Throne of Glass (17 page)

“You’re sulking again. Are you upset over something, my pet? Have you heard from Rosamund? My poor child—how she broke your heart!” The queen shook her head. “Though it
was
over a year ago . . .” He didn’t reply. He didn’t want to think about Rosamund—or about the boorish husband she’d left him for.

Some nobles started dancing, weaving in and out among each other. Many were his age, but he somehow felt as if there existed a vast distance between them. He didn’t feel older, nor did he feel any wiser, but rather he felt . . . He felt . . .

He felt as if there were something inside him that didn’t fit in with their merriment, with their willing ignorance of the world outside the castle. It went beyond his title. He had enjoyed their company early in his adolescence, but it had become apparent that he’d always be a step away. The worst of it was that they didn’t seem to notice he was different—or that he felt different. Were it not for Chaol, he would have felt immensely lonely.

“Well,” his mother said, snapping her ivory fingers at one of her ladies-in-waiting, “I’m sure your father has you busy, but when you find a moment to bother thinking of me, and the fate of your kingdom, look through this.” His mother’s lady curtsied as she extended to him a folded piece of paper, stamped with his mother’s bloodred seal. Dorian ripped it open, and his stomach twisted at the long line of names. All ladies of noble blood, all of marriageable age.

“What is this?” he demanded, fighting the urge to rip up the paper.

She gave him a winning smile. “A list of potential brides. Any one of them would be suitable to take the crown. And all, I’ve been told, are quite capable of producing heirs.”

Dorian stuffed the list of names into the pocket of his vest. The restlessness within him would not cease. “I’ll think about it,” he said, and before she could reply, he stepped from the awning-covered podium. Immediately, five young women flocked to him and began asking him to dance, how he fared, if he would attend the Samhuinn ball. Around and around their words circled, and Dorian stared at them blankly. What were their names?

He peered over their jewel-encrusted heads to find the path to the door. He’d suffocate if he remained here for too long. With only polite good-byes, the Crown Prince strode from the jangle and jingle of the court, the list of would-be brides burning a hole through his clothes and straight into his skin.

Dorian put his hands in his pockets as he strode down the halls of the castle. The kennels were empty—the dogs were at the track. He’d wished to inspect one of the pregnant hounds, though he knew it was impossible to predict the outcome of the litter until she gave birth. He hoped the pups would be pure, but their mother had a tendency to escape from her pen. She was his fastest, but he’d never been able to quell the wildness within her.

He didn’t really know where he was going now; he just needed to walk—anywhere.

Dorian loosened the top button on his vest. The clash of swords echoed from an open doorway, and he paused. He faced the Champions’ training room, and even though training was supposed to be over by now, there—

There she was.

Her golden hair shone as she wove in and out of a knot of three guards, her sword little more than a steel extension of her hand. She didn’t balk at the guards as she dodged and twirled around them.

Someone began clapping to the left, and the four dueling figures stopped, panting. Dorian watched a grin spread across the assassin’s face as she beheld the source. The sheen of sweat illuminated her high cheekbones, and her blue eyes sparkled. Yes, she was truly lovely. But—

Princess Nehemia approached, clapping. She was clad not in her usual white gown, but rather in a dark tunic and loose trousers, and she clutched an ornately carved wooden staff in one hand.

The princess clasped the assassin on the shoulder, and said something to the girl that made her laugh. Dorian looked around. Where was Chaol or Brullo? Why was Adarlan’s Assassin here with the Princess of Eyllwe? And with a sword! This could not go on, especially after that Champion’s attempted escape the other day.

Dorian approached, and smiled at the princess as he bowed. Nehemia only deigned to give him a terse nod. Not surprising. Dorian took Celaena’s hand. It smelled of metal and sweat, but he kissed it anyway, raising his eyes to her face as he did so. “Lady Lillian,” he muttered onto her skin.

“Your Highness,” she said, trying to pull her hand from his. But Dorian held fast to her calloused palm.

“Might I have a word?” he said, leading her away before she could agree. When they were out of hearing distance, he demanded, “Where’s Chaol?”

She crossed her arms. “Is this any way to speak to your beloved Champion?”

He frowned. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. If I were to bet, though, I’d wager that he’s inspecting the Eye Eater’s mangled corpse, or disposing of Sven’s body. Besides, Brullo said I could stay here as long as I liked after we were done. I
do
have another Test tomorrow, you know.”

Of course he knew. “Why is Princess Nehemia here?”

“She called on me, and when Philippa told her I was here, she insisted on joining. Apparently, a woman can only go so long without a sword between her hands.” She bit her lip.

“I don’t recall you being so talkative.”

“Well, perhaps if you’d taken the time to speak with me, you’d have found me to be so.”

He snorted, but took the bait, gods damn him. “And when would have I spoken to you?”

“You
do
recall the little fact that we traveled together from Endovier, don’t you? And that I’ve been here for weeks now.”

“I sent you those books,” he offered.

“And did you ever ask me if I had read them?”

Had she forgotten to whom she was speaking? “I’ve spoken to you once since we’ve been here.”

She shrugged and made to turn away. Irritated, but slightly curious, he grabbed her arm. Her turquoise eyes glittered as she stared at his hand, and his heart quickened when her gaze rose to his face. Yes, sweaty as she was, she was beautiful.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” She glanced at his sword belt. “Or are you as deft at handling your sword as Captain Westfall?”

He stepped closer, tightening his grip. “Better,” he whispered in her ear. There: she was blushing and blinking.

“Well,” she began, but the timing was off. He’d won. She crossed her arms. “Very amusing, Your Highness.”

He bowed dramatically. “I do what I can. But you can’t have Princess Nehemia here with you.”

“And why is that? Do you believe I’m going to
kill
her? Why would I kill the one person in this castle who isn’t a babbling idiot?” She gave him a look that suggested he was part of the majority. “Not to mention, her guards would kill
me
before I even lifted a hand.”

“It simply can’t happen. She’s here to learn our customs, not to spar.”

“She’s a princess. She can do what she likes.”

“And I suppose
you’re
going to teach her about weaponry?”

She cocked her head. “Perhaps you’re just a
little
bit afraid of me.”

“I’ll escort her back to her chambers.”

She gestured widely for him to pass. “Wyrd help you.”

He ran a hand through his black hair and approached the princess, who waited for them with a hand on her hip. “Your Highness,” Dorian said, motioning to her personal guard to join them. “I’m afraid we must return you to your chambers.”

The princess looked behind his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. To his dismay, Celaena began speaking in Eyllwe to the princess, who stomped her staff. She hissed something at him. Dorian’s skill with the Eyllwe language was spotty at best, and the princess spoke too fast for him to understand. Thankfully, the assassin translated.

“She says you can return to your cushions and dancing and leave us be,” Celaena said.

He tried his best to look serious. “Tell her it’s unacceptable for her to spar.”

Celaena said something, to which the princess only waved a hand and strode past them and onto the sparring floor.

“What did you say?” Dorian said.

“I said you volunteered to be her first partner,” she said. “Well? You don’t want to upset the princess.”

“I will not
spar
with the princess.”

“Would you rather spar with me?”

“Perhaps if we had a private lesson in your chambers,” he said smoothly. “Tonight.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She curled her hair around a finger.

The princess twirled her staff with strength and precision that made him gulp. Deciding that he didn’t feel like having the daylights walloped out of him, he walked to the rack of weapons and selected two wooden swords. “How about some basic swordplay instead?” he asked Nehemia. To his relief, the princess nodded and handed her staff to one of her guards, then took the practice sword Dorian extended to her. Celaena would not make a fool out of
him
!

“You stand like this,” he said to the princess, taking a defensive stance.

Chapter 18

Celaena smiled as she watched the Crown Prince of Adarlan lead the Princess of Eyllwe through the basic steps of fencing. He was charming, she supposed. In an arrogant sort of way. But someone with his title could have been far, far worse. It made her uneasy how he’d made her blush. In fact, he was so attractive that she had difficulty
not
thinking about how attractive he was, and again wondered why he wasn’t married.

She sort of wanted to kiss him.

She swallowed. She’d been kissed before, of course. By Sam, and often enough that she was no stranger to it. But it’d been over a year since she’d lost the assassin she’d grown up with. And even though the thought of kissing anyone else had once made her sick, when she saw Dorian . . .

Princess Nehemia lunged, slapping Dorian on the wrist with her sword. Celaena bit down her laughter. He grimaced and rubbed the sore joint, but then smiled as the princess began gloating.

Damn him for being so handsome!

She leaned against the wall and would have enjoyed the lesson had someone not grabbed her arm hard enough to hurt.

“
What
is this?” Dragged from the wall, she found herself facing Chaol.

“What is what?”

“
What
is Dorian doing with
her
?”

She shrugged. “Sparring?”

“And
why
are they sparring?”

“Because he volunteered to teach her how to fight?”

Chaol practically shoved her from him as he approached the pair. They stopped, and Dorian followed Chaol to a corner. They spoke quickly—angrily—before Chaol came back to Celaena. “The guards will take you to your chambers.”

“What?” She remembered their conversation on the balcony and frowned. So much for swapping stories. “The Test is tomorrow, and I need to train!”

“I think you’ve had enough training for today—it’s almost dinner. Your lesson with Brullo ended two hours ago. Get some rest, or you’ll be useless tomorrow. And
no
, I
don’t
know what the Test will be, so don’t bother asking.”

“That’s absurd!” she cried, and a pinch from Chaol kept her voice down. Princess Nehemia cast a worried glance in Celaena’s direction, but the assassin waved at her to resume her lesson with the Crown Prince. “I’m not going to
do
anything, you insufferable moron.”

“Are you honestly so blind that you can’t see why we can’t allow this?”

“ ‘Can’t allow’—you’re just afraid of me!”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You think I
want
to go back to Endovier?” she hissed. “You think I’m not aware of the fact that if I flee, I’ll be hunted down for the rest of my life? You think I don’t know
why
I vomit when you and I run in the morning? My body is a
wreck
. I
need
to spend these extra hours here, and you shouldn’t punish me for it!”

“I’m not going to pretend to know how a criminal mind works.”

She threw her hands in the air. “You know, I actually felt guilty. Just a
little
guilty. And now I remember why I shouldn’t have. I hate sitting around, locked in my room, bored out of my senses. I hate all these guards and nonsense; I hate you telling me to hold back when Brullo sings Cain’s praises and I’m just there, boring and unnoticed in the middle. I hate being told what I
can’t
do. And I hate
you
most of all!”

He tapped his foot on the ground. “Are you finished?”

There was no kindness in Chaol’s face, and she clicked her tongue as she left, her fists aching to bash his teeth down his throat.

Chapter 19

Sitting in a chair near the hearth of the great hall, Kaltain watched Duke Perrington converse with Queen Georgina atop her dais. It’d been a shame that Dorian had left so quickly an hour ago; she hadn’t even had the chance to speak to him. Which was especially irksome, given that she’d spent the better part of the morning dressing for court: her raven-black hair was neatly coiled around her head, and her skin glowed golden from the subtle shimmering powders she’d dusted on her face. Though the bindings on her pink-and-yellow gown crushed her ribs, and the pearls and diamonds around her neck strangled her, she kept her chin high, poised. Dorian had left, but having Perrington show up was an unexpected surprise. The duke rarely visited court; this had to be important.