chair.
“Look at me.”
She kept her gaze on his boots.
“Look at me.”
It made no difference now, did it? He’d already destroyed so much of Erilea—destroyed parts of her without even knowing it.
“
Look at me
.”
Celaena raised her head and looked at the King of Adarlan.
The blood drained from her face. Those black eyes were poised to devour the world; the features were harsh and weathered. He wore a sword at his side—the sword whose name everyone knew—and a fine tunic and fur cloak. No crown rested on his head.
She had to get away. Had to get out of this room, get away from him.
Get away.
“Do you have any last requests before I announce your sentence?” he asked, those eyes still searing through every defense she’d ever learned. She could still smell the smoke that had suffocated every inch of Terrasen nine years ago, still smell the sizzling flesh and hear the futile screams as the king and his armies wiped out every last trace of resistance, every last trace of magic. No matter what Arobynn had trained her to do, the memories of those last weeks as Terrasen fell were imprinted upon her blood. So she just stared at him.
When she didn’t reply, he turned on his heel and walked back to the table.
She had to get away. Forever. Brash, foolish fire flared up, and turned her—just for a moment—into that girl again.
“I do,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.
The king paused and looked over his shoulder at her.
She smiled, a wicked, wild thing. “
Make it quick
.”
It was a challenge, not a plea. The king’s council and the guards shifted, some of them murmuring.
The king’s eyes narrowed slightly, and when he smiled at her, it was the most horrific thing she’d ever seen.
“Oh?” he said, turning to face her fully.
That foolish fire went out.
“If it is an easy death you desire, Celaena Sardothien, I will certainly not give it to you. Not until you have adequately suffered.”
The world balanced on the edge of a knife, slipping, slipping, slipping.
“You, Celaena Sardothien, are sentenced to nine lives’ worth of labor in the Salt Mines of Endovier.”
Her blood turned to ice. The councilmen all glanced at each other. Obviously, this option hadn’t been discussed beforehand.
“You will be sent with orders to keep you alive for as long as possible—so you will have the chance to enjoy Endovier’s special kind of agony.”
Endovier.
Then the king turned away.
Endovier.
There was a flurry of motion, and the king barked an order to have her on the first wagon out of the city. Then there were hands on her arms, and crossbows pointed at her as she was half-dragged out of the room.
Endovier.
She was thrown in her dungeon cell for minutes, or hours, or a day. Then more guards came to fetch her, leading her up the stairs, into the still-blinding sun.
Endovier.
New shackles, hammered shut. The dark interior of a prison wagon. The turn of multiple locks, the jostle of horses starting into a walk, and many other horses surrounding the wagon.
Through the small window high in the door wall, she could see the capital, the streets she knew so well, the people milling about and glancing at the prison wagon and the mounted guards, but not thinking about who might be inside. The golden dome of the Royal Theater in the distance, the briny scent of a breeze off the Avery, the emerald-tiled roofs and white stones of every building.
All passing by, all so quickly.
They passed the Assassin’s Keep where she had trained and bled and lost so much, the place where Sam’s body lay, waiting for her to bury him.
The game had been played, and she had lost.
Now they came to the looming alabaster walls of the city, their gates thrown wide to accommodate their large party.
As Celaena Sardothien was led out of the capital, she sank into a corner of the wagon and did not get up.
Standing atop one of the many emerald roofs of Rifthold, Rourke Farran and Arobynn Hamel watched as the
“Look at me.”
She kept her gaze on his boots.
“Look at me.”
It made no difference now, did it? He’d already destroyed so much of Erilea—destroyed parts of her without even knowing it.
“
Look at me
.”
Celaena raised her head and looked at the King of Adarlan.
The blood drained from her face. Those black eyes were poised to devour the world; the features were harsh and weathered. He wore a sword at his side—the sword whose name everyone knew—and a fine tunic and fur cloak. No crown rested on his head.
She had to get away. Had to get out of this room, get away from him.
Get away.
“Do you have any last requests before I announce your sentence?” he asked, those eyes still searing through every defense she’d ever learned. She could still smell the smoke that had suffocated every inch of Terrasen nine years ago, still smell the sizzling flesh and hear the futile screams as the king and his armies wiped out every last trace of resistance, every last trace of magic. No matter what Arobynn had trained her to do, the memories of those last weeks as Terrasen fell were imprinted upon her blood. So she just stared at him.
When she didn’t reply, he turned on his heel and walked back to the table.
She had to get away. Forever. Brash, foolish fire flared up, and turned her—just for a moment—into that girl again.
“I do,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.
The king paused and looked over his shoulder at her.
She smiled, a wicked, wild thing. “
Make it quick
.”
It was a challenge, not a plea. The king’s council and the guards shifted, some of them murmuring.
The king’s eyes narrowed slightly, and when he smiled at her, it was the most horrific thing she’d ever seen.
“Oh?” he said, turning to face her fully.
That foolish fire went out.
“If it is an easy death you desire, Celaena Sardothien, I will certainly not give it to you. Not until you have adequately suffered.”
The world balanced on the edge of a knife, slipping, slipping, slipping.
“You, Celaena Sardothien, are sentenced to nine lives’ worth of labor in the Salt Mines of Endovier.”
Her blood turned to ice. The councilmen all glanced at each other. Obviously, this option hadn’t been discussed beforehand.
“You will be sent with orders to keep you alive for as long as possible—so you will have the chance to enjoy Endovier’s special kind of agony.”
Endovier.
Then the king turned away.
Endovier.
There was a flurry of motion, and the king barked an order to have her on the first wagon out of the city. Then there were hands on her arms, and crossbows pointed at her as she was half-dragged out of the room.
Endovier.
She was thrown in her dungeon cell for minutes, or hours, or a day. Then more guards came to fetch her, leading her up the stairs, into the still-blinding sun.
Endovier.
New shackles, hammered shut. The dark interior of a prison wagon. The turn of multiple locks, the jostle of horses starting into a walk, and many other horses surrounding the wagon.
Through the small window high in the door wall, she could see the capital, the streets she knew so well, the people milling about and glancing at the prison wagon and the mounted guards, but not thinking about who might be inside. The golden dome of the Royal Theater in the distance, the briny scent of a breeze off the Avery, the emerald-tiled roofs and white stones of every building.
All passing by, all so quickly.
They passed the Assassin’s Keep where she had trained and bled and lost so much, the place where Sam’s body lay, waiting for her to bury him.
The game had been played, and she had lost.
Now they came to the looming alabaster walls of the city, their gates thrown wide to accommodate their large party.
As Celaena Sardothien was led out of the capital, she sank into a corner of the wagon and did not get up.
Standing atop one of the many emerald roofs of Rifthold, Rourke Farran and Arobynn Hamel watched as the
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