden.
Chaol led them toward the doors at the far end of the kennels. “You can’t avoid him forever.” Even as the captain spoke, Dorian could see him scanning, as he always did, for any sign of danger, any threat. After so many years, Dorian was used to it, but it still rankled his pride a little.
They passed through the glass doors and into the castle. To Dorian, the hall was warm and glowing; wreaths and garlands of evergreen still decorated archways and tabletops. To Chaol, he supposed, an enemy could be waiting anywhere.
“Maybe he’s changed in the past few months—matured a little,” Chaol said.
“You said that last summer, and I almost punched his teeth out.”
Chaol shook his head. “Thank the Wyrd my brother was always too afraid of me to talk back.”
Dorian tried not to look surprised. Since Chaol had abdicated his title as heir of Anielle, he hadn’t seen his family in years, and rarely spoke about them.
Dorian could have gleefully killed Chaol’s father for disowning him, refusing even to see Chaol when he brought his family to Rifthold for an important meeting with the king. Even though Chaol had never said it, Dorian knew the scars went deep.
Dorian sighed loudly. “Remind me again why I’m going to this dinner tonight?”
“Because your father will kill you and me if you don’t show up and formally greet your brother.”
“Maybe he’d hire Celaena to do it.”
“She has dinner plans tonight. With Archer Finn.”
“Isn’t she supposed to kill him?”
“She wants information, apparently.” A heavy pause. “I don’t like him.”
Dorian stiffened. They had managed, at least for the afternoon, to not talk about her—and for those few hours, it had been like nothing had ever changed between them. But things had changed. “I don’t think you need to worry about Archer stealing her away—especially if he’s going to be dead by the end of the month.” It came out sharper and colder than he intended.
Chaol cut a glance at him. “You think that’s what I’m worried about?”
Yes. And it’s obvious to everyone except the two of you.
But he didn’t want to have this conversation with Chaol, and Chaol sure as hell didn’t want to have this conversation with him, so Dorian just shrugged. “She’ll be fine, and you’ll laugh at yourself for worrying. Even if he’s as well-guarded as she claims, she’s the Champion for a reason, right?”
Chaol nodded, though Dorian could still see the worry in his eyes.
Celaena knew the scarlet dress was a little scandalous. And she knew that it was definitely not appropriate for winter, given how low the front dipped, and how much lower the back went. Low enough to reveal through the black lace mesh that she wasn’t wearing a corset beneath it.
But Archer Finn had always liked women who were daring with their clothes, who were ahead of the trend. And this dress, with its close-fitting bodice, long, tight sleeves, and gently flowing skirt, was about as new and different as it came.
Which was why, when she ran into Chaol on her way out of her rooms, she wasn’t very surprised when he stopped dead and blinked. Then blinked again.
Celaena smiled at him. “Hello to you, too.”
Chaol stood in the hallway, his bronze eyes traveling down the front of her dress, then up again. “You’re not wearing that.”
She snorted and walked past him, deliberately giving him a view of the far more provocative back. “Oh, yes. I am.”
Chaol fell into step beside her as she made her way down to the front gate and the waiting carriage. “You’re going to catch your death.”
She slung her ermine cloak around her. “Not with this, I won’t.”
“Do you even have any weapons with you?”
She stomped down the main staircase that led to the entrance hall. “Yes, Chaol, I have weapons. And I’m wearing this dress because I want Archer to ask the same thing. To think I don’t have any on me.”
There were indeed knives strapped to her legs, and the pins sweeping her hair into a curling cascade down one shoulder were long and razor-sharp—commissioned, to her delight, by Philippa, so she didn’t need to “go traipsing around with cold metal jammed between your br**sts.”
“Oh,” was all Chaol said. They reached the main entrance in silence, and Celaena slipped on her kid gloves as they neared the towering double doors that opened onto the courtyard. She was just about to walk down the front steps when Chaol touched her shoulder.