“Well, apparently you still don’t trust me enough.” She meant to sound sassy, but couldn’t keep the snap from her tone. She couldn’t waste her time worrying about someone who clearly had no interest in her beyond the ridiculous competition.
Chaol snorted, though a hint of a smile appeared on his lips. At least the Crown Prince never made her feel stupid or rotten. Chaol just provoked her . . . though he had his good side, too. And she had no idea when she’d stopped loathing him so much.
Still, she knew he wouldn’t be pleased when she appeared at the ball tonight. Mask or no mask, Chaol would know it was her. She just hoped he wouldn’t punish her too severely.
Chapter 37
Seated in a pew in the rear of the spacious temple, Celaena kept her mouth closed so tightly that it hurt. Her teeth were still red; she didn’t need anyone else noticing.
The temple was a beautiful space, built entirely from glass. The limestone covering the floor was all that remained of the original stone temple, which the King of Adarlan had destroyed when he decided to replace it with the glass structure. Two columns of about a hundred rosewood pews stretched beneath a vaulted glass ceiling that let in so much light that no candles were needed during the day. Snow lay piled upon the translucent roof, casting patterns of sunshine throughout. As the walls were also glass, the stained windows above the altar appeared to hover in midair.
She stood to peer over the heads of those sitting in front of her. Dorian and the queen sat in the first pew, a row of guards immediately behind. The duke and Kaltain sat on the other side of the aisle, and behind them were Nehemia and several others she didn’t recognize. She didn’t spy Nox, or the other remaining Champions—or Cain. They’d let her come to this, but not to the ball?
“Sit down,” Chaol growled, pulling at her green gown. She made a face and dropped onto the cushioned bench. Several people stared at her. They wore gowns and jackets so elaborate that she wondered if the ball had been moved to lunchtime.
The High Priestess walked onto the stone platform and raised her hands above her head. The folds of her midnight-blue gossamer robe fell around her, and her white hair was long and unbound. An eight-pointed star was tattooed upon her brow in a shade of blue that matched her gown, its sharp lines extending to her hairline. “Welcome all, and may the blessings of the Goddess and all her gods be upon you.” Her voice echoed across the chamber to reach even those in the back.
Celaena stifled a yawn. She respected the gods—if they existed, and when it suited her to ask for their assistance—but religious ceremonies were . . . brutal.
It had been years and years since she’d attended anything of this sort, and as the High Priestess lowered her arms and stared at the crowd, the assassin shifted in her seat. It would be the usual prayers, then the Yulemas prayers, then the sermon, then the songs, and then the procession of the gods.
“You’re squirming already,” Chaol said under his breath.
“What time is it?” she whispered, and he pinched her arm.
“Today,” the priestess said, “is the day on which we celebrate the end and the beginning of the great cycle. Today is the day on which the Great Goddess gave birth to her firstborn, Lumas, Lord of the Gods. With his birth, love was brought into Erilea, and it banished the chaos that arose from the Gates of the Wyrd.”
A weight pressed on her eyelids. She had woken up so early—and slept so little after that encounter with Nehemia . . . Unable to stop, Celaena wandered into the Land of Sleep.
•
“Get up,” Chaol snarled in her ear. “Now.”
She sat up with a jolt, the world bright and foggy. Several lesser nobles in her pew laughed silently. She gave Chaol an apologetic look and turned her gaze to the altar. The High Priestess had finished her sermon, and the songs of Yulemas were over. She only had to sit through the procession of the gods, and then she would be free.
“How long was I asleep?” she whispered. He didn’t respond. “How long was I asleep?” she asked again, and noticed a hint of red in his cheeks. “You were asleep, too?”
“Until you began drooling on my shoulder.”
“Such a self-righteous young man,” she cooed, and he poked her leg.
“Pay attention.”
A choir of priestesses stepped off the platform. Celaena yawned, but nodded with the rest of the congregation as the choir gave their blessings. An organ sounded, and everyone leaned to stare down the aisle for the procession of the gods.
The sound of pattering footsteps filled the temple, and the congregation stood. Each blindfolded child was no more than ten years old, and though they looked rather foolish dressed in the costumes of the gods, there was something charming about it. Every year, nine children were chosen. If a child stopped before you, you received the blessings of the god and the small gift the child carried as a symbol of the god’s favor.
Farnor, God of War, stopped at the front row near Dorian, but then moved to the right, across the aisle, to give the miniature silver sword to Duke Perrington. Not surprising.
Clad in glistening wings, Lumas, God of Love, strode past her. She crossed her arms.
What a foolish tradition.
Deanna, Goddess of the Hunt and Maidens, approached. Celaena shifted from one foot to the other, wishing she hadn’t demanded that Chaol give her the aisle seat. To her dread and dismay, the girl stopped before her and removed the blindfold.
She was a pretty little thing: her blond hair hung in loose curls, and her brown eyes were flecked with green. The girl smiled at Celaena and reached to touch the assassin’s forehead. Celaena’s back began sweating as she felt hundreds of eyes upon her. “May Deanna, the Huntress and Protector of the Young, bless and keep you this year. I bestow upon you this golden arrow as a symbol of her power and good graces.” The girl bowed as she extended the slender arrow. Chaol prodded her back and Celaena grabbed the arrow. “Yulemas blessings to you,” the girl said, and Celaena nodded her thanks. She gripped the arrow as the girl bounded away. It couldn’t be used, of course. But it was made of solid gold.
It’ll fetch a nice price.
With a shrug, Celaena handed the arrow to Chaol. “I suppose I’m not allowed to have this,” she said, sitting down with the rest of the crowd.
He put it back in her lap. “I wouldn’t want to test the gods.” She stared at him for a moment. Did he look different? Something had changed in his face. Nudging him with an elbow, Celaena grinned.
Chapter 38
Yards of silk, clouds of powder, brushes, combs, pearls, and diamonds glistened before Celaena’s eyes. As Philippa arranged the last strand of Celaena’s hair neatly around her face, secured a mask over her eyes and nose, and placed a small crystal tiara on her head, Celaena couldn’t help but feel, despite herself, like a princess.
Philippa knelt to polish the lump of crystal on Celaena’s silver slippers. “If I didn’t know better, I’d call myself a Faerie Queen. It’s like m—” Philippa caught herself before she spoke the word the King of Adarlan had so effectively outlawed, then quickly said, “I barely recognize you!”
“Good,” Celaena said. This would be her first ball where she wasn’t there to kill someone. True, she was mostly going to make sure Nehemia didn’t hurt herself or the court. But . . . a ball was a ball. Maybe if she was lucky, she could dance a little.
“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Philippa asked quietly, standing. “Captain Westfall won’t be pleased.”
Celaena gave the servant a sharp look. “I told you not to ask questions.”
Philippa huffed. “Just don’t tell them I helped you when you get dragged back here.”
Checking her irritation, Celaena strode to the mirror, Philippa bustling after her. Standing before her reflection, Celaena wondered if she was seeing correctly. “This is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn,” she admitted, her eyes filling with light.
It was not pure white, but rather a grayish offset, and its wide skirts and bodice were encrusted with thousan
ds of minuscule crystals that reminded Celaena of the surface of the sea. Swirls of silk thread on the bodice made rose-like designs that could have passed for a work by any master painter. A border of ermine lined the neck and provided slender sleeves that only covered her shoulders. Tiny diamond droplets fell from her ears, and her hair was curled and swept up onto her head, strands of pearls woven in. Her gray silk mask had been secured tightly against her face. It wasn’t fashioned after anything, but the delicate crystal and pearl whorls had been crafted by a skilled hand.
“You could win the hand of a king, looking like that,” said Philippa. “Or perhaps a Crown Prince will do.”
“Where in Erilea did you find this dress?” Celaena murmured.
“Don’t ask questions,” clucked the old woman.
Celaena smirked. “Fair enough.” She wondered why her heart now felt too large for her body, and why she was so unstable in her shoes. She had to remember why she was going—she had to keep her wits about her.
The clock struck nine, and Philippa glanced toward the doorway, giving Celaena the opportunity to slip her makeshift knife down her bodice without being noticed. “How, exactly, are you going to get to the ball? I don’t think your guards will let you just walk out.”
Celaena shot Philippa a sly look. “We’re both going to pretend that I was invited by the Crown Prince—and right now you are going to make such a fuss about me being late that they won’t object.”
Philippa fanned herself, her face reddening. Celaena grasped her hand. “I promise,” she said, “if I get into any sort of trouble, I will swear to my last breath that you were deceived by me, and had no knowledge of anything.”
“But are you going to get into trouble?”
Celaena gave her most winning smile. “No. I’m just sick of being left to sit around while they have grand parties.” It wasn’t quite a lie.
“Gods help me,” Philippa muttered, and took a deep breath. “Go!” she suddenly cried, herding Celaena toward the door to the hall. “Go, you’ll be late!” She was a bit too loud to be totally convincing, but . . . Philippa flung open the door to the hallway. “The Crown Prince won’t be pleased if you’re late!” Celaena paused in the doorway, nodding at the five guards who were posted outside, then looked back at Philippa.
“Thank you,” Celaena said.
“No more dawdling!” the servant woman cried, and almost knocked Celaena off her feet as she pushed her out the doorway and slammed it shut.
Celaena turned to the guards. “You look nice,” one of them—Ress—said shyly. “Off to the ball?” grinned another. “Save a dance for me, will you?” the third added. Not one of them questioned her.
Celaena smiled and took Ress’s arm as he extended it to her. She tried not to laugh when he puffed out his chest. But as they neared the Great Hall and the sounds of a waltz could be heard, a swarm of bees took flight in her stomach. She couldn’t forget why she was here. She’d played this part in the past, but it had ended in killing a stranger—not confronting a friend.
The red-and-gold glass doors appeared, and she could see the wreaths and candles that bedecked the massive hall. It would have been easier if she could have slipped into the ball through a side door and remained unnoticed, but she hadn’t had time to go exploring through the secret tunnels to find another way out of her rooms, and she certainly couldn’t find another way into the ball now without raising suspicions. Ress stopped and bowed. “This is where I leave you,” he said as seriously as he could, though he kept looking at the ball that lay at the foot of the stairs. “Have a lovely night, Miss Sardothien.”
“Thank you, Ress.” She felt an urge to vomit and run back to her rooms. Instead, she graciously nodded her farewell. She just had to make it down the stairs, and find a way to convince Chaol to let her stay. Then she could keep an eye on Nehemia all night.
Her shoes seemed frail, and Celaena took a few steps back, ignoring the guards at the door as she lifted her feet high and set them down to test the strength of the shoes. When she was assured that not even a jump through the air could snap the heel, she approached the top of the stairs.
Tucked into her bodice, the makeshift knife poked her skin. She prayed to the Goddess, to every god she knew, to the Wyrd, to whatever was responsible for her fate, that she wouldn’t have to use it.
Celaena squared her shoulders and stepped forward.
•
What was she doing here?
Dorian almost dropped his drink as he saw Celaena Sardothien atop the stairs. Even with the mask, he recognized her. She might have her faults, but Celaena never did anything half-heartedly. She’d outdone herself with that dress. But what was she doing here?
He couldn’t tell if it were a dream or reality until several heads, then many, turned to look. Though the waltz was playing, those not dancing quieted themselves as the mysterious masked girl lifted her skirts and took a step, then another. Her dress was made of stars plucked from the sky, and the whorls of crystals in her gray mask glittered.
“Who is that?” breathed a young courtier beside him.
She looked at no one as she descended the staircase, and even the Queen of Adarlan stood to see the late arrival, Nehemia also rising from her seat beside her. Had Celaena lost her mind?
Walk to her. Take her hand. But his feet were leaden, and Dorian could do nothing except watch her. His skin flushed beneath his small black mask. He didn’t know why, but seeing her made him feel like a man. She was something out of a dream—a dream in which he was not a spoiled young prince, but a king. She reached the bottom of the stairs, and Dorian took a step forward.
But someone had already arrived, and Dorian clenched his jaw tight enough for it to hurt as she smiled and bowed to Chaol. The Captain of the Guard, who hadn’t bothered to wear a mask, extended his hand. Celaena stared only at Chaol with those starlit eyes, and her long, white fingers floated through the air to meet his. The crowd began chattering as Chaol led her from the stairs, and they disappeared into the throng. Whatever conversation they were about to have, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. He’d be better off staying out of it.
“Please,” said another courtier, “tell me that Chaol doesn’t suddenly have a wife.”
“Captain Westfall?” said the courtier who had spoken earlier. “Why would a pretty thing like that marry a guard?” Remembering who stood beside him, he glanced at Dorian, who was still staring, wide-eyed, at the stairs. “Who is she, Your Highness? Do you know her?”
“No, I don’t,” whispered Dorian, and walked away.
•
The waltz was driving and so loud she had difficulty hearing herself think as Chaol pulled her into a shadowy alcove. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t worn a mask—it would be too silly for him. Which made the fury on his face all too visible.
“So,” he seethed, holding tightly to her wrist, “do you want to tell me how you got it into your mind that this was a good idea?”
She tried shaking off his hand, but he wouldn’t let go. Across the great hall, Nehemia sat with the Queen of Adarlan, occasionally glancing in Celaena’s direction. Because she was nervous—or just surprised to see her?
“Relax,” she hissed at the Captain of the Guard. “I only wanted to have some fun.”
“Fun? Crashing a royal ball is your idea of fun?”
Arguing wouldn’t help; she could tell that his anger was mostly about being embarrassed that she’d managed to slip out of her rooms in the first place. So she gave him a pitiful pout. “I was lonely.”
He choked. “You couldn’t spend one evening on your own?”
She twisted her wrist out of his grasp. “Nox is here—and he’s a thief! How could you let him come—with all this jewelry flashing about—and not me? How can I be the King’s Champion if you don’t trust me?” Actually, that was a question she really wanted to know the answer to.
Chaol covered his face with a hand and let out a long, long sigh. She tried not to smile. She’d won. “If you take
one step out of line—”
She grinned in earnest. “Consider it your Yulemas present to me.”
Chaol gave her a weighing look, but slumped his shoulders. “Please don’t make me regret this.”
She patted his cheek, sweeping past him. “I knew I liked you for some reason.”
He said nothing, but followed her back into the crowd. She’d been to masked balls before, but there was still something unnerving about not being able to see the faces of those around her. Most of the court, Dorian included, wore masks of varying sizes, shapes, and colors—some of simple design, others elaborate and animal-shaped. Nehemia still sat with the queen, wearing a gold-and-turquoise mask with a lotus motif. They appeared to be engaged in polite conversation, and Nehemia’s guards stood to the side of the dais, already looking bored.
Chaol kept close to her as she found an empty spot in the crowd and stopped. It was a good vantage point. She could see everything from here—the dais, the main stairs, the dance floor . . .
Dorian was dancing with a small brunette with outrageously large breasts that he took no pains to avoid glancing at every so often. Hadn’t he noticed her arrival? Even Perrington had seen her when Chaol dragged her into that corner. Thankfully, the captain had subtly moved her away before she had to interact with him.
Across the room, she met Nox’s eye. He was flirting with a young woman wearing a dove mask, and he raised his glass in salute before turning back to the girl. He’d opted for a blue mask that concealed only his eyes.
“Well, try not to have too much fun,” Chaol said beside her, crossing his arms.
Hiding her scowl, Celaena crossed her arms as well and began her vigil.
•
An hour later, Celaena was beginning to curse herself for a being a fool. Nehemia was still sitting with the queen, and hadn’t looked again in Celaena’s direction. How had she even considered that Nehemia—Nehemia, of all people!—would attack everyone?
Celaena’s face burned with shame beneath the mask. She didn’t deserve to call herself a friend. All the dead Champions and mysterious evil powers and this ridiculous competition had made her go mad.