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

by Sarah J. Maas

“One day,” Rolfe said, too quietly, “someone’s really going to make you pay for that arrogance.” Lightning made his green eyes flicker. “I just hope I’m there to see it.”

Forboding

“He might very well kill us.”

Premonition

She breathed it in, staring across the leagues of lonely, black ocean, seeing, somehow, that distant city that had once, long ago, been her home. The wind ripped the strands of hair from her braid, lashing them across her face. 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.

“The Flatlands.” The Flatlands … Where in hell were the Flatlands? Ansel answered for her. “Along the coast of the Western Wastes—formerly known as the Witch Kingdom.”

“My father,” Ansel went on, “is Lord of Briarcliff.

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.

At least, here at the edge of the world, that night—and all of Rifthold and the people it contained—seemed very far away.

Sam probably folded his undergarments. Though, depending on how much of him Arobynn had left intact, he might not even be able to now. Arobynn would never permanently maim her, but Sam might have fared worse.

Sam had always been the expendable one.

“Our Master knows well enough that everything from Eyllwe to Terrasen is your Master’s territory.”

Important

But … but to see all these assassins gathered here, so much collective power and knowledge, and to know that they wouldn’t dare intrude on Arobynn’s—on her—territory …

Premonition

Well, he was certainly desirable—as desirable as Sam, maybe.

Sam—when had she ever thought of him as desirable?

“Tomorrow will be better. It might be

only a foot more than today, but it will be a foot longer that you can run.”

Celaena stared at the ceiling, suddenly homesick, strangely wishing Sam was with her. At least if she were to fail, she’d fail with him.

With nothing else to distract her, Celaena eventually returned to thinking about Sam. 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.

“Are your lands as cursed as they claim?” “Well, the Flatlands used to be part of the Witch Kingdom. And yes, I suppose you could say they’re somewhat cursed.”

“When the Crochan Queens ruled five hundred years ago, it was very beautiful. At least, the ruins all over the place seem like they would have been beautiful. But then the three Ironteeth Clans destroyed it all when they overthrew the Crochan Dynasty.” “Ironteeth?”

“When I was eight and my sister was eleven, she and I and Maddy, one of her friends, snuck out of Briarcliff Hall.

And one of the stable boys told my sister that if you looked through the archway on the night of the summer solstice, then you might see into another world.”

“I’ll tell you a valuable secret: the only way to kill a witch is to cut off her head. Besides, I don’t think an Ironteeth witch stands much of a chance against us.”

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.

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.”

“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.”

I’ll kill you! Sam had said it like he meant it. He’d bellowed it. Again and again and again.

Moments when her thoughts drifted back to Sam, to what he’d said. He’d threatened to kill Arobynn. For hurting her. She tried to work through it, tried to figure out what had changed in Skull’s Bay to make Sam dare say such a thing to the King of the Assassins. But whenever she caught herself thinking about it too much, she shoved those thoughts into the back of her mind.

If she were being honest, sometimes she thought Sam looked at her that way. But then he’d go and say something absurd, or try to undermine her, and she’d chide herself for even thinking that about him.

Her stomach tightened. What had Arobynn done to him that night? She should have inquired after him. But in the days afterward, she’d been so busy, so wrapped in her rage … She hadn’t dared look for him, actually. Because if Arobynn had hurt Sam the way he’d hurt her—if he’d hurt Sam worse than that …

If Arobynn ever laid a hand on her or Sam again, she’d see to it that he lost that hand. Actually, she’d see to it that he lost everything up to the elbow.

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.

“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 the first time in a long while, she heard the song of a northern wind, calling her home. And she was not afraid.

Of all the people in the world, only Arobynn knew the absolute truth.

“You want to know what price I asked for forgiving Arobynn, Celaena?”

“My price was his oath that he’d never lay a hand on you again. I told him I’d forgive him in exchange for that.”

Emotionally drained, perhaps, but it was only ten thirty, and the thought of taking off her gown and climbing into bed made her feel rather pathetic.

Same

There was more she wanted to say to him, and she didn’t want him to go, but her throat had closed up, too full of all those unspoken words.

Try not to stain them with your tears when you play. It took a lot of bribes to get these.

The masked strangers swaggered down the steps, one of them keeping close to the dark-haired youth.

Dorian?!

“My name is Wind,” she whispered. “And Rain. And Bone and Dust. My name is a snippet of a half-remembered song.”

“I have no name,” she purred. “I am whoever the keepers of my fate tell me to be.”

The stranger’s friend was behind him in an instant, his bronze eyes fixed on Sam.

Chaol?!

“I don’t want to be with Lysandra, or anyone else for hire,” he said through gritted teeth. He reached for her hand. “And you’re a damned fool for not seeing it.”

“I am what I am, and I don’t particularly care what you think of me.”

“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 look...

She’d never given much thought to how she’d die, but drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain she’d struck with the gods

that night was finally over. The water would have her, one way or another, no matter how long it took.

“Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam,” she whispered. And with a gasping breath, she went under.