Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass, #1)

by Sarah J. Maas

After a year of slavery in the Salt Mines of Endovier, Celaena Sardothien was accustomed to being escorted everywhere in shackles and at sword-point. Most of the thousands of slaves in Endovier received similar treatment—though an extra half-dozen guards always walked Celaena to and from the mines. That was expected by Adarlan’s most notorious assassin. What she did not usually expect, however, was a hooded man in black at her side—as there was now.

But her ears had pricked when he’d introduced himself to her overseer as Chaol Westfall, Captain of the Royal Guard, and suddenly, the sky loomed, the mountains pushed from behind, and even the earth swelled toward her knees. She hadn’t tasted fear in a while—hadn’t let herself taste fear. When she awoke every morning, she repeated the same words: I will not be afraid. For a year, those words had meant the difference between breaking and bending; they had kept her from shattering in the darkness of the mines. Not that she’d let the captain know any of that.

It was true that she had been attractive once, beautiful even, but— well, it didn’t matter now, did it?

Oh, it’d be nice to see his blood spill across the marble. She’d lost her temper once before—once, when her first overseer chose the wrong day to push her too hard. She still remembered the feeling of embedding the pickax into his gut, and the stickiness of his blood on her hands and face. She could disarm two of these guards in a heartbeat. Would the captain fare better than her late overseer? Contemplating the potential outcomes, she grinned at him again.

Lightheaded and immensely heavy all at once, Celaena faced the room. On an ornate redwood throne sat a handsome young man. Her heart stopped as everyone bowed. She was standing in front of the Crown Prince of Adarlan.

Bow to him indeed! If she were bound for the gallows, she would most certainly not spend the last moments of her life in groveling submission. Thundering steps issued from behind her, and someone grabbed her by the neck. Celaena only glimpsed crimson cheeks and a sandy mustache before being thrown to the icy marble floor. Pain slammed through her face, light splintering her vision. Her arms ached as her bound hands kept her joints from properly aligning. Though she tried to stop them, tears of pain welled. “That is the proper way to greet your future king,” a red-faced man snapped at Celaena.

“It’s clear that you respect me, Duke Perrington, but it’s a bit unnecessary to put such effort into forcing Celaena Sardothien to have the same opinion. You and I know very well she has no love for my family. So perhaps your intent is to humiliate her.” He paused, and she could have sworn his eyes fell on her face. “But I think she’s had enough of that.” He stopped for another moment, then asked: “Don’t you have a meeting with Endovier’s treasurer? I wouldn’t want you to be late, especially when you came all this way to meet with him.”

Princes are not supposed to be handsome! They’re sniveling, stupid, repulsive creatures! This one … this … How unfair of him to be royal and beautiful.

“I don’t believe that we’ve ever had the pleasure of an introduction. But, as you probably know, I’m Dorian Havilliard, Crown Prince of Adarlan, perhaps now Crown Prince of most of Erilea.”

“His Champion would keep his opponents quiet.” “As quiet as the grave,”

To work for the King of Adarlan as his loyal servant. She raised her chin. To kill for him—to be a fang in the mouth of the beast that had already consumed half of Erilea …

“The position isn’t being offered to you. Yet. My father thought to have a bit of fun. He’s hosting a competition. He invited twenty-three members of his council to each sponsor a would-be Champion to train in the glass castle and ultimately compete in a duel. Were you to win,” he said with a half smile, “you’d officially be Adarlan’s Assassin.”

“Thieves and assassins and warriors from across Erilea.” She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “If you win, and prove yourself both skilled and trustworthy, my father has sworn to grant you your freedom. And, while you’re his Champion, you’ll receive a considerable salary.”

I will not be afraid. For the first time in a while, the words felt true.

“You’re a criminal. I’m Captain of the Royal Guard. I’m not obligated to bestow any kindness or conversation upon you. Be grateful we don’t keep you locked up in the wagon.”

Atop the hill, Celaena stared at the crowning achievement of Adarlan. The glass castle of Rifthold. It was gargantuan, a vertical city of shimmering, crystalline towers and bridges, chambers and turrets, domed ballrooms and long, endless hallways. It had been built above the original stone castle, and cost a kingdom’s wealth to construct.

She pulled her cloak around her. She would win. She’d win, and serve the king, and then vanish into nothing, and think no more of castles or kings or assassins. She didn’t wish to reign over this city again. Magic was dead, the Fae were banished or executed, and she would never again have anything to do with the rise and fall of kingdoms. She wasn’t fated for anything. Not anymore.

Still, the image haunted his dreams throughout the night: a lovely girl gazing at the stars, and the stars who gazed back.

Dorian, realizing how close he was to crossing a boundary between impertinence and rebellion—a boundary that he’d been very, very careful to maintain—mumbled his apologies.

“When I’m king, I won’t declare control over Terrasen through thin claims of inheritance.”

His father was upon him before Dorian could brace himself. The back of the king’s hand connected with Dorian’s cheek, and the prince staggered, but regained his countenance. His face throbbed, stinging so badly he fought to keep his eyes from watering. “Son or no son,” the king snarled, “I am still your king. You will obey me, Dorian Havilliard, or you will pay. I’ll have no more of your questioning.”

Knowing he’d only cause more trouble for himself if he stayed, the Crown Prince of Adarlan bowed silently and left his father, eyes gleaming with barely controlled anger.

“Hollin will grow into his lineage,”

“Guards are of no use in a library.” Oh, how wrong he was! Libraries were full of ideas—perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.

“Hurry,” he said. “We can’t be late.” “Perhaps if you’d given me ample warning, I’d have dressed earlier and you wouldn’t have to drag me!”

“Celaena.” She blinked, her cheeks burning. Chaol’s features softened. “He’s just a man. But a man you should treat with the respect his rank demands.”

“Celaena.” He stopped a few feet from the guards. His eyes were rich, molten brown. “Yes?” Her heartbeat steadied. “You look rather pretty today,” was all he said before the doors opened and they walked forward. Celaena raised her chin as they entered the crowded room.

Twenty-three men stood between her and freedom.

“Over the next thirteen weeks, you shall each dwell and compete in my home. You will train every day, and be tested once a week—a test during which one of you will be eliminated.”

By accident, her gaze slipped onto the king’s face, and she found his dark eyes staring into hers. The king smirked. Her heart threw itself backward and clung to the bars of her ribcage. Murderer. He should be hanging from the gallows. He had killed many more than she—people undeserving and defenseless. He’d destroyed cultures, destroyed invaluable knowledge, destroyed so much of what had once been bright and good. His people should revolt. Erilea should revolt—the way those few rebels had dared to do. Celaena struggled to maintain his gaze. She couldn’t retreat.

“Prove trustworthy, become my Champion, and wealth and glory will be yours eternal.”

“To everyone in this castle,” Dorian said, “your name is Lillian Gordaina. Your mother is dead and your father is a wealthy merchant from Bellhaven. You are the sole heir to his fortune. However, you have a dark secret: you spend your nights as a jewel thief. I met you this summer after you tried to rob me while I was vacationing in Bellhaven, and I saw your potential then. But your father discovered your nightly fun, and removed you from the lure of the city to a town near Endovier. When my father decided to have this competition, I journeyed to find you, and brought you here as my Champion. You can fill in the gaps yourself.”

And what of the others? Any potential rivals? Some of the Champions have rather gruesome reputations.” “Everyone else looks pathetic,” she lied.

“I’m meeting with His Grace, Duke Perrington. I do hope we’ll see more of each other, Lady Lillian,” she said, watching her with a keenness that would make any assassin proud. “We must be friends, you and I.”

I hate her already and do not trust her for a single second

“I hate women like that. They’re so desperate for the attention of men that they’d willingly betray and harm members of their own sex. And we claim men cannot think with their brains! At least men are direct about it.”

Girl... You are not it either

And besides, I’m his Champion. Not everyone feels obligated to be as nasty to me as you do.” “You’re an assassin.” “If I say I’m a jewel thief, will you treat me with more courtesy?”

Foolish, foolish decision to leave all those weapons out. Swords, sword-breakers, axes, bows, pikes, hunting daggers, maces, spears, throwing knives, wooden staves … While she generally preferred the stealth of a dagger, she was familiar with every weapon here.

It would have been so, so easy. So easy to whirl and grab him by the neck and slam his face into the ground.

“I’m going to kill him,” she breathed. “No, you’re not. If you want to shut him up, then beat him. He’s just a brute from the king’s army—don’t waste your strength on hating him.” She rolled her eyes. “Thank you so much for interfering on my behalf.” “You don’t need me to rescue you.”

Her heart beat rapidly as she ran a finger across the blades and handles of each. She found herself torn between the hunting daggers and a lovely rapier with an ornate bell-guard. She could cut out his heart from a safe distance with that.

With a growl, the Captain of the Guard lunged. But she had been waiting for some time now, and her eyes flew open as soon as his boots scraped against the ground. With a turn of her arm she brought the sword into blocking position, her legs bracing for the impact as steel struck steel. The noise was strange, somehow more painful than receiving the blow, but Celaena thought little of it when he charged again and she met his weapon, parrying with ease. Her arms ached as they were shaken from their slumber, but she continued to deflect and parry. Swordplay was like dancing—certain steps must be followed or else it would fall apart. Once she heard the beat, it all came rushing back. The other competitors faded away into shadows and sunlight.

“Good,” he said through his teeth, blocking her thrust as she forced him to take a defensive stance. Her thighs burned. “Very good,” he breathed. He was pretty good himself—better than good, actually. Not that she’d tell him that. With a clang, the two swords met, and they pressed each other’s blades. He was stronger, and she grunted at the force required to hold her sword against his. But, strong as he might be, he was not as quick. She withdrew and feinted, her feet jabbing and flexing on the floor with birdlike grace. Caught off-guard, he only had time to deflect, his parry lost in his size. She surged forward, her arm coming down again and again, twisting and turning, loving the smooth ache within her shoulder as the blade slammed against his. She was moving fast—fast like a dancer in a temple ritual, fast like a snake in the Red Desert, fast like water down the side of a mountain. He kept up, and she allowed him to advance before reclaiming the position. He tried to catch her unawares with a blow to the face, but her anger awoke as her elbow snapped up and deflected, slamming into his fist and forcing it down.

“Something to remember when fighting me, Sardothien,” he panted. The sun caught in his golden-brown eyes. “Hmm?” she grunted, lunging to deflect his newest attack. “I don’t lose.” He grinned at her, and before she could comprehend the words, something cut into her feet and— She had the sickening feeling of falling. She gasped as her spine collided with marble, the rapier flying from her hand. Chaol pointed his blade at her heart. “I win,” he breathed. She pushed herself onto her elbows. “You had to resort to tripping me. That’s hardly winning at all.” “I’m not the one with the sword at my heart.” The sound of clashing weapons and labored breathing filled the air. She flicked her eyes to the other Champions, who were all in the middle of sparring. All, of course, except Cain. He grinned broadly at her, and Celaena bared her teeth. “You have the skills,” Chaol said, “but some of your moves are still undisciplined.” She broke her stare with Cain and glared up into Chaol’s face. “That’s never stopped me from killing before,” she spat. Chaol chuckled at her agitation and pointed his sword at the rack...

She practically threw the rapier into place, and drew the hunting knives without hesitation. My dear old friends. A wi...

“I’ve been Weapons Master here for thirty years, and lived in this castle for twenty-five more than that. I’ve trained many a lord and knight—and many a would-be Champion of Adarlan. It will be very hard to impress me.”

As his name suggested, Bill Chastain, the Eye Eater, ate the eyes of his victims.

Some of the men sniggered, and she clenched her teeth. They’d stop their laughing if they knew her true name, if they knew that this “jewel thief” could skin them alive without a knife.

“If I have to call myself a jewel thief again—” Chaol raised his brows. “You’ll do what, exactly?” “Do you know how insulting it is to pretend to be some nobody thief from a small city in Fenharrow?” He stared her down, quiet for a moment. “Are you that arrogant?” She bristled, but he went on. “It was foolish to spar with you just now. I’ll admit that I hadn’t realized you’d be that good. Thankfully, no one noticed. And do you want to know why, Lillian?” He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “Because you’re some pretty little girl. Because you’re a nobody jewel thief from a small city in Fenharrow. Look around.” He half-turned to the other Champions. “Is anyone staring at you? Are any of them sizing you up? No. Because you’re not real competition. Because you don’t stand between them and whatever freedom or wealth they’re looking for.” “Exactly! It’s insulting!” “It’s smart, that’s what it is. And you’re going to keep a low profile throughout this entire competition. You’re not going to excel, and you’re not going to trounce those thieves and soldiers and unknown assassins. You’re going to stay solidly in the middle, where no one will look your way, because you’re not a threat, because they’ll think that you’ll be eliminated sooner or later, and they should focus their attention on getting rid of bigger, stronger, faster Champions like Cain.

“But you’re going to outlast them,” Chaol continued. “And when they wake up on the morning of the final duel and find that you are their opponent, and that you have beaten them, the look on their faces will make all of the insults and lack of attention worthwhile.” He extended his hand to lead her outside. “So, what do you have to say about that, Lillian Gordaina?” “I can look out for myself,” she said lightly, taking his hand. “But I have to say that you’re rather brilliant, Captain. So brilliant, actually, that I might give you one of the jewels I plan to steal from the queen tonight.” Chaol chuckled, and they strode outside to where the running contest awaited.

“I’ve only been here for a day, and I wish to leave.”