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October 2 - October 8, 2023
Thankfully, her sleepwear was as exquisite as her daytime wardrobe—and cost nearly as much.
“If Gregori’s been caught,” Celaena drawled, brushing back a strand of her long, golden hair, “then the protocol’s simple: send an apprentice to slip something into his food. Nothing painful,” she added as the men around her tensed. “Just enough to silence him before he talks.”
Ben, the seventh and final member of Arobynn’s inner circle. He was barely thirty years old. Celaena’s lips pulled back from her teeth. “What do you mean, ‘killed’?”
Ben. Ben was dead and gone, and she’d never again run into him in the halls of the Keep. He’d never set her injuries with his cool, deft hands, never coax a laugh from her with a joke or a lewd anecdote.
but Celaena knew what his presence meant: a watchdog. Not that she’d do anything bad when she was about to meet the Pirate Lord of Erilea.
“Three assassins from our Guild were found dead in Bellhaven. The one that got away told us they were attacked by pirates.” She draped an arm along the back of her chair. “Your pirates.”
I had the shipyard master of Bellhaven send me these records. It seems the incident occurred at three in the morning at the docks.”
It sounded like they’d been sent for some sort of business investment. Sam nodded at Rolfe—as if he knew exactly what the Pirate Lord was talking about. “And when can we tell Arobynn to expect the first shipment?” he asked.
Celaena stared at him. Arobynn had sent them here for … for slaves?
Investing in the slave trade is a guaranteed profit, but he might need to expend more of his resources than he’d like in order to keep our business from reaching the wrong ears.”
it. Ben would have been as disgusted as she was. Being hired to kill corrupt government officials was one thing, but taking prisoners of war, brutalizing them until they stopped fighting back, and sentencing them to a lifetime of slavery
“Your time won’t be wasted. Though getting through a hundred slaves will take a while.”
Some of their eyes widened at the sight of her. She’d forgotten how she must appear—faceless, cloak waving behind her, striding past them like Death itself.
There were even some orange-haired, gray-eyed mountain clansmen—wild-looking men who tracked her movements. And women—some of them barely older than Celaena herself. Had they been fighters, too, or just in the wrong place at the wrong time?
its territory—rich in farmland, waterways, and forests—was a crucial vein in trade routes. Now, it seemed, Adarlan had decided that it might make money off its people, too.
“Some wealthy households might want them for scullery maids or stableboys.” Though his voice remained steady, Rolfe studied the ground. “A brothel madam might show up at the auction, too.”
“It makes me sick. It makes me … makes me so mad I think I might …” She couldn’t finish the thought. “Might what?” Splashing steps sounded, and she looked over her shoulder to find him approaching. He crossed his arms, bracing for a fight. “Might do something as foolish as attacking Rolfe’s men in their own warehouse?”
Now you and I have a choice in the things we do. Those slaves were just taken. They were fighting for their freedom, or lived too close to a battlefield, or some mercenaries passed through their town and stole them. They’re innocent people.”
“Reckless, but maybe the most meaningful, too.”
His excuse for sending us was a lie. We’re not instrumental to this deal.
A city of light and music, watched over by an alabaster castle with an opal tower so bright it could be viewed for miles.
The other slaves on the deck hung back, huddling together, even some of the larger men and women whose scars and bruises marked them as fighters—prisoners of war.
Celaena found herself leaning into Sam’s shoulder, laughing as Rolfe finished his crude and absurd story of the farmer’s wife and her stallions. She banged her fist on the table, howling—and that wasn’t entirely an act, either. As Sam slipped a hand around her waist, his touch somehow sending a bright-hot flame through her, she had to wonder if he was still pretending, too.
They both hit a table, flipped over it, and began fighting between themselves. Animals. Celaena stalked through the crowd and out the front door of the tavern.
“I’d say that went pretty well,” he said. “I never knew you were such an expert card player.” She looked him up and down. His stance was steady. “Or an expert drunkard.”
“To free them,” she said. Beyond the chain, beyond the mouth of the bay, the clouds on the horizon began to color with the light of the coming dawn.
Who are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going? Can you use all those blades you carry? Nolan was watching the entire
They hadn’t bothered to listen when her mother explained that her power, like Yrene’s, had already disappeared months before, along with the rest of the magic in the land—abandoned by the gods, her mother had claimed.
With that, the stranger stepped from the mist. She had two long daggers in her hands. And both blades were dark with dripping blood.
“from one working girl to another: Life isn’t easy, no matter where you are. You’ll make choices you think are right, and then suffer for them.” Those remarkable eyes flickered. “So if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well go to Antica and be miserable in the shadow of the Torre Cesme.”
This girl wasn’t like wildfire—she was wildfire. Deadly and uncontrollable. And slightly out of her wits.
But that was a lifetime ago. A different person ago.
“If you get the chance, teach it to any female who will take the time to listen.”
For wherever you need to go—and then some. The world needs more healers.
The gods had vanished, her mother had once claimed. But had they? Had it been some god who had visited tonight, clothed in the skin of a battered young woman? Or had it merely been their distant whispers
Hoped that an assassin’s jewel would pay for a healer’s education. So maybe it was the gods at work. Maybe it was some force beyond them, beyond mortal comprehension. Or maybe it was just for what and who Celaena would never be.
Celaena did the same, and when she raised herself, she removed the hood from over her hair. She was sure it was a mess and disgustingly greasy after two weeks in the desert with no water to bathe in, but she wasn’t here to impress him with her beauty.
There would be no disguises, no masks, no fake names. Since she had shown such disregard for Arobynn’s best interests, he no longer had any inclination to protect hers.
No, it was the girl’s armor that initially caught her interest: ornate to the point of probably being useless, but still a work of art.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been here for five years, and he’s still refused to train me personally. Not that I care. I’d say I’m pretty damn good with or without his expertise.”
never received private lessons with him, either.
“My father,” Ansel went on, “is Lord of Briarcliff. He sent me here for training, so I might ‘make myself useful.’ But I don’t think five hundred years would be enough to teach me that.”
When you’re done, ask an acolyte to take you there. Dinner isn’t for a few hours; I’ll come by the room then.”
Celaena’s palms began sweating. It was worth it, she told herself. Freeing those two hundred slaves was worth it. No matter what was about to happen, she’d never regret doing it.
Careful blows—blows meant to inflict as much pain as possible without doing permanent damage.
The last thing she remembered was a pang of guilt at the sight of her blood staining Arobynn’s exquisite red carpet. And then darkness, blissful darkness, full of relief that she hadn’t seen him hurt Sam.
The Master sometimes sends me to Xandria to meet with Berick—to try to negotiate some sort of accord between us. Thankfully, he still won’t dare violate the terms of parlay, but … one of these days, I’ll pay for my courier duties with my hide.”
Ansel had told her to try to impress him—to make him think she wanted to be here. Perhaps silence would work. But how to communicate what needed to be said?
“Girls in the Flatlands are married as early as fourteen,” Ansel said. Celaena choked. The idea of being anyone’s wife at fourteen, let alone a mother soon after … “Oh,” was all she managed to get out.
As allies, yes, but also as foes to be closely watched. Weakness was never to be shown at any cost. Brutality was rewarded.
