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

by Sarah J. Maas

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.

Ruhnn Mountains

“In the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains, everything is a labyrinth of mist and trees and shadows.

As if he could read her daydreams, he said: “I could make you rich beyond your wildest imaginings.” “I’m already rich. And I’m unavailable until the end of the summer.” “I won’t be back from the southern continent for at least a year, anyway,” he countered. She examined his face, the gleam in his eyes. Adventure and glory aside, anyone who’d sell twenty years of his life for a fortune couldn’t be trusted. But … “The next time you’re in Rifthold,” she said slowly, “seek out Arobynn Hamel.” The man’s eyes widened. She wondered how he’d react if he knew who she was. “He’ll know where to find me.” She turned from the table.

Celaena flipped open the lid and her breath caught. A folded bit of woven Spidersilk lay inside, no larger than six square inches. She could buy ten horses with it. Not that she’d ever sell it. No, this was an heirloom to be passed down from generation to generation. If she ever had children. Which seemed highly unlikely.

“A reminder of what?” She shut the lid and tucked the small box into the inner pocket of her white tunic. The merchant smiled sadly. “That everything has a price.”

The horse was black as pitch, with dark eyes that bored into Celaena’s own. She’d heard of Asterion horses, of course. The most ancient breed of horse in Erilea. Legend claimed that the Fae had made them from the four winds—spirit from the north, strength from the south, speed from the east, and wisdom from the west, all rolled into the slender-snouted, high-tailed, lovely creature that stood before her.

“What about that one?” Ansel said. “That’s the stag,” Celaena breathed. “The Lord of the North.” “Why does he get a fancy title? What about the swan and the dragon?” Celaena snorted, but the smile faded when she stared at the familiar constellation. “Because the stag remains constant—no matter the season, he’s always there.” “Why?” Celaena took a long breath. “So the people of Terrasen will always know how to find their way home. So they can look up at the sky, no matter where they are, and know Terrasen is forever with them.”

“Where do men find it in themselves to do such monstrous things? How do they find it acceptable?”

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.

Live a little, Sardothien!

Never mind that for a while, she had felt like one of their own—felt, for the first time in a long, long while, like she had a place where she belonged. Where she might learn something more than deceit and how to end lives.

“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.”

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.

A world of shadows and mist. A world where creatures and myths dwelled in the dark moments before dawn.

a legend of a prince seeking to rescue his bride, and the cunning bird he captured to help him to do it—but the music.

She closed her eyes, and leaned her head against his. He smelled of her lavender soap—her expensive lavender soap that she’d once warned him to never use again. He probably had no idea what soap she’d even been scolding him about. She’d have to start hiding her beloved toiletries and leave out something inexpensive for him. Sam wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, anyway.

She’d have to find another dance instructor once they moved. More than that, a studio with a decent pianoforte player. And the city would have to have a library, too. A great, wonderful library. Or a bookshop with a knowledgeable owner who could make sure her thirst for books was always sated.

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.”

“Maybe I should try your little trick.” She took another breath. “My name is Celaena Sardothien, and I will not be afraid.” He did laugh then, a tickle of breath on her mouth. “I think you have to say it with a bit more conviction than that.”

The body still smelled faintly like Sam. And like the cheap soap she’d made him use, because she was so selfish that she couldn’t let him have her lavender soap.

A black fire rippled in her gut, spreading through her veins as she hopped onto the windowsill and eased outside.

She was fire, she was darkness, she was dust and blood and shadow.

She knew three things before she even opened her eyes.

The moon illuminated the mist swirling along the leaf-strewn ground, and made the trees cast long shadows like lurking wraiths. And there—standing in a copse of thorns—was a white stag.

A crack in the silence—spreading wider and wider as the stag’s fathomless eyes stayed steady on her. A glimmer of a world long since destroyed—a kingdom in ruins. The stag shouldn’t be here—not so deep into Adarlan or so far from home. How had he survived the hunters who had been set loose nine years ago, when the king had ordered all the sacred white stags of Terrasen butchered? And yet he was here, glowing like a beacon in the moonlight. He was here. And so was she. She felt the warmth of the tears before she realized she was crying.

She would tuck Sam into her heart, a bright light for her to take out whenever things were darkest. And then she would remember how it had felt to be loved, when the world had held nothing but possibility. No matter what they did to her, they could never take that away. She would not break.

But she squared her shoulders. Straightened her spine. “My name is Celaena Sardothien,” she whispered, “and I will not be afraid.”