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The only thing all the intended disorientation had accomplished was to familiarize her with the building. Idiots.
On his black doublet, an emblazoned gold rendering of the royal wyvern occupied the entirety of the chest. His red cloak fell gracefully around him and his throne.
Yes, she would go—to Rifthold, to anywhere, even through the Gates of the Wyrd and into Hell itself, if it meant freedom.
I will not be afraid. For the first time in a while, the words felt true.
Celaena had once met a young woman from that cursed land, and though she’d turned out to be both cruel and bloodthirsty, she was still just a human.
It had been a while since she’d contemplated the gifts she’d lost, though the memory of her abilities haunted her dreams.
Small white flowers lay at the foot of her cot, and many infant-sized footprints led in and out of the tent.
She wasn’t fated for anything. Not anymore.
“Though she may look pleasant, she’s still a witch. You are to keep your distance, understood?”
From the garden sprouted a tower made of inky black stone. Two gargoyles, wings spread for flight, perched on each of the four clock faces, soundlessly roaring at those beneath. “What a horrible thing,” she whispered. The numbers were like war paint on the white face of the clock, the hands like swords as they slashed across the pearly surface.
“You’d see something like this before the Gates of Wyrd—not in a garden.
Libraries were full of ideas—perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.
“Pick another—something different. Make it interesting, too. Something that will make me sweat, please.” “You’ll be sweating when I skin you alive and squish your eyeballs beneath my feet,” she muttered, picking up the rapier. “That’s the spirit.”
“No. I can survive well enough on my own—if given proper reading material.”
Nehemia was staring at her forehead, and Celaena asked, “Is there dirt on my face?”
Why was the woman’s face bathed in moonlight and the man’s in darkness?
She ran a hand across the lips, then across the brow. Her eyes narrowed. A mark was faintly carved into the surface, practically invisible to the eye.
Ah! Time’s Rift!
the sword that had slain the Dark Lord Erawan.
Her eyes were a crystal, sparkling blue,
“The eight guardians; you know of whom I speak.” Celaena stared at her blankly, but then understood. “The gargoyles on the clock tower?” The queen nodded. “They guard the portal between our worlds.
“Something evil dwells in this castle, something wicked enough to make the stars quake. Its malice echoes into all worlds,”
“Courage of the heart is very rare,” she said with sudden calm. “Let it guide you.”
Nehemia’s gaze lingered on Celaena’s brow for a moment before she grinned.
Some books claim the Wyrd is the force that holds together and governs Erilea—and not just Erilea! Countless other worlds, too.”
“There’s an idea that before the Goddess arrived, there was life—an ancient civilization, but somehow, they disappeared. Perhaps through that Wyrdgate thing. Ruins exist—ruins too old to be of Fae making.”
It was as if someone had read her mind. It was a large black volume entitled The Walking Dead in tarnished silver letters.
Perrington’s eyes became dark and his face cleared, as if he saw everything in the world for what it was and found no joy or amusement in it.
“It’s Dorian, by the way. Not ‘Your Highness.’ ” “Very well.” “Say it.” “Say what?” “Say my name. Say, ‘Very well, Dorian.’ ” She rolled her eyes. “If it pleases Your Magnanimous Holiness, I shall call you by your first name.”
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.
The black ring on his finger pulsed, and her head gave a throb of pain in response.
Its hairless gray skin was stretched tightly across its misshapen head, displaying a gaping mouth filled with black fangs.
Her hand rose to Celaena’s forehead and she drew an invisible mark. “I name you Elentiya.” She kissed the assassin’s brow. “I give you this name to use with honor, to use when other names grow too heavy. I name you Elentiya, ‘Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.’ ”
Something dangerous lurked about him. It was an air of death that she’d felt standing before that black void summoned by Cain. It was the stench of another world, a dead world.
Amid the pounding in her ears and her head, the whisper of wings filled the air. In the space between blinks, she could have sworn she saw things swooping past him in swift, vicious circles, hovering above him, waiting, waiting, waiting …
Two black boots came into view, then a pair of knees as someone crouched on the edge of the ring. “Get up,” Chaol whispered.
“Get up,” Chaol said again, louder.
She lifted her eyes to his face, and found his gaze lined with silver. “Get up,” was all he said.
But she kept her focus on his brown eyes, on his tightly pressed lips as they parted and whispered, “Get up.”
He was done with politics and intrigue. He loved her, and no empire, no king, and no earthly fear would keep him from her. No, if they tried to take her from him, he’d rip the world apart with his bare hands. And for some reason, that didn’t terrify him.
The pain in her head erupted, so violent that her vision went obsidian,
but it reacted to your blood in that way. Magic calls to magic.”
“Is it … is it possible to go to these other worlds?” Celaena vaguely recalled the Wyrdgates that she’d stumbled across in that book months and months ago.
The king traced a mark on the glass arm of his seat.
to face a featureless young woman with golden hair and a crown far too heavy for her to bear
“You could rattle the stars,” she whispered. “You could do anything, if you only dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most.”
“Because there are people who need you to save them as much as you yourself need to be saved,”
Elena bowed her head. “Blood ties can’t be broken,”
“Tell me tomorrow.”
