Crown of Midnight

  She’d started coming here a few weeks ago, when thoughts of Elena and Cain and the secret passageways made her itch to get out of her own rooms. And even though he’d grumbled about her imposing on his privacy, Chaol hadn’t turned her away or objected to her frequent after-dinner visits.

  The scratching of Chaol’s pen stopped. “Remind me again what you’re working on.”

  She flopped onto her back as she waved the paper in the air above her. “Just information about Archer. Clients, favored haunts, his daily schedule.”

  Chaol’s golden-brown eyes were molten in the firelight. “Why go to so much trouble to track him when you could just shoot him and be done with it? You said he was well-guarded, yet it seems like you tracked him easily today.”

  She scowled. Chaol was too smart for his own good. “Because, if the king actually has a group of people conspiring against him, then I should get as much information about them as I can before I kill Archer. Perhaps following Archer will reveal more conspirators—or at least clues to their whereabouts.” It was the truth—and she’d followed Archer’s ornate carriage through the streets of the capital today for that very reason.

  But in the hours she’d spent trailing him, he’d gone only to a few appointments before returning to his townhouse.

  “Right,” Chaol said. “So you’re just … memorizing that information now?”

  “If you’re suggesting that I have no reason to be here and should leave, then tell me to go.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what’s so boring that you dozed off ten minutes ago.”

  She propped herself on her elbows. “I did not!”

  His brows rose. “I heard you snoring.”

  “You’re a liar, Chaol Westfall.” She threw her paper at him and plopped back on the couch. “I only closed my eyes for a minute.”

  He shook his head again and went back to work.

  Celaena blushed. “I didn’t really snore, did I?”

  His face was utterly serious as he said, “Like a bear.”

  She thumped a fist on the couch cushion. He grinned. She huffed, then draped her arm off the sofa, picking at the threads of the ancient rug as she stared up at the stone ceiling. “Tell me why you hate Roland.”

  Chaol looked up. “I never said I hated him.”

  She just waited.

  Chaol sighed. “I think it’s fairly easy for you to see why I hate him.”

  “But was there any incident that—”

  “There were many incidents, and I don’t particularly feel like talking about any of them.”

  She swung her legs off the arm of the couch and sat up straight. “Testy, aren’t you?”

  She picked up another one of her documents, a map of the city that she’d marked up with the locations of Archer’s clients. Most of them seemed to be in the posh district where the majority of Rifthold’s elite lived. Archer’s own townhouse was in that neighborhood, tucked into a quiet, respectable side street. She traced a nail along it, but paused when her eyes fell upon a street just a few blocks over.

  She knew that street—and knew the house that sat on its corner. Whenever she ventured into Rifthold, she took care to never pass too close to it. Today had been no different; she’d even gone a few blocks out of her way to avoid walking by.

  Not daring to look at Chaol, she asked, “Do you know who Rourke Farran is?”

  The name made her sick with long-suppressed rage and grief, but she managed to say it. Because even if she didn’t want the entire truth … there were some things she did need to know about her capture. Still needed to know, even after all this time.

  She felt Chaol’s attention on her. “The crime lord?”

  She nodded, her eyes still on that street where so many things had gone so horribly wrong. “Have you ever dealt with him?”

  “No,” Chaol said. “But … that’s because Farran is dead.”

  She lowered the paper. “Farran’s dead?”

  “Nine months ago. He and his three top men were all found murdered by …” Chaol chewed on his lip, searching for the name. “Wesley. A man named Wesley took them all out. He was …” Chaol cocked his head to the side. “He was Arobynn Hamel’s personal guard.” Her breath was tight in her chest. “Did you know him?”

  “I thought I did,” she said softly. For the years she’d spent with Arobynn, Wesley had been a silent, deadly presence, a man who had barely tolerated her, and had always made it clear that if she ever became a threat to his master, he’d kill her. But on the night that she’d been betrayed and captured, Wesley had tried to stop her. She’d thought that it was because Arobynn had ordered her locked in her rooms, that it had been a way to keep her from seeking retribution for Sam’s death at Farran’s hands; but …

  “What happened to Wesley?” she asked. “Did Farran’s men catch him?”

  Chaol ran a hand through his hair, glancing down at the rug. “No. We found Wesley a day later—courtesy of Arobynn Hamel.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face, but dared to ask, “How?”

  Chaol studied her closely, warily. “Wesley’s body was impaled on the iron fence outside Rourke’s house. There was … enough blood to suggest that Wesley was alive when they did it. They never confessed, but we got the sense that the servants in the household had also been instructed to let him stay there until he died.

  “We thought it was an attempt to balance the blood feud—so that when the next crime lord ascended, they wouldn’t view Arobynn and his assassins as enemies.”

  She stared at the carpet again. The night she’d broken out of the Assassins’ Keep to hunt down Farran, Wesley had tried to stop her. He’d tried to tell her it was a trap.

  Celaena shut down the thought before it reached its conclusion. That was a truth she’d have to take out and examine at another time, when she was alone, when she didn’t have Archer and the rebel movement and all that nonsense to worry about. When she could try to understand why Arobynn Hamel might have betrayed her—and what she was going to do with that horrible knowledge. How much she’d make him suffer—and bleed for it.

  After a few moments of silence, Chaol asked, “We never learned why Wesley went after Rourke Farran, though. Wesley was just a personal bodyguard. What did he have against Farran?”

  Her eyes were burning, and she looked to the window, where the night sky was bathed in moonlight. “It was an act of revenge.” She could still see Sam’s twisted corpse, lying on that table in the room beneath the Assassins’ Keep; still see Farran crouched in front of her, his hands roaming over her paralyzed body. She swallowed down the tightness in her throat. “Farran captured, tortured, and then murdered one of … one of my … companions. And then the next night, I went out to repay the favor. It didn’t end so well for me.”

  A log shifted in the fire, breaking open and filling the room with a flash of light.

  “That was the night you were captured?” Chaol asked. “But I thought you didn’t know who had betrayed you.”

  “I still don’t. Someone hired me and my companion to kill Farran, but it was all just a trap, and Farran was the bait.”

  Silence; then—“What was his name?”

  She pushed her lips together, shoving away the memory of how he’d looked the last time she’d seen him, broken on that table. “Sam,” she got out. “His name was Sam.” She took an uneven breath. “I don’t even know where they buried him. I don’t even know who I would ask about it.”

  Chaol didn’t reply, and she didn’t know why she bothered talking, but the words just tumbled out. “I failed him,” she said. “In every way that counted, I failed him.”

  Another long silence, then a sigh. “Not in one way,” Chaol said. “I bet he would have wanted you to survive—to live. So you didn’t fail him, not in that regard.”

  She had to look away in order to force her eyes to stop burning as she nodded.

  After a moment, Chaol spoke again. “Her name was Lithaen. Three years ago, she worked for
one of the ladies of the court. And Roland somehow found out and thought it would be amusing for me to discover him in bed with her. I know it’s nothing like what you went through …”

  She’d never known that he’d ever been interested in anyone, but … “Why did she do it?”

  He shrugged, though his face was still bleak with the memory. “Because Roland is a Havilliard, and I’m just the Captain of the Guard. He even convinced her to go back to Meah with him—though I never learned what became of her.”

  “You loved her.”

  “I thought I did. And I thought she loved me.” He shook his head, as if silently chiding himself. “Did Sam love you?”

  Yes. More than anyone had ever loved her. He’d loved her enough to risk everything—to give up everything. He’d loved her so much that she still felt the echoes of it, even now. “Very much,” she breathed.

  The clock chimed eleven thirty, and Chaol shook his head, the tension falling from him. “I’m exhausted.”

  She stood, somehow having no clue how they’d wound up talking about the people who had meant so much to them. “Then I should go.”

  He got to his feet, his eyes so bright. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  She lifted her chin. “I thought I didn’t need to be escorted everywhere now.”

  “You don’t,” he said, walking to the door. “But it is something that friends tend to do.”

  “Would you walk Dorian back to his room?” She batted her eyelashes at him, striding through the door as he opened it for her. “Or is this a privilege that only your lady-friends receive?”

  “If I had any lady-friends, I’d certainly extend the offer. I’m not sure you qualify as a lady, though.”

  “So chivalrous. No wonder those girls find excuses to be in the gardens every morning.”

  He snorted, and they fell silent as they walked through the quiet, dim halls of the castle, making their way back to her rooms on the other side. It was a trek, and often a cold one, since many of the halls were lined with windows that didn’t keep out the winter chill.

  When they reached the door to her rooms, he bid her a quick good night and began to walk away. Her fingers were around the brass door handle when she turned to him.

  “For what it’s worth, Chaol,” she said. He faced her, his hands in his pockets. She gave him a slight smile. “If she picked Roland over you, that makes her the greatest fool who ever lived.”

  He stared at her for a long moment before he quietly said, “Thank you,” and walked back to his room.

  Celaena watched him go, watched those powerful muscles shifting in his back, visible even through his dark tunic, suddenly grateful that this Lithaen had long ago left the castle.

  The midnight hour chimed through the castle, the off-kilter ringing of the wretched clock tower in the garden echoing through the dark, silent halls. Though Chaol had escorted her to her door, five minutes of pacing in her bedroom had sent her wandering again, heading for the library. She had mountains of unread books sitting in her rooms but didn’t feel like reading any of them. She needed something to do. Something to take her mind off her discussion with Chaol and the memories she’d dragged into the open tonight.

  Celaena wrapped her cloak tightly around her, glaring at the fierce winds whipping the snow outside the drafty windows. Hopefully there would be a few hearths lit in the library. If not, she’d grab a book that did interest her, run back to her room, and curl up with Fleetfoot in her toasty bed.

  Celaena turned a corner, entering the dark, window-lined hallway that ran past the towering doors of the library, and froze.

  With the chill tonight, it was no surprise to see someone completely concealed by a black cloak, hood drawn far over the face. But something about the figure standing between the open library doors made some ancient, primal part of her send a warning pulse so strong that she didn’t take another step.

  The person swiveled its head toward her, pausing as well.

  Outside the hall windows, snow swirled, pressing against the glass.

  It was just a person, she told herself as the figure now turned to face her fully. A person wearing a cloak darker than night, a hood so heavy it concealed every feature of the face inside.

  It sniffed at her, a huffing, animal sound.

  She didn’t dare move.

  It sniffed again, and took a step toward her. The way it moved, like smoke and shadow …

  A faint warmth bloomed against her chest, then a pulsing blue light—

  The Eye of Elena was glowing.

  The thing halted, and Celaena stopped breathing.

  It hissed, and then slithered a step back into the shadows beyond the library doors. The tiny blue gem in the center of her amulet glowed brighter, and Celaena blinked against the light.

  When she opened her eyes, the amulet was dark, and the hooded creature was gone.

  Not a trace, not even a sound of footsteps.

  Celaena didn’t go into the library. Oh, no. She just walked quickly back to her rooms with as much dignity as she could muster. Though she kept telling herself that she’d imagined it all, that it was some hallucination from too many hours awake, Celaena couldn’t stop hearing that cursed word again and again.

  Plans.

  Chapter 6

  The person outside the library probably had nothing to do with the king, Celaena told herself as she walked—still not sprinting—down the hall to her room. There were plenty of strange people in a castle this large, and even though she rarely saw another soul in the library, perhaps some people just … wished to go to the library alone. And unidentified. In a court where reading was so out of fashion, perhaps it was merely some courtier trying to hide a passionate love of books from his or her sneering friends.

  Some animalistic, eerie courtier. Who had caused her amulet to glow.

  Celaena entered her bedroom just as the lunar eclipse was beginning, and groaned. “Of course there’s an eclipse,” she grumbled, turning from the balcony doors and approaching the tapestry along the wall.

  And even though she didn’t want to, even though she’d hoped to never see Elena again … she needed answers.

  Maybe the dead queen would laugh at her and tell her it was nothing. Gods above, she hoped Elena would say that. Because if she didn’t …

  Celaena shook her head and glanced at Fleetfoot. “Care to join me?” The dog, as if sensing what she was about to do, made a good show of turning circles on the bed and curling up with a huff. “I thought so.”

  In a matter of moments, Celaena shoved the large chest of drawers from its spot in front of the tapestry that hid the secret door, grabbed a candle, and began walking down, down, down the forgotten stairs to the landing far below.

  The three stone archways greeted her. The one on the far left led to a passage that allowed for spying on the Great Hall. The one in the center led to the sewers and the concealed exit that might someday save her life. And the one on the right … that one led down to the ancient queen’s forgotten tomb.

  As she walked to the tomb, she didn’t dare look at the landing where she’d discovered Cain summoning the ridderak from another world, even though the debris of the door the creature had shattered still littered the stairs. There were gouges in the stone wall where the ridderak had come crashing through, chasing her down to the tomb, until she’d just barely reached Damaris, sword of the long-dead King Gavin, in time to slay the monster.

  Celaena glanced at her hand, where a ring of white scars punctured her palm and encircled her thumb. If Nehemia hadn’t found her that night, the poison from the ridderak’s bite would have killed her.

  At last, she reached the door at the bottom of the spiral staircase and found herself staring at the skull-shaped bronze knocker in its center.

  Perhaps this hadn’t been a good idea. Perhaps the answers weren’t worth it.

  She should go back upstairs. Come to think of it, this could only be bad.

  Elena had seemed satisfied that Ce
laena had obeyed her command to become the King’s Champion, but if she showed up, then it would seem like she was willing to do another one of Elena’s tasks. And the Wyrd knew that she had enough on her hands right now.

  Even if that—that thing in the hall just now hadn’t seemed friendly.

  The skull knocker seemed to smile at her, its hollow eyes boring into hers.

  Gods above, she should just leave.

  But her fingers were somehow reaching for the door handle, as if an invisible hand were guiding her—

  “Aren’t you going to knock?”

  Celaena leapt back, a dagger already in her hand and angled to spill blood as she pressed herself into the wall. It was impossible—she had to have imagined it.

  The skill knocker had spoken. Its mouth had moved up and down.

  Yes, this was certainly, absolutely, undeniably impossible. Far more unlikely and incomprehensible than anything Elena had ever said or done.

  Staring at her with gleaming metal eyes, the bronze skull clicked its tongue. It had a tongue.

  Maybe she’d slipped on the stairs and smacked her head into the stones. That would make more sense than this. An endless, filthy stream of curses began flowing through her head, each more vulgar than the next, as she gaped at the knocker.

  “Oh, don’t be so pathetic,” the skull huffed, its eyes narrowing. “I’m attached to this door. I cannot harm you.”

  “But you’re”—she swallowed hard—“magic.”

  It was impossible—it should be impossible. Magic was gone, vanished from the land ten years ago, before it had even been outlawed by the king.

  “Everything in this world is magic. Thank you ever so kindly for stating the obvious.”