“Get on your feet,” someone barked.
Tears stung her eyes, and the whip creaked as it rose again. She would be killed this time. She would die from the pain of it.
The whip fell, slicing into bone, reverberating through her body, making everything collapse and explode in agony, shifting her body into a graveyard, a dead—
Celaena’s eyes flew open. She panted.
“Are you . . . ,” someone said beside her, and she jerked.
Where was she?
“It was a dream,” said Chaol.
She stared at him, then looked around the room, running a hand through her hair. Rifthold. Rifthold—that’s where she was. In the glass castle—no, in the stone castle beneath.
She was sweating, and the sweat on her back felt uncomfortably like blood. She felt dizzy, nauseated, too small and too large all at once. Though her windows were shut, an odd draft from somewhere in her room kissed her face, smelling strangely of roses.
“Celaena. It was a dream,” the Captain of the Guard said again. “You were screaming.” He gave her a shaky smile. “I thought you were being murdered.”
Celaena reached around to touch her back, beneath her nightshirt. She could feel the three ridges—and some smaller ones, but nothing, nothing—
“I was being whipped.” She shook her head to remove the memory from her mind. “What are you doing here? It’s not even dawn.” She crossed her arms, flushing slightly.
“It’s Samhuinn. I’m canceling our training today, but I wanted to see if you planned to attend the service.”
“Today’s—what? It’s Samhuinn today? Why has no one mentioned it? Is there a feast tonight?” Could she have become so enmeshed in the competition that she’d lost track of time?
He frowned. “Of course, but you’re not invited.”
“Of course. And will you be summoning the dead to you this haunted night or lighting a bonfire with your companions?”
“I don’t partake in such superstitious nonsense.”
“Be careful, my cynical friend!” she warned, putting a hand in the air. “The gods and the dead are closest to the earth this day—they can hear every nasty comment you make!”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s a silly holiday to celebrate the coming of winter. The bonfires just produce ash to cover the fields.”
“As an offering to the gods to keep them safe!”
“As a way to fertilize them.”
Celaena pushed back the covers. “So says you,” she said as she stood. She adjusted her drenched nightgown. She reeked of sweat.
He snorted, following after her as she walked. “I never took you for a superstitious person. How does
She glared at him over her shoulder before she strode into the bathing chamber, Chaol close behind. She paused on the threshold. “Are you going to join me?” she said, and Chaol stiffened, realizing his error. He slammed the door in response.
Celaena found him waiting in her dining room when she emerged, her hair dripping water onto the floor. “Don’t you have your own breakfast?”
“You still haven’t given me an answer.”
“An answer to what?” She sat down across the table and spooned porridge into a bowl. All that was needed was a heap—no, three heaps—of sugar, and some hot cream and—
“Are you going to temple?”
“I’m allowed to go to temple, but not to the feast?” She took a spoonful of the porridge.
“Religious observances shouldn’t be denied to anyone.”
“And the feast is . . . ”
“A show of debauchery.”
“Ah, I see.” She swallowed another bite. Oh, she
“Well? Are you going? We need to leave soon if you are.”
“No,” she said through her food.
“For someone so superstitious, you risk angering the gods by not attending. I imagine that an assassin would take more interest in the day of the dead.”
She made a demented face as she continued eating. “I worship in my own way. Perhaps I’ll make a sacrifice or two of my own.”
He rose, patting his sword. “Mind yourself while I’m gone. Don’t bother dressing too elaborately—Brullo told me that you’re still training this afternoon. You’ve got a Test tomorrow.”
“Again? Didn’t we just have one three days ago?” she moaned. The last Test had been javelin throwing on horseback, and a spot on her wrist was still tender.
But he said nothing more, and her chambers turned silent. Though she tried to forget it, the sound of the whip still snapped in her ears.
Grateful the service was finally over, Dorian Havilliard strode by himself through the castle grounds. Religion neither convinced nor moved him, and after hours of sitting in a pew, muttering prayer after prayer, he was in desperate need of some fresh air. And solitude.
He sighed through his clenched teeth, rubbing a spot on his temple, and headed through the garden. He passed a cluster of ladies, each of whom curtsied and giggled behind their fans. Dorian gave them a terse nod as he strode by. His mother had used the ceremony as a chance to point out all the eligible ladies to him. He’d spent the entire service trying not to scream at the top of his lungs.
Dorian turned around a hedge, almost crashing into a figure of blue-green velvet. It was the color of a mountain lake—that gem-like shade that didn’t quite have a name. Not to mention the dress was about a hundred years out of fashion. His gaze rose to her face, and he smiled.
“Hello, Lady Lillian,” he said, bowing, and then turned to her two companions. “Princess Nehemia. Captain Westfall.” Dorian eyed the assassin’s dress again. The folds of fabric—like the flowing waters of a river—were rather attractive. “You’re looking festive.” Celaena’s brows lowered.
“The Lady Lillian’s servants were attending the service when she dressed,” said Chaol. “There was nothing else to wear.” Of course; corsets required assistance to get in and out of—and the dresses were a labyrinth of secret clasps and ties.
“My apologies, my lord prince,” Celaena said. Her eyes were bright and angry, and a blush rose to her cheek. “I’m
“No, no,” he said quickly, glancing at her feet. They were clad in red shoes—red like the winter berries beginning to pop out on the bushes. “You look very nice. Just a bit—out of place.” Centuries, actually. She gave him an exasperated look. He turned to Nehemia. “Forgive me,” he said in his best Eyllwe, which wasn’t very impressive at all. “How are you?”
Her eyes shone with amusement at his shoddy Eyllwe, but she nodded in acknowledgment. “I am well, Your Highness,” she answered in his language. Dorian’s attention flicked to her two guards, who lurked in the shadows nearby—waiting, watching. Dorian’s blood thrummed in his veins.
For weeks now, Duke Perrington had been pushing for a plan to bring more forces into Eyllwe—to crush the rebels so efficiently that they wouldn’t dare challenge Adarlan’s rule again. Just yesterday, the duke presented a plan: they would deploy more legions, and keep Nehemia here to discourage any retaliation from the rebels. Not particularly inclined to add hostage-taking to his repertoire of abilities, Dorian had spent hours arguing against it. But while some of the council members had also voiced their disapproval, the majority seemed to think the duke’s strategy to be a sound one. Still, Dorian had convinced them to back off about it until his father returned. That would give him time to win over some of the duke’s supporters.
Now, standing before her, Dorian quickly looked away from the princess. If he were anyone but the Crown
