The Assassin's Blade (Throne of Glass, #0.1-0.5)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Just so you know,” she said, speaking to all of them but still watching Sam, “I’m going to retrieve Ben’s body.” A muscle feathered in Sam’s jaw, though he wisely kept his eyes averted. “But don’t expect me to extend the same courtesy to the rest of you when your time comes.”

Most already knew that she was a young woman, but if he knew he was dealing with a sixteen-year-old, his pride might never recover.

God damn shes 16???

Orynth. A city of light and music, watched over by an alabaster castle with an opal tower so bright it could be viewed for miles.

“Maybe you don’t, Sam Cortland, but she does.”

Not when she was wearing an ornate gold brooch with a ruby the size of a robin’s egg.

She fought the urge to touch her face. The swelling from the beating Arobynn had given her had gone down, but the bruises remained. She avoided looking in the sliver of mirror above her dresser, knowing what she’d see: mottled purple and blue and yellow along her cheekbones, a vicious black eye, and a still-healing split lip.

The ruby brooch she wore practically begged for trouble—she wore it to invite trouble, actually. It was a gift from Arobynn on her sixteenth birthday; she hoped someone would try to steal it. If they were good enough, she might just let them. So it was only a matter of time, really, before one of them tried to rob her.

What would he think if she just sailed off into the unknown and never went to the Red Desert, or never even returned to Rifthold? He might celebrate—especially if Arobynn appointed him as his heir. Or she could poach him, maybe. He’d suggested that they try to run away when they were in Skull’s Bay, actually. So once she was settled someplace, once she had established a new life as a top assassin in whatever land she made her home, she could ask him to join her. And they’d never put up with beatings and humiliations again. Such an easy, inviting idea—such a temptation.

When Yrene returned, she almost dropped the steaming bowls. The girl had removed her hood and cloak and tunic. Yrene didn’t know what to remark on first: That the girl was young—perhaps two or three years younger than Yrene—but felt old. That the girl was beautiful, with golden hair and blue eyes that shone in the candlelight.

The girl had scars everywhere—small ones, big ones. She offered no explanation for them, and it seemed to Yrene that the girl wore her scars the way some women wore their finest jewelry.

The girl’s eyes flashed to hers. They were ringed with gold—stunning. Even with the bruises, the girl was alluring. Like wildfire, or a summer storm swept in off the Gulf of Oro.

This girl wasn’t like wildfire—she was wildfire. Deadly and uncontrollable. And slightly out of her wits.

She then showed her the ear clap, then how to pinch the inside of a man’s upper thigh hard enough to make him scream, where to stomp on the most delicate part of the foot, what soft spots were the best to hit with her elbow (Yrene actually hit her so hard in the throat that Celaena gagged for a good minute). And then told her to go for the groin—always try to go for a strike to the groin.

It wasn’t until she was done hanging her clothes on the hooks embedded in the wall that she noticed the leather pouch on the bed, and the note pinned beneath it. She knew what was inside, could easily guess based on the lumps and edges. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled out the note. There, in elegant, feminine handwriting, the girl had written: For wherever you need to go—and then some. The world needs more healers. No name, no date. Staring at the paper, she could almost picture the girl’s feral smile and the defiance in her eyes. This note, if anything, was a challenge—a dare. Hands shaking anew, Yrene dumped out the contents of the pouch. The pile of gold coins shimmered, and Yrene staggered back, collapsing into the rickety chair across from the bed. She blinked, and blinked again. Not just gold, but also the brooch the girl had been wearing, its massive ruby smoldering in the candlelight.

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?

An hour later, no one stopped Yrene Towers as she walked out of the White Pig and never looked back.

But Celaena had stood in front of that wooden door to the bedroom, listening to Yrene wash her clothes in the nearby kitchen. She found herself unable to turn away, unable to stop thinking about the would-be healer with the brown-gold hair and caramel eyes, of what Yrene had lost and how helpless she’d become.

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.

While modesty was a trait she’d learned to live without, she still kept herself low in the water. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that her ribs and arms were peppered with fading bruises, and that the sight of them made her sick. Sometimes it was sick with anger; other times it was with sorrow. Often, it was both.

She’d never seen Arobynn so angry, and it was scaring the hell out of her. He didn’t yell, and he didn’t curse—he just went very still and very quiet. The only signs of his rage were his silver eyes, glittering with a deadly calm. She tried not to flinch in her chair as he stood from the giant wooden desk. Sam, seated beside her, sucked in a breath. She couldn’t speak; if she started talking, her trembling voice would betray her. She couldn’t endure that kind of humiliation. “Do you know how much money you’ve cost me?” Arobynn asked her softly. 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. “It’s not her fault,” Sam cut in, and she flashed him a warning glare. “We both thought it was—” “Don’t lie to me, Sam Cortland,” Arobynn growled. “The only way you became involved in this was because she decided to do it—and it was either let her die trying, or help her.” Sam opened his mouth to object, but Arobynn silenced him with a sharp whistle through his teeth. His office doors opened. Wesley, Arobynn’s bodyguard, peered in. Arobynn kept his eyes on Celaena as he said, “Get Tern, Mullin, and Harding.” This wasn’t a good sign. She kept her face neutral, though, as Arobynn continued watching her. Neither she nor Sam dared speak in the long minutes that passed. She tried not to shake. At last, the three assassins—all men, all cut from muscle and armed t...

Even weeks later, she had no idea how she’d somehow gotten attached to him, what he’d been shouting when Arobynn beat her, and why Arobynn had thought he’d need three seasoned assassins to restrain him that day.

Celaena, though, stayed awake a while longer, unable to stop imagining what that witch had done when she dragged Maddy into the shadows of the tower.

When the horses were too winded to keep running, Ansel finally stopped atop a dune, Celaena pulling up beside her. Ansel looked at Celaena, wildness still rampant in her eyes. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” Breathing hard, Celaena didn’t say anything as she punched Ansel so hard in the face that the girl went flying off her horse and tumbled onto the sand. Ansel just clutched her jaw and laughed.

Ansel wiped at her eyes. “So I’ve been here ever since, training for the day when I’m strong enough and fast enough to return to Briarcliff and take back what is mine. Someday, I’ll march into High King Loch’s hall and repay him for what he did to my family. With my father’s sword.” Her hand grazed the wolf-head hilt. “This sword will end his life. Because this sword is all I have left of them.”

And Celaena felt it. She felt each footstep, the phantom bruises on her face throbbing with the memory of Arobynn’s fists. And suddenly, as the memory of that day echoed through her, she remembered the words Sam kept screaming at Arobynn as the King of the Assassins beat her, the words that she somehow had forgotten in the fog of pain: I’ll kill you! Sam had said it like he meant it. He’d bellowed it. Again and again and again.

Well, she’d never had a female friend—never really had any friends—and somehow, the thought of returning to Rifthold without Ansel was a tad unbearable.

No; it was the memory of Sam’s face that had stopped her from kissing him.

As she swallowed a large mouthful of wine, she had two thoughts. The first was that Ansel’s eyes were now filled with unmasked sorrow. And the second—which explained the first—was that the wine tasted strange. But Celaena didn’t have time to consider what poison it was before she heard her own goblet clatter to the floor, and the world spun and went black.

I’m sorry it had to end this way. The Master said it would be easier to let you go like this, rather than shame you by publicly asking you to leave early. Kasida is yours—as is the Master’s letter of approval, which is in the saddlebag. Go home. I will miss you, Ansel

Why was she shunned? This made me sad.

“I’ve become an assassin because I had no choice. But you have a choice, Ansel. You’ve always had a choice. Please don’t kill him.” Please don’t make me kill you was what she truly meant to say.

She looked down into the face of the Master, whose eyes shifted to the open door. He was reminding her of the promise she’d made. Ansel had been given twenty minutes to clear firing range. It was time.

Celaena sat on an ornately carved wooden chair, watching the Master as he stared out the window at the sky. She nearly fell out of her seat when he began speaking. “I am glad you did not kill Ansel.” His voice was raw, and his accent thick with the clipped yet rolling sounds of some language she’d never heard before. “I have been wondering when she would decide what to do with her fate.”

“If you can learn to endure pain, you can survive anything. Some people learn to embrace it—to love it. Some endure it through drowning it in sorrow, or by making themselves forget. Others turn it into anger. But Ansel let her pain become hate, and let it consume her until she became something else entirely—a person I don’t think she ever wished to be.”

“For what it is worth, Celaena,” he rasped, “I believe you were the closest thing to a friend Ansel has ever allowed herself to have. And I think she sent you away because she truly cared for you.” She hated her mouth for wobbling. “That doesn’t make it hurt any less.” “I didn’t think it would. But I think you will leave a lasting imprint on Ansel’s heart. You spared her life, and returned her father’s sword. She will not soon forget that. And maybe when she makes her next move to reclaim her title, she will remember the assassin from the North and the kindness you showed her, and try to leave fewer bodies in her wake.”

After a pause, the Master said, “If you ever want to leave the North, you will always have a home here. I promise you the winter months are far better than the summer. And I think my son would be rather happy if you decided to return, too.”

It was now or never. She didn’t know why her heart thundered the way it did, but she didn’t give herself a chance to second-guess as she twisted to look at him. She glanced once at his clothes and then said, “You look handsome.”

Sam’s hand brushed her shoulder, and she almost jumped out of her skin as he brought his mouth close to her ear and murmured, “You look beautiful. Though I bet you already know that.” She most certainly did. She gave him a sidelong glare and found him grinning as he leaned back into his seat.

The music broke her apart and put her back together, only to rend her asunder again and again. And then the climax, the compilation of all the sounds she had loved best, amplified until they echoed into eternity. As the final note swelled, a gasp broke from her, setting the tears in her eyes spilling down her face. She didn’t care who saw.

Sam chewed on his lip. “Why didn’t you trail Doneval after the theater? Don’t you have only four days left?” She wasn’t surprised he knew; her missions weren’t usually that secret. She paused, still itching to hear the music once more. “Some things are more important than death.” Sam’s eyes flickered. “I know.”

“Well, I care what you think of me. I care enough that I stayed at this disgusting party just for you. And I care enough that I’d attend a thousand more like it so I can spend a few hours with you when you aren’t looking at me like I’m not worth the dirt beneath your shoes.”

The water was around her waist now, and over her chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said. “I’m trying!” “Sam,” she repeated. “No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “No.”

She swallowed hard, but was unable to break his gaze. “Thank you for saving me.” His brows rose. She’d said it once on their way back, but it had been a quick, breathless string of words. This time, it was different. Though her fingers ached—especially her broken nails—she reached for his hand. “And … And I’m sorry.” She made herself look at him, even as his features crossed into incredulity. “I’m sorry for involving you in what happened in Skull’s Bay. And for what Arobynn did to you because of it.”

He let out an uneven breath. “You’ll be fine without me. You always have been.” Maybe once, but not now. “How can I convince you to stay?” “You can’t.” She threw down the torch. “Do you want me to beg, is that it?” “No—never.” “Then tell me—” “What more can I say?” he exploded, his whisper rough and harsh. “I’ve already told you everything—I’ve already told you that if I stay here, if I have to live with Arobynn, I’ll snap his damned neck.” “But why? Why can’t you let it go?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Because I love you!” Her mouth fell open. “I love you,” he repeated, shaking her again. “I have for years. And he hurt you and made me watch because he’s always known how I felt, too. But if I asked you to pick, you’d choose Arobynn, and I. Can’t. Take. It.” The only sounds were their breathing, an uneven beat against the rushing of the sewer river. “You’re a damned idiot,” she breathed. “You’re a moron and an ass and a damned idiot.” He looked like she had hit him. But she went on, and grasped both sides of his face, “Because I’d pick you.” And then she kissed him.

In the silence of her bedroom, she swore an oath to the moonlight that if Sam were hurt, no force in the world would hold her back from slaughtering everyone responsible.

Not the foreshadowing! My boy is fated to die RIP </3

“I’m fine,” Sam rasped. But in the moonlight, she could see the gash on his arm. “The guards spotted me in the cellar and shot at me.” He grabbed at the breast of his suit. “One of them hit me right in the heart. I thought I was dead, but the arrow clattered right out. It didn’t even touch my skin.” He peeled open the gash in the front of his suit, and a glimmer of iridescence sparkled. “Spidersilk,” he murmured, his eyes wide.

Doneval had been working to set up a system of safe houses and form an alliance of people against slavery across the empire. Doneval, bad habits or not, had been working to help the slaves. And she’d killed him.

He brushed his lips against hers. “I love you,” he breathed against her mouth. “And from today onward, I want to never be separated from you. Wherever you go, I go. Even if that means going to Hell itself, wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Forever.”

Arobynn shrugged, waving a hand as if to dismiss the questions he’d raised, and walked toward the front door. She watched his every move, took in every step and shift of his shoulders, noted what he looked at. He reached for the brass doorknob, but turned to her. His eyes—those silver eyes that would probably haunt her for the rest of her life—were bright. “No matter what I have done, I really do love you, Celaena.” The word hit her like a stone to the head. He’d never said that word to her before. Ever.

He removed her hand from his cheek to kiss the tips of her fingers. “I get scared, too,” he murmured onto her skin. “You want to hear something ridiculous? Whenever I’m scared out of my wits, I tell myself: My name is Sam Cortland … and I will not be afraid. I’ve been doing it for years.”

IMPORTANT

She shut her eyes and took a steadying breath. “Will you laugh if I say that I’m scared?” “No,” he said softly, “never.” “Maybe I should try your little trick.” She took another breath. “My name is Celaena Sardothien, and I will not be afraid.”