He was still watching her, warily. She met his gaze and said quietly, “Ten years ago, many of the people I … people I loved were executed for having magic.” Pain and guilt flickered in his eyes, but she went on. “So you’ll understand when I say that I have no desire to see anyone else die for it, even the son of the man who ordered those deaths.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “So, what do we do now?”
“Eat a giant meal, see a healer, take a bath. In that order.”
He snorted and playfully nudged her with a knee.
She leaned forward, clasping her hands between her legs. “We wait. We keep an eye on that door to make sure no one tries to go in, and … just take it day by day.”
He took one of her hands in his own, staring toward the window. “Day by day.”
Chapter 45
Celaena didn’t get a meal, or take a bath, or see a healer for her shoulder.
Instead, she hurried to the dungeon, not even looking at the guards that she passed. Exhaustion ripped at her, but fear kept her moving, almost sprinting down the stairs.
They want to use me. They tricked me, Kaltain had said. And in Dorian’s book of Adarlan’s noble lineages, the Rompier family had been listed as one with a strong magical line, supposedly vanished two generations ago.
Sometimes I think they brought me here, Kaltain had said. Not to marry Perrington, but for another purpose.
Brought Kaltain here, the way Cain had been brought here. Cain, of the White Fang Mountains, where powerful shamans had long ruled the tribes.
Her mouth went dry as she strode down the dungeon hallway to Kaltain’s cell. She stopped in front, staring through the bars.
It was empty.
All that was left inside was Celaena’s cloak, discarded in the kicked-up hay. As if Kaltain had struggled against whoever had come to take her.
Celaena was at the guards’ station a moment later, pointing down the hall. “Where is Kaltain?” Even as she said it, a memory began to clear, a memory hazed by days spent sedated in the dungeons.
The guards looked at each other, then at her torn and bloody clothes, before one said, “The duke took her—to Morath. To be his wife.”
She stalked out of the dungeon, heading for her rooms.
Something is coming, Kaltain had whispered. And I am to greet it.
My headaches are worse every day, and full of all those flapping wings.
Celaena nearly stumbled on a step. Roland has been suffering from awful headaches lately, Dorian told her a few days ago. And now Roland, who shared Dorian’s Havilliard blood, had gone to Morath, too.
Gone, or been taken?
Celaena touched her shoulder and felt the open, bloody wounds beneath. The creature had been clawing at its head, as though it were in pain. And when it had shoved through the door, for those last few seconds it had been frozen in place, she had seen something human in its warped eyes—something that looked so relieved, so grateful for the death she gave him.
“Who were you?” she whispered, recalling the human heart and manlike body of the creature under the library. “And what did he do to you?”
But Celaena had a feeling she already knew the answer.
Because that was the other thing the Wyrdkeys could do, the other power that the Wyrdmarks controlled: life.
They hear wings in the Ferian Gap, Nehemia had said. Our scouts do not come back.
The king was twisting far worse things than mortal men. Far, far worse things. But what did he plan to do with them—with the creatures, with the people like Roland and Kaltain?
She needed to learn how many of the Wyrdkeys he had found.
And where the others might be.
The next night, Celaena examined the door to the library catacombs, her ears straining for any hint of sound on the other side.
Nothing.
The bloody Wyrdmarks had turned flaky, but beneath the crust, as if welded onto the metal, was the dark outline of each mark.
From high, high above, the muffled bellow of the clock tower sounded. It was two in the morning. How did no one know that the tower sat atop an ancient dungeon that served as the king’s own secret chamber?
Celaena glowered at the door in front of her. Because who would even think about that as a possibility?
She knew she should go to bed, but she’d been unable to sleep for weeks now and saw no point in even trying anymore. It was why she’d come down here: to do something while sorting through her jumbled thoughts.
She flipped the dagger in her right hand, angling it, and gave a light, tentative tug on the door.
It held. She paused, listening again for any signs of life, and yanked harder.
It didn’t budge.
Celaena pulled a few more times, going so far as to brace a foot against the wall, but the door remained sealed. When she was at last convinced that nothing was getting through the door—in either direction—she loosed a long breath.
No one would believe her about this place—just like no one would believe her wild, highly unlikely story about the Wyrdkeys.
To find the Wyrdkeys, she’d first have to solve the riddle. And then convince the king to let her go for a few months. Years. It would take careful manipulation, especially since it seemed likely that he already had a key. But which one?
They hear wings …
Yellowlegs said that only combined could the three open the actual Wyrdgate, but alone each still wielded immense power. What other sorts of terrors could he create? If he ever got all three Wyrdkeys, what might he bring into Erilea to serve him? Things were already stirring on the continent; unrest was brewing. She had a feeling that he wouldn’t tolerate it for long. No, it would only be a matter of time before he unleashed whatever he’d been creating upon them all, and crush all resistance forever.
Celaena looked at the sealed door, her stomach turning. A half-dried pool of blood lay at the base of the door, so dark it looked like oil. She crouched, swiping a finger through the puddle. She sniffed at it, almost gagged at the reek, and then rubbed her finger against the pad of her thumb. It felt as oily as it looked.
She got to her feet and reached into her pocket, looking for something to wipe off her fingers. She drew out a handful of papers. Scraps was more like it—bits of things that she’d carried around to study whenever she had a spare moment. Frowning, she shifted through them to sort out which one she could spare to use as a makeshift handkerchief.
One was just a receipt for a pair of shoes, which she must have accidentally tucked into her pocket that morning. And another … Celaena lifted that one closer. Ah! Time’s Rift! had been written there. She’d scribbled it down when she’d been trying to solve the eye riddle. When everything in the tomb had felt like a great secret, one giant clue.
Some help that had been. Just another dead end. Cursing under her breath, she used it to wipe the grime off her fingers. The tomb still didn’t make sense, though. What did the trees on the ceiling and the stars on the floor have to do with the riddle? The stars had led to the secret hole, but they could just as easily have been on the ceiling to do that. Why make everything backward?
Would Brannon have been so foolish as to put all the answers in one place?
She uncrumpled the scrap of paper, now stained with the creature’s oily blood. Ah! Time’s Rift!
There was no inscription at Gavin’s feet—only Elena’s. And the words made little sense.
… But what if they weren’t meant to make sense? What if they were only just logical enough to imply one thing, but really mean another?
Everything in the tomb was backward, rearranged, the natural order in reverse. To hint that things were jumbled, misarranged. So the thing that should have been concealed was right in the open. But, like everything else, its meaning was warped.
And there was one person—one being—who could possibly tell her whether she was right.
Chapter 46
“It’s an anagram,” she panted as she reache
d the tomb.
Mort opened an eye. “Clever, wasn’t it? To hide it right where everyone could see?”
Celaena eased open the door just wide enough to slip inside. The moonlight was strong, and her breath caught in her throat as she saw precisely where it fell. Trembling, she stopped at the foot of the sarcophagus and traced her fingers over the stone letters. “Tell me what it means.”
He paused, long enough for her to take a breath to start yelling at him, but he then said, “I Am the First.”
And that was all the confirmation she needed.
The first Wyrdkey of the three. Celaena moved around the stone body, her eyes on Elena’s sleeping face. As she looked upon those fine features, she whispered the words.
In grief, he hid one in the crown
Of her he loved so well,
To keep with her where she lay down
Inside the starry cell.
She lifted shaking fingers to the blue jewel in the center of the crown. If this was indeed the Wyrdkey … what would she do with it? Would she be forced to destroy it? Where could she hide it so no one else would discover it? The questions swirled, threatening with all the difficulty they offered to send her running back to her rooms, but she steeled herself. She’d consider everything later. I will not be afraid, she told herself.
The gem in the crown glowed in the moonlight, and she gingerly pushed against one side of the jewel. It didn’t move.
She pushed again, staying closer to the side, digging her nail into the slight crease between the gem and the stone rim. It shifted—and turned over to reveal a small compartment beneath. It was no larger than a coin, and no deeper than a knuckle’s length.
Celaena peered in. The moonlight revealed only gray stone. She stuck a finger inside, scraping every surface.
There was nothing there. Not even a shard.
A shot of cold ran down her spine. “So he truly has it,” she whispered. “He found the key before me. And he’s been using its power for his own agenda.”
“He was barely twenty when he found it,” Mort said softly. “Strange, bellicose youth! Always poking about in forgotten places where he wasn’t wanted, reading books no one his age—or any age—should read! Though,” Mort added, “that does sound awfully like someone I know.”
“And you somehow forgot to tell me until now?”
“I didn’t know what it was then; I thought he merely took something. It wasn’t until you read the riddle that I suspected.”
It was a good thing he was made of bronze. Otherwise she’d have smashed his face in. “Do you have any suspicions about what he might have done with it?” She turned the gem back over as she fought her rising terror.
“How should I know? He never said anything to me, though I’ll admit I didn’t condescend to speak with him. He came back here once he was king, but he only poked around for a few minutes and then left. I suspect he was looking for the other two keys.”
“How did he discover it was here?” she asked, stepping away from the marble figure.
“The same way you did, though far faster. I suppose that makes him cleverer than you.”
“Do you think he has the other two?” she said, eyeing the treasure along the far wall, the stand where Damaris was displayed. Why hadn’t he taken Damaris, one of the greatest heirlooms of his house?
“If he had the others, don’t you think that our doom would have come upon us already?”
“You think he doesn’t have all of the keys?” she asked, beginning to sweat despite the cold.
“Well, Brannon once told me that if you have all three keys, then you have control over the Wyrdgate. I think it’s fair to assume the current king would have tried his hand at conquering another realm, or enslaved creatures to conquer the rest of ours, if he had all three.”
“Wyrd save us if that happens.”
“Wyrd?” Mort laughed. “You’re pleading with the wrong force. If he controls the Wyrd, you’re going to have to find another means of saving yourself. And don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that magic stopped as soon as he began his conquest?”
How magic stopped … “He used the Wyrdkeys to stifle magic. All magic,” she added, “but his own.”
And by extension, Dorian’s.
She swore, then asked, “So you think he might also have the second Wyrdkey?”
“I don’t think a person could eliminate magic with only one—though I might be wrong. No one really knows what they’re capable of.”
Celaena pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. “Oh, gods. This was what Elena wanted me to learn. And now what am I supposed to do? Go hunt the third one down? Steal the other two from him?”
Nehemia—Nehemia, you had to have known. You must have had a plan. But what were you going to do?
The now-familiar abyss inside of her stretched wider. There was no end to it, that hollow ache. No end at all. If the gods had bothered to listen, she would have traded her life for Nehemia’s. It would have been such an easy choice to make. Because the world didn’t need an assassin with a coward’s heart. It needed someone like Nehemia.
But there were no gods left to bargain with; no one to offer her soul to in exchange for another moment with Nehemia, just one more chance to talk to her, to hear her voice.
Yet … Maybe she didn’t need the gods to talk to Nehemia.
Cain had summoned the ridderak, and he certainly hadn’t possessed a Wyrdkey. No, Nehemia had said that there were spells to open a temporary portal, just long enough for something to slip through. If Cain could do that, and if Celaena could use the marks to freeze the catacombs creature in place and permanently seal a door, then couldn’t marks open a portal to yet another realm?
Her chest tightened. If there were other realms—realms where the dead dwelled, in torment or in peace—who was to say that she couldn’t speak to Nehemia? She could do it. No matter the cost, it would only be for a moment—just long enough to ask Nehemia where the king was keeping the keys, or how to find the third, and to find out what else Nehemia might have known.
She could do it.
There were other things she needed to tell Nehemia, too. Words she needed to say, truths she needed to confess. And that good-bye—that final good-bye that she hadn’t been allowed to make.
Celaena took Damaris off its stand again. “Mort, how long do you think a portal can stay open?”
“Whatever you are thinking, whatever you are going to do right now, stop it.”
But Celaena was already walking out of the tomb. He didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. She had lost and lost and lost, been denied countless good-byes. But not this time—not when she could change all of that, even for a few minutes. This time, it would be different.
She’d need The Walking Dead, another dagger or two, some candles, and space—more space than the tomb could offer. The drawings that Cain had made had taken up a fair amount of room. There was a large passage one level up in the secret tunnels, a long hallway and a set of doors she’d never dared open. The hallway was wide, its ceiling high: enough room to cast the spell.
For her to open a portal into an Otherworld.
Dorian knew he was dreaming. He was standing in an ancient stone chamber he’d never seen before, facing a tall, crowned warrior. The crown was familiar, somehow, but it was the man’s eyes that stunned him into inaction. They were his own eyes—sapphire, blazing. The similarities ended there; the man had shoulder-length dark brown hair, an angular, almost cruel face, and was at least a hand taller than Dorian himself. And he carried himself like … a king.
“Prince,” the man said, his golden crown gleaming. There was something feral in his eyes—as if the king was more accustomed to roaming the wilderness than walking these marble halls. “You must awaken.”
“Why?” Dorian asked, not sounding very princely at all. Strange green symbols were glowing on the gray stones, similar to the symbols Celaena had made in the library. What was this place?
“Because a line that should never be crossed is about to be breached. It puts this entire castle in jeopardy—and the life of your friend.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but Dorian had a sense it could turn that way, if provoked. Which, judging by that ancient wildness, the arrogance and challenge in the king’s eyes, seemed like a fairly easy to thing to do.
Dorian said, “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“Don’t waste time with pointless questions.” Yes, this king wasn’t one to mince words at all. “You must go to her rooms. There is a door hidden behind a tapestry. Take the third passage on the right. Go now, Prince, or lose her forever.”
And somehow, Dorian didn’t think twice about the fact that Gavin, first King of Adarlan, had spoken to him as he awoke, yanked on his clothes, grabbed his sword belt, and sprinted from his tower.
Chapter 47
The cut on her arm throbbed, but Celaena kept her hand steady as she dipped her finger again into her blood and traced the Wyrdmark on the wall, copying the symbols in the book with perfect precision. They formed an archway—a door—and her blood gleamed in the light of the candles she had brought.
It had to be perfect—each symbol had to be flawless, or else it wouldn’t work. She kept pressing on the wound to keep it from clotting. Not everyone could harness the marks; no, The Walking Dead said there had to be power in the blood to do it. Cain had clearly had some trace of power. That must be why the king had rounded up Kaltain and Roland, too. He’d used the Wyrdkeys to suppress magic, but he must have some way of harnessing the innate power in someone’s blood—and the Wyrdmarks must be able to access that power, too.
She drew another symbol, nearly finished with the archway.
Their power could warp things. It had warped Cain. But it had also allowed him to summon the ridderak and gain even more power for himself.
Thank the Wyrd Cain was dead.
There was one mark left to draw, the one that would bring her the person she so desperately needed to see, if only for a moment. It was complex, a weave of loops and angles. She took out her chalk and practiced on the floor until she got it right, then etched it in blood on the wall. Nehemia’s name in Wyrdmark form.