But what would the assassin have to say about this journey?
“Summon my Champion,” he said. In the ensuing silence, the council members murmured to each other, and his son tried to catch Westfall’s eye. But the captain avoided looking at the prince.
The king smiled slightly, twisting the black ring on his finger. A pity Perrington wasn’t here to see this. He was off dealing with the slave uprising in Calaculla—news of which had been kept so secret that even the messengers had forfeited their lives. The duke would have been greatly amused by today’s turn of events. But he wished Perrington here for more important reasons, too—to help him find out who had opened a portal last night.
He’d sensed it in his sleep—a sudden shift in the world. It was open for only a few minutes before someone closed it again. Cain was gone; who else in this castle possessed that kind of knowledge, or that power in the blood? Was it the same person who had killed Baba Yellowlegs?
He put a hand on Nothung, his sword.
There had been no body—but he didn’t think for one moment that Yellowlegs had just disappeared. The morning after she’d vanished, he’d gone to the carnival himself to look at the ruined wagon. He’d seen the flecks of dark blood staining the wooden floor.
Yellowlegs had been a queen among her people, one of the three brutal factions that had destroyed the Crochan family five hundred years ago. They’d relished erasing much of the wisdom of the Crochan women who had ruled justly for a thousand years. He’d invited the carnival here to meet with her—to purchase a few of her mirrors, and learn what remained of the Ironteeth Alliance that had once been strong enough to rip apart the Witch Kingdom.
But before she had yielded any decent information, she had died. And it frustrated him not to know why. Her blood had been spilled at his castle; others might come to demand answers and retribution. If they came, he would be ready.
Because in the shadows of the Ferian Gap, he’d been breeding new mounts for his gathering armies. And his wyverns still needed riders.
The doors to the council room opened. The assassin walked in, shoulders thrown back in that insufferable way of hers. She coolly took in the details of the room before stopping a few feet away from the table and bowing low. “Your Majesty summoned me?”
She kept her eyes averted, as she usually did. Except for that delightful day when she’d come in and practically flayed Mullison alive. Part of him wished he didn’t now have to free the sniveling councilman from the dungeons.
“Your companion, Captain Westfall, has come up with a rather … unusual idea,” the king said, and waved a hand at Chaol. “Why don’t you explain, Captain?”
The Captain twisted in his chair, then rose to his feet to face her. “I have suggested that we send you to Wendlyn to dispatch the king and his heir. While you are there, you will also seize their naval and military defense plans—so that once the country is in chaos, we will be able to navigate their impenetrable barrier reefs and take the country for ourselves.”
The assassin looked at him for a long moment, and the king noticed that his son had gone very, very still. Then she smiled, a cruel, twisted thing. “It would be an honor to serve the crown in such a way.”
He had never learned anything about the mark that had glowed on her head during the duel. The Wyrdmark was impossible to decipher. It either meant “nameless” or “unnamed,” or something akin to “anonymous.” But gods-blessed or not, from the wicked grin on her face, the king knew she’d enjoy this task.
“Perhaps we’ll have some fun with it,” the king mused. “Wendlyn is having their Solstice ball in a few months. What a message it would send if the king and his son were to meet their end right under the noses of their own court, on their day of triumph.”
Though the captain shifted on his feet at the sudden change of plans, the assassin smiled at him again, dark glee written all over her. What hellhole had she come from, to find delight in such things? “A brilliant idea, Your Majesty.”
“It’s done, then,” the king said, and they all looked at him. “You’ll leave tomorrow.”
“But,” his son interrupted, “surely she needs some time to study Wendlyn, to learn its ways and—”
“It’s a two-week journey by sea,” he said. “And then she’ll need time to infiltrate the castle in time for the ball. She can take whatever materials she needs and study them onboard.”
Her brows had lifted slightly, but she just bowed her head. The captain was still standing, stiffer than usual. And his son was glaring—glaring at him and at the captain, so angry that he wondered whether he’d snap.
But the king wasn’t particularly interested in their petty dramas, not when this brilliant plan had arisen. He’d have to send riders immediately to the Ferian Gap and the Dead Islands, and have General Narrok ready his legion. He didn’t mean to make mistakes with this one chance in Wendlyn.
And it would be the perfect opportunity to test a few of the weapons he’d been forging in secret all these years.
Tomorrow.
She was leaving tomorrow.
And Chaol had come up with the idea? But why? She wanted to demand answers, wanted to know what he was thinking when he’d come up with this plan. She’d never told him the truth about the king’s threats—that he would execute Chaol if she didn’t return from a mission, if she failed. And she could fake the deaths of petty lords and merchants, but not the King and Crown Prince of Wendlyn. Not in a thousand lifetimes could she find a way out of it.
She paced and paced, knowing Chaol wouldn’t be back in his rooms yet, and wound up going down to the tomb, if only to give herself something to do.
She expected Mort to lecture her about the portal—which he did, thoroughly—but she didn’t expect to find Elena waiting for her inside the tomb. “You have enough power to appear to me now, but you couldn’t help close the portal last night?”
She took one look at the queen’s frown and began pacing again.
“I could not,” Elena said. “Even now, this visit is draining me faster than it should.”
Celaena scowled at her. “I can’t go to Wendlyn. I—I can’t go. Chaol knows what I’m doing for you—so why would he make me go there?”
“Take a breath,” Elena said softly.
Celaena glared at her. “This ruins your plans, too. If I’m in Wendlyn, then I can’t deal with the Wyrdkeys and the king. And even if I pretended to go and instead went questing across this continent, it wouldn’t take long for the king to realize I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”
Elena crossed her arms. “If you are in Wendlyn, then you will be near Doranelle. I think that’s why the captain wants you to go.”
Celaena barked a laugh. Oh, what a tangled mess he’d gotten her into! “He wants me to go hide with the Fae and never come back to Adarlan? That’s not going to happen. Not only will he be killed, but the Wyrdkeys—”
“You will sail to Wendlyn tomorrow.” Elena’s eyes glowed bright. “Leave the Wyrdkeys and the king for now. Go to Wendlyn, and do what needs to be done.”
“Did you plant this idea in his head somehow?”
“No. The captain is trying to save you the only way he knows how.”
Celaena shook her head, looking at the sunlight pouring into the tomb from the shaft above. “Will you ever stop giving me commands?”
Elena let out a soft laugh. “When you stop running from your past, I will.”
Celaena rolled her eyes, then let her shoulders droop. A shard of memory sliced through her. “When I spoke to Nehemia, she mentioned … mentioned that she knew her own fate. That she had embraced it. That it would set things in motion. Do you think she somehow manipulated Archer into …” But she couldn’t finish saying it, couldn’t let herself voice what the horrible truth might be: that Nehemia had engineered her own death, knowing that she might change the world—change Celaena—more through dying than living.
A cold, slender hand grasped hers. “Cast that thought into the far reaches of your mind. Knowing the truth, whatever it may be, will not change what you must do tomorrow—where you must go.”
And even though Celaena knew the truth in that moment, knew it just from Elena’s refusal to answer at all, she did as the queen commanded. There would be other moments, other times to take out that truth to examine every dark and unforgiving facet. But right now—right now …
Celaena studied the light pouring into the tomb. Such a little light, holding the darkness at bay. “Wendlyn, then.”
Elena smiled grimly and squeezed her hand. “Wendlyn, then.”
Chapter 54
When the council meeting was over, Chaol did his best not to look at his father, who had been watching him so carefully while he’d announced his plans to the king, or at Dorian, whose sense of betrayal rippled off of him as the meeting went on. He tried to hurry back to the barracks, but he wasn’t all that surprised when a hand clapped on his shoulder and turned him around.
“Wendlyn?” Dorian snarled.
Chaol kept his face blank. “If she’s capable of opening a portal like she did last night, then I think she needs to get out of the castle for a while. For all of our sakes.” Dorian couldn’t know the truth.
“She’ll never forgive you for having her shipped off like that, to take down a whole country. And in such a public way—making a spectacle out of it. Are you mad?”
“I don’t need her forgiveness. And I don’t want to worry about her letting in a horde of otherwordly creatures just because she’s missing her friend.”
He hated each lie that came out of his mouth, but Dorian drank them up, his eyes seeming to glow with rage. This was the other sacrifice he’d have to make; because if Dorian didn’t hate him, if he didn’t want Chaol gone, then leaving for Anielle would be that much more difficult.
“If anything happens to her in Wendlyn,” Dorian growled, refusing to back down, “I’ll make you regret the day you were born.”
If anything happened to her, Chaol was fairly certain he’d forever regret that day, too.
But he just said, “One of us has to start leading, Dorian,” and stalked off.
Dorian didn’t follow him.
Dawn was just breaking as Celaena arrived at Nehemia’s grave. The last of the winter snows had melted, leaving the world barren and brown, waiting for spring.
In a few hours, she’d set sail across the ocean.
Celaena dropped to her knees on the damp ground and bowed her head before the grave.
Then she said the words she’d wanted to say to Nehemia last night. The words that she should have said from the beginning. Words that wouldn’t change, no matter what she learned about Nehemia’s death.
“I want you to know,” she whispered to the wind, to the earth, to the body far beneath her, “that you were right. You were right. I am a coward. And I have been running for so long that I’ve forgotten what it is to stand and fight.”
She bowed deeper, putting her forehead against the dirt.
“But I promise,” she breathed into the soil, “I promise that I will stop him. I promise that I will never forgive, never forget what they did to you. I promise that I will free Eyllwe. I promise that I will see your father’s crown restored to his head.”
She raised herself, drawing a dagger from her pocket, and sliced a line across her left palm. Blood welled, ruby-bright against the golden dawn, sliding down the side of her hand before she pressed her palm to the earth.
“I promise,” she whispered again. “On my name, on my life, even if it takes until my last breath, I promise I will see Eyllwe freed.”
She let her blood soak into the ground, willing it to carry the words of her oath to the Otherworld where Nehemia was safe at last. From now on, there would be no other oaths but this, no other contracts, no other obligations. Never forgive, never forget.
