He grabbed the triangle and held it in the air. “Care for a game?”
The clock struck two before they stopped. He had ordered an array of desserts to be brought in the midst of their playing, and though she protested, she gobbled down a large piece of chocolate cake and then ate half of his piece, too.
He won every game, yet she hardly noticed. As long as she hit the ball, it resulted in shameless bragging. When she missed—well, even the fires of Hell couldn’t compare to the rage that burst from her mouth. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d laughed so hard.
When she wasn’t cursing and sputtering, they spoke of the books they’d both read, and as she jabbered on and on, he felt as if she hadn’t spoken a word in years and was afraid she’d suddenly go mute again. She was frighteningly smart. She understood him when he spoke of history, or of politics—though she claimed to loathe the subject—and even had a great deal to say about the theater. He somehow wound up promising to take her to a play after the competition. An awkward silence arose at that, but it quickly passed.
Dorian was slumped in an armchair, resting his head on a hand. She lay sprawled across the chair facing his, her legs dangling off an arm. She stared at the fire, her eyelids half-closed. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. She let her head drop onto the arm of the chair. “Do you think Xavier and the other Champion murders were intentional?”
“Perhaps. Does it make a difference?”
“No.” She lazily waved her hand in the air. “Never mind.”
Before he could ask more, she fell asleep.
He wished he knew more about her past. Chaol had only told him that she came from Terrasen, and that her family was dead. He hadn’t the faintest clue what her life was like, how she became an assassin, how she learned to play the pianoforte . . . It was all a mystery.
He wanted to know everything about her. He wished she’d just tell him. Dorian stood and stretched. He placed their cues on the rack, arranged the balls, and returned to the slumbering assassin. He shook her gently, and she groaned in protest. “You may want to sleep there, but you’ll sorely regret it in the morning.”
Barely opening her eyes, she stood and shuffled to the door. When she nearly walked into the doorpost, he decided that a guiding arm was needed before she broke something. Trying not to think of the warmth of her skin beneath his hand, he directed her to her bedroom and watched her stagger into bed, where she collapsed on top of the blankets.
“Your books are there,” she mumbled, pointing at a stack by her bed. He slowly entered the chamber. She lay still, her eyes closed. Three candles burned on various surfaces. With a sigh, he moved to blow them out before approaching her bed. Was she sleeping?
“Good night, Celaena,” he said. It was the first time he’d addressed her by her name. It came off his tongue nicely. She mumbled something that sounded like “nahnuh,” and did not move. A curious necklace glittered in the hollow of her throat. He felt as if it were familiar somehow, like he’d seen it before. With a final glance, he picked up the stack of books and left the room.
If she became his father’s Champion, and later gained her freedom, would she remain the same? Or was this all a facade to get what she wanted? But he couldn’t imagine that she was pretending. Didn’t want to imagine that she was pretending.
The castle was silent and dark as he walked back to his room.
Chapter 29
At their Test the next afternoon, Celaena stood in the training hall with her arms crossed, watching Cain spar with Grave. Cain knew who she was; all of her simpering and pretending and holding back had been for nothing. It had amused him.
She clenched her jaw as Cain and Grave flew across the sparring ring, swords clanging. The Test was fairly simple: they were each given a sparring partner, and if they won their duel, they needn’t worry about being eliminated. The losers, however, would face judgment by Brullo. Whoever had performed the worst would be sent packing.
To his credit, Grave held up well against Cain, even though she saw how his knees trembled from the effort. Nox, standing beside her, hissed as Cain shoved into Grave and sent him staggering back.
Cain smiled throughout the entire thing, barely panting. Celaena clenched her hands into fists, pushing them hard against her ribs. In a flash of steel, Cain had his blade at Grave’s throat, and the pockmarked assassin bared his rotting teeth at him. “Excellent, Cain,” Brullo said, clapping. Celaena struggled to control her breathing.
“Look out, Cain,” Verin said from beside her. The curly-headed thief grinned at her. She hadn’t been thrilled when it had been announced she was to spar against Verin. But at least it wasn’t Nox. “Little lady wants a piece of you.”
“Watch yourself, Verin,” Nox warned, his gray eyes burning.
“What?” Verin said. Now the other Champions—and everyone else—were turning to them. Pelor, who had been lingering nearby, retreated a few steps. Smart move. “Defending her, are you?” Verin taunted. “Is that the bargain? She opens her legs, and you keep an eye on her during practice?”
“Shut your mouth, you damned pig,” Celaena snapped. Chaol and Dorian pushed off from where they both leaned against the wall, coming closer to the ring.
“Or what?” Verin said, nearing her. Nox stiffened, his hand drifting to his sword.
But Celaena refused to back down. “Or I’ll rip out your tongue.”
“That’s enough!” Brullo barked. “Take it out in the ring. Verin. Lillian. Now.”
Verin gave her a snakelike smile, and Cain clapped him on the back as he entered the chalk-etched circle, drawing his sword.
Nox put a hand on her shoulder, and out of the corner of her eye, she spied Chaol and Dorian watching them closely. She ignored them.
It was enough. Enough of the pretending and the meekness. Enough of Cain.
Verin raised his sword, shaking his blond curls out of his eyes. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She stalked toward him, keeping her sword sheathed at her side. Verin’s grin widened as he lifted his blade.
He swung, but Celaena struck, ramming her fist into his arm, sending the blade soaring through the air. In the same breath, her palm hit his left arm, knocking it aside, too. As he staggered back, her leg came up, and Verin’s eyes bulged as her foot slammed into his chest. The kick sent him flying, and his body crunched as it hit the floor and slid out of the ring, instantly eliminating him. The hall was utterly silent.
“Mock me again,” she spat at Verin, “and I’ll do that with my sword the next time.” She turned from him, and found Brullo’s face slack. “Here’s a lesson for you, Weapons Master,” she said, stalking past him. “Give me real men to fight. Then maybe I’ll bother trying.”
She strode away, past the grinning Nox, and stopped before Cain. She stared up at his face—a face that might have been handsome had he not been a bastard—and smiled with sweet venom. “Here I am,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Just a little lapdog.”
Cain’s black eyes gleamed. “All I hear is yapping.”
Her hand itched toward her sword, but she kept it at her side. “Let’s see if you still hear yapping when I win this competition.” Before he could say more, she stalked to the water table.
Only Nox dared speak to her after that. Surprisingly, Chaol didn’t reprimand her, either.
When she was safely back in her rooms after the Test, Celaena watched the snowflakes drift from the hills beyond Rifthold. They swept toward her, harbingers of the storm that was to come. The late afternoon sun, trapped beneath a wall of pewter, stained the clouds a yellowish gray, making the sky unusually bright. It felt surreal, as if the horizon had disappeared beyond the hills. She was stranded in a world of glass.
Celaena left the window, but stopped before the tapestry and its depiction of Queen Elena. She had often wished for adventure, for old spells and wicked kings. But she hadn’t realized it would be like this—a fight for her freedom. And she’d always imagined that there’d be someone to help her—a loyal friend or a one-armed soldier or something. She hadn’t imagined she would be so . . . alone.