The Assassin and the Desert (7 page)

She raised her chin. “I turned seventeen two weeks ago.” And what a miserable birthday that had been! Trudging across the desert with no one to celebrate with except her recalcitrant guide, who just patted her shoulder when she announced it was her birthday. Horrible.

“Not much younger than me,” he said. She chuckled, but paused when she didn't find him smiling.

“And how old are
you
?” she asked. There was no mistaking it—he
had
to be at least forty. Even if his hair wasn't sprinkled with silver, his skin was weathered.

“Twenty-five,” he said. She gave a start. “I know. Shocking.”

The yards of Spidersilk lifted in a breeze from the nearby sea.

“Everything has a price,” he said. “Twenty years for two hundred yards of Spidersilk. I thought they meant to take them off the end of my life. But even if they'd warned me, I would have said yes.” She eyed the caravan behind him. This much Spidersilk was enough to enable him to live what years he had left as a very, very wealthy man.

“Why not take it to Rifthold?”

“Because I've seen Rifthold, and Orynth, and Banjali. I'd like to see what two hundred yards of Spidersilk might fetch me outside of Adarlan's empire.”

“Is there anything to be done about the years you lost?”

He waved a hand. “I followed the western side of the mountains on my way here, and met an old witch along the way. I asked if she could fix me, but she said what was taken was taken, and only the death of the spider who consumed my twenty years could return them to me.” He examined his hands, already lined with age. “For a copper more, she told me that only a great warrior could slay a stygian spider. The greatest warrior in the land . . . Though perhaps an assassin from the North might do.”

“How did you—”

“You can't honestly think no one knows about the
sessiz suikast
? Why else would a seventeen-year-old girl bearing exquisite daggers be here unescorted? And one who holds such fine company in Rifthold, no less. Are you here to spy for Lord Berick?”

Celaena did her best to quell her surprise. “Pardon me?”

The merchant shrugged, glancing toward the towering palace. “I heard from a city guard that strange dealings go on between Berick and some of the Silent Assassins.”

“Perhaps,” was all Celaena said. The merchant nodded, not all that interested in it anymore. But Celaena tucked the information away for later. Were some of the Silent Assassins actually working
for
Berick? Perhaps that was why Ansel had insisted on keeping the meeting so secret—maybe the Master didn't want the names of the suspected traitors getting out.

“So?” the merchant asked. “Will you retrieve my lost years for me?”

She bit her lip, thoughts of spies instantly fading away. To journey into the depths of the Ruhnn Mountains, to slay a stygian spider! She could certainly see herself battling the eight-legged monstrosities. And witches! Though after Ansel's story, meeting a witch—especially one belonging to the Ironteeth Clans—was the last thing she ever wanted to do. For a heartbeat, she wished Sam were with her. Even if she told him about this encounter, he'd never believe her. But would
anyone
ever believe her?

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 continents 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.

“But what's your name?”

She looked over her shoulder. “He'll know where to find me,” she repeated, and began walking back toward the stall with the pointed shoes.

“Wait!” She paused in time to see him fumbling with the folds of his tunic. “Here.” He set down a plain wooden box on the table. “A reminder.”

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.”

A phantom pain flashed through her face. “I know,” she said, and left.

She wound up buying the shoes, though it was nearly impossible to pass over the lilac perfume, which smelled even more lovely the second time she approached the priestesses' stall. When the city bells pealed three o'clock, she was sitting on the lip of the fountain, munching on what she
hoped
was mashed beans inside a warm bread pocket.

Ansel was fifteen minutes late, and didn't apologize. She merely grabbed Celaena's arm and began leading her through the still-packed streets, her freckled face gleaming with sweat.

“What is it?” Celaena asked. “What happened in your meeting?”

“That's none of your business,” Ansel said a bit sharply. Then she added, “Just follow me.”

They wound up sneaking inside the Lord of Xandria's palace walls, and Celaena knew better than to ask questions as they crept across the grounds. But they didn't head to the towering central building. No—they approached the stables, where they slipped around the guards and entered the pungent shadows within.

“There had better be a good reason for this,” Celaena warned as Ansel crept toward a pen.

“Oh, there is,” she hissed back, and stopped at a gate, waving Celaena forward.

Celaena approached and frowned. “It's a horse.” But even as the words left her mouth, she knew it wasn't.

“It's an Asterion horse,” Ansel breathed, her red-brown eyes growing huge.

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.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Ansel whispered. “Her name is Hisli.” Mares, Celaena remembered, were more prized, as Asterion pedigrees were traced through the female line. “And that one,” Ansel said, pointing to the next stall, “is named Kasida—it means ‘drinker of the wind' in the desert dialect.”

Kasida's name was fitting. The slender mare was a dapple gray, with a sea-foam white mane and thundercloud coat. She huffed and stomped her forelegs, staring at Celaena with eyes that seemed older than the earth itself. Celaena suddenly understood why the Asterion horses were worth their weight in gold.

“Lord Berick got them today. Bought them from a merchant on his way to Banjali.” Ansel slipped into Hisli's pen. She cooed and murmured, stroking the horse's muzzle. “He's planning on testing them out in half an hour.” That explained why they were already saddled.

“And?” Celaena whispered, holding out a hand for Kasida to smell. The mare's nostrils flared, her velvety nose tickling Celaena's fingertips.

“And then he's either going to give them away as a bribe, or lose interest and let them languish here for the rest of their lives. Lord Berick tends to tire of his playthings rather quickly.”

“What a waste.”

“Indeed it is,” Ansel muttered from inside the stall. Celaena lowered her fingers from Kasida's muzzle and peered into Hisli's pen. Ansel was running a hand down Hisli's black flank, her face still full of wonder. Then she turned. “Are you a strong rider?”

“Of course,” Celaena said slowly.

“Good.”

Celaena bit down on her cry of alarm as Ansel unlocked the stall door and guided Hisli out of her pen. In a smooth, quick motion, the girl was atop the horse, clutching the reins in one hand. “Because you're going to have to ride like hell.”

With that, Ansel sent Hisli into a gallop, heading straight for the stable doors.

Celaena didn't have time to gape or really even to process what she was about to do as she unlocked Kasida's pen, yanked her out, and heaved herself into the saddle. With a muffled curse, she dug her heels into the mare's sides and took off.

The guards didn't know what was happening until the horses had already rushed past them in a blur of black and gray, and they were through the main palace gate before the guards' cries finished echoing. Ansel's red hair shone like a beacon as she broke for the side exit from the city, people leaping aside to let them pass.

Celaena looked back through the crowded streets only once—and that was enough to see the three mounted guards charging after them, shouting.

But the girls were already through the city gate and into the sea of red dunes that spread beyond, Ansel riding as if the denizens of hell were behind her. Celaena could only race after her, doing her best to keep in the saddle.

Kasida moved like thunder and turned with the swiftness of lightning. The mare was so fast that Celaena's eyes watered in the wind. The three guards, astride ordinary horses, were still far off, but not nearly far enough for comfort. In the vastness of the Red Desert, Celaena had no choice but to follow Ansel.

Celaena clung to Kasida's mane as they took dune after dune, up and down, down and up, until there was only the red sand and the cloudless sky and the rumble of hooves, hooves, hooves rolling through the world.

Ansel slowed enough for Celaena to catch up, and they galloped along the broad, flat top of a dune.

“Are you out of your damned mind?” Celaena shouted.

“I don't want to walk home! We're taking a shortcut!” Ansel shouted back. Behind them, the three guards still charged onward.

Celaena debated slamming Kasida into Hisli to send Ansel tumbling onto the dunes—leaving her for the guards to take care of—but the girl pointed over Hisli's dark head. “Live a little, Sardothien!”

And just like that, the dunes parted to reveal the turquoise expanse of the Gulf of Oro. The cool sea breeze kissed her face, and Celaena leaned into it, almost moaning with pleasure.

Ansel let out a whoop, careening down the final dune and heading straight toward the beach and the breaking waves. Despite herself, Celaena smiled and held on tighter.

Kasida hit the hard-packed red sand and gained speed, faster and faster.

Celaena had a sudden moment of clarity then, as her hair ripped from her braid and the wind tore at her clothes. Of all the girls in all the world, here she was on a spit of beach in the Red Desert, astride an Asterion horse, racing faster than the wind. Most would never experience this—
she
would never experience anything like this again. And for that one heartbeat, when there was nothing more to it than that, she tasted bliss so complete that she tipped her head back to the sky and laughed.

The guards reached the beach, their fierce cries nearly swallowed up by the booming surf.

Ansel cut away, surging toward the dunes and the giant wall of rock that arose nearby. The Desert Cleaver, if Celaena knew her geography correctly—which she did, as she'd studied maps of the Deserted Land for weeks now. A giant wall that arose from the earth and stretched from the eastern coast all the way to the black dunes of the south—split clean down the middle by an enormous fissure. They'd come around it on the way from the fortress, which was on the other side of the Cleaver, and that was what had made their journey so insufferably long. But today . . .

“Faster, Kasida,” she whispered in the horse's ear. As if the mare understood her, she took off, and soon Celaena was again beside Ansel, cutting up dune after dune as they headed straight for the red wall of rock. “What are you doing?” she called to Ansel.

Ansel gave her a fiendish grin. “We're going through it. What good is an Asterion horse if it can't jump?”

Celaena's stomach dropped. “You can't be serious.”

Ansel glanced over her shoulder, her red hair streaming past her face. “They'll chase us to the doors of the fortress if we go the long way!” But the guards couldn't make the jump, not with ordinary horses.

A narrow opening in the wall of red rock appeared, twisting away from sight. Ansel headed straight toward it. How
dare
she make such a reckless, stupid decision without consulting Celaena first?

“You planned this the whole time,” Celaena snapped. Though the guards still remained a good distance away, they were close enough for Celaena to see the weapons, including longbows, strapped to them.

Ansel didn't reply. She just sent Hisli flying forward.

Celaena had to choose between the unforgiving walls of the Cleaver and the three guards behind them. She could take the guards in a few seconds—if she slowed enough to draw her daggers. But they were mounted, and aiming might be impossible. Which meant she'd have to get close enough to kill them, as long as they didn't start firing at her first. They probably wouldn't shoot at Kasida, not when she was worth more than all of their lives put together, but Celaena couldn't bring herself to risk the magnificent beast. And if she killed the guards, that still left her alone in the desert, since Ansel surely wouldn't stop until she was on the other side of the Cleaver. Since she had no desire to die of thirst . . .

Cursing colorfully, Celaena plunged after Ansel into the passage through the canyon.