Crown of Midnight (9 page)

He
couldn’t
like Roland. She had nothing more than gut feeling and Chaol’s story to go by, but … there was something about Roland’s emerald eyes that made her want to pull Dorian as far away from him as possible. Dorian was playing a dangerous game, too, she realized. As Crown Prince, he had to walk a careful line with certain people. Perhaps she’d speak to Chaol about it.

Celaena frowned. Telling Chaol could lead to tedious explanations. Maybe she’d just warn Dorian herself once this dinner was over. She had ended things with him romantically, but she still cared about him. Despite his history with women, he was everything that a prince should be: intelligent, kind, charming. Why hadn’t Elena approached
him
for her tasks?

Dorian couldn’t possibly know what his father was up to—no, he couldn’t act the way he did if he knew that his father had such sinister intent. And maybe he shouldn’t ever know.

No matter what she felt for him, Dorian would rule. And maybe his father would someday reveal his power and force Dorian to make a choice about what sort of ruler he wanted to become. But she was in no hurry to have Dorian make that choice; not yet. When he did, she could only pray that he would be a better king than his father.

Dorian knew Celaena was watching him. She’d been stealing glances at him throughout the whole insufferable dinner. But she’d also been looking at Chaol, and when she did, he could have sworn that her whole face changed—became softer, more contemplative.

She lounged against a pillar by the patio doors, cleaning her nails with a dagger. Thank the Wyrd his father had left, because he was fairly certain the king would have flayed her for it.

Roland said something else to the three ladies in front of them—girls whose names Dorian had heard and immediately forgotten—and they giggled again. Roland certainly rivaled him for charm. And it seemed that Roland’s mother had come with him to find the young lord a bride—a girl with land and money that would add to Meah’s importance. Dorian didn’t have to ask Roland to know that until his wedding night, his cousin would enjoy all of the benefits of living in the castle as a young lord.

Listening to him flirt, watching him grin at these girls, Dorian didn’t know whether he wanted to punch Roland or walk away. But years of living in this festering court kept Dorian from doing anything but looking gloriously bored.

He glanced at Celaena again, only to see her watching Chaol, whose eyes were in turn fixed on Roland. Sensing Dorian’s attention, Celaena met his gaze.

Nothing. Not a hint of emotion. Dorian’s temper flared, so fast that he found himself struggling for control. Especially as she looked away again—and her focus returned to the captain. And stayed there.
Enough
.

Not bothering to say good-bye to Roland or the girls, he strode out of the Great Hall. He had better, more important things to worry about than what Celaena felt for his friend. He was the Crown Prince of the largest empire in the world. His entire existence was bound to the crown and the glass throne that would someday be his. She’d ended things
because
of that crown and throne—because she wanted a freedom he could never give her.

“Dorian,” someone called as he entered the hallway. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Celaena. She caught up to him, easily matching the brisk pace he hadn’t realized he’d set. He didn’t even know
where
he was going, only that he needed to get out of the Great Hall. She touched his elbow, and he hated himself for savoring the touch.

“What do you want?” he asked.

They passed beyond the busy halls and she tugged on his arm, slowing him down. “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

How long have you been yearning for him?
was what he really wanted to ask. Damn him for caring. Damn him for every moment he’d spent with her.

“You look like you could splatter someone against a wall.”

He raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t been making a face.

“When you get angry,” she explained, “your eyes get this … cold look. Glazed.”

“I’m fine.”

They kept walking, and she kept following him to … to wherever he was going. The library, he decided, turning down a passageway. He’d go to the royal library.

“If you have something to say,” he drawled, putting his temper on a tight leash, “then just say it.”

“I don’t trust your cousin.”

He paused, the shining hallway around them empty. “You don’t even know him.”

“Call it instinct.”

“Roland is harmless.”

“Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe he has his own agenda in being here. And you’re too smart to be a pawn in anyone’s game, Dorian. He’s from Meah.”

“And?”

“
And
Meah is a small, insignificant port city. It means he’s got little to lose and a
lot
to gain. That makes people dangerous. Ruthless. He’ll use you, if he can.”

“The same way an assassin from Endovier used me to become King’s Champion?”

Her lips thinned. “Is that what you think I did?”

“I don’t know what to think.” He turned away.

She snarled—actually
snarled
—at him. “Well, let me tell you what
I
think, Dorian. I think you’re used to getting what you want—who you want. And just because you couldn’t get who you wanted this
one
time—”

He whirled toward her. “You know nothing about what I wanted. You didn’t even give me the chance to tell you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not having this conversation right now. I came to warn you about your cousin, but you clearly don’t care. So don’t expect
me
to care when you find yourself nothing more than a puppet. If you aren’t one already.”

He opened his mouth, so close to exploding he could have punched the nearest wall, but Celaena was already striding off.

Celaena stood in front of the bars to Kaltain Rompier’s cell.

The once-beautiful lady was curled against the wall, her dress soiled and her dark hair unbound and matted. She had buried her face in her arms, but Celaena could still see that her skin gleamed with sweat and had a slightly grayish hue. And the smell …

She hadn’t seen her since the duel; since the day Kaltain had drugged Celaena’s water with bloodbane so she would die at Cain’s hands. Once she’d defeated Cain, Celaena had left without witnessing the screaming fit that Kaltain had thrown. So she’d missed the moment where Kaltain had accidentally confessed to poisoning her, claiming to have been manipulated by her former beau, Duke Perrington. The duke had denied her accusations, and Kaltain had been sent down here to await her punishment.

Two months later, it seemed that they still didn’t know what to do with her—or didn’t care.

“Hello, Kaltain,” Celaena said quietly.

Kaltain lifted her head, her black eyes gleaming in recognition. “Hello, Celaena.”

Celaena took a step closer to the bars. A bucket for relieving herself, a bucket of water, the crumbs of her last meal, and moldy hay that formed a rough pallet; that was all Kaltain had been given.

All she deserves
.

“Come to laugh?” Kaltain said. Her voice, which had once been rich and cultured, was little more than a hoarse whisper. It was freezing down here—it was a wonder Kaltain hadn’t fallen ill already.

“I have some questions for you,” Celaena said, keeping her words soft. Though the guards hadn’t challenged her right to enter the dungeons, she didn’t want them eavesdropping.

“I’m busy today.” Kaltain smiled, leaning her head against the stone wall. “Come back tomorrow.” She looked so much younger with her ebony hair unbound. She couldn’t be much older than Celaena herself.

Celaena dropped into a crouch, one hand braced against the bars for balance. The metal was bitingly cold. “What do you know about Roland Havilliard?”

Kaltain looked toward the stone ceiling. “He’s visiting?”

“He’s been appointed to the king’s council.”

Kaltain’s night-dark eyes met Celaena’s. There was a hint of madness there—but also wariness and exhaustion. “Why ask me about him?”

“Because I want to know if he can be trusted.”

Kaltain wheezed a laugh. “
None
of us can be trusted. Especially not Roland. The things I’ve heard about him are enough to turn even your stomach, I bet.”

“Like what?”

Kaltain smirked. “Get me out of this cell and I might tell you.”

Celaena returned the smirk. “How about I walk inside that cell and find another way to get you to talk?”

“
Don’t
,” she whispered, shifting enough so that Celaena could see the bruises circling her wrists. They looked unnervingly like handprints.

Kaltain tucked her arms into the folds of her skirts. “The night watch looks the other way when Perrington visits.”

Celaena bit the inside of her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. And she would mention it to Chaol when she saw him next; make sure he had a word with the night watch.

Kaltain rested her cheek on her knee. “He’s ruined everything. And I don’t even know why. Why not just send me home instead?” Her voice had taken on a faraway quality that Celaena recognized too well from her time in Endovier. Once the memories and the pain and the fear took over, there would be no chance of talking to her.

She asked quietly, “You were close to Perrington. Did you ever overhear anything about his plans?” A dangerous question, but if anyone might tell her, it would be Kaltain.

But the girl was staring at nothing and didn’t reply.

Celaena stood. “Good luck.”

Kaltain just shivered, tucking her hands under her arms.

She should let Kaltain freeze to death for what she’d tried to do to
her. She should walk out of the dungeons smiling, because for
once
the right person was locked away.

“They encourage the crows to fly past here,” Kaltain murmured, more to herself than to Celaena. “And my headaches are worse every day. Worse and worse, and full of all of those flapping wings.”

Celaena kept her face blank. She couldn’t hear anything—no caws, and certainly no flapping wings. Even if there were crows, the dungeon was so far underground that there was no way of hearing them here. “What do you mean?”

But Kaltain had already curled in on herself again, conserving as much warmth as she could. Celaena didn’t want to think about how frigid the cell must be at night; she knew what it felt like to curl up like that, desperate for any kernel of warmth, wondering whether you’d wake up in the morning, or if the cold would claim you before then.

Not giving herself the time to reconsider, Celaena unfastened her black cloak. She threw it through the bars, aiming carefully to avoid the long-dried vomit that was caked onto the stones. She’d also heard about the girl’s opium addiction—being locked away without a fix had to have driven her close to insanity, if she wasn’t mad to begin with.

Kaltain stared at the cloak that landed in her lap, and Celaena pivoted to return down the narrow, icy corridor and up to the warmer levels above.

“Sometimes,” Kaltain said softly, and Celaena paused. “Sometimes I think they brought me here. Not to marry Perrington, but for another purpose. They want to use me.”

“Use you for what?”

“They never say. When they come down here, they never tell me what they want. I don’t even remember. It’s all just … fragments. Shards of a broken mirror, each gleaming with its own individual image.”

She was mad. Celaena clamped down the urge to make a cutting
remark, the memory of Kaltain’s bruises staying her tongue. “Thank you for your help.”

Kaltain wrapped Celaena’s cloak around herself. “Something is coming,” she whispered. “And I am to greet it.”

Celaena loosed the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. This conversation was pointless. “Good-bye, Kaltain.”

The girl only laughed softly, and the sound followed Celaena long after she’d left the freezing dungeons behind.