In this brand-new, never-before-published scene,
Chaol and Dorian discuss the deadly competition that awaits in Throne of Glass.
There’s a special assassin they’ve heard of, but no
one knows if she’s fit for the grueling task—or if she’s even alive, for that
matter.
Their only option is to travel to the Salt Mines and
find out . . .
Dorian Havilliard stood at the
window of his tower bedroom, leaning out as far as he dared to catch just a
breath of wind on his face. In the distance, the emerald roofs of Rifthold
sizzled in the late summer sun, and beyond them, the foothills rolled toward
the storm clouds gathering on the western horizon.
The rain would be a relief. It had
been three weeks of stifling heat, two weeks without a whisper of wind off the
Avery, and the reek from the rotting city had now reached even the highest
spires of the glass castle. The stench of baking filth was so bad that most of
his father’s court had left—either for the sea or for the north. Or both.
The heat made the endless string of
council meetings and state dinners unbearable, even when encircled by servants
fanning them with palm fronds imported from Eyllwe. And if the miserable heat
wasn’t enough, the topic of those meetings made Dorian’s temper fray.
Wiping the sweat from his brow on
the back of a hand, Dorian shoved up the sleeves of his white shirt to his
elbows and faced the Captain of the Guard.
Chaol, who had been reading some
document or report or other on the couch by the unlit fireplace, looked up.
“Well?”
“I’m still thinking about it,”
Dorian said, going to the oak table that once had been intended for dining but
was now covered in ever-growing stacks of books and papers.
“Your father wanted your decision
yesterday.”
No hint of aggression or
condescension—just worry. Chaol was always worrying. Even if he rarely showed
it. No, even in the heat, Chaol was still wearing his black uniform, still
looking crisp and alert and ready to face any threat.
“This . . . contest”—Dorian spat the word—“is absurd. A waste of gold, a waste
of time, a waste of men’s lives.” He reached for the pitcher of water wedged
between two piles of books and poured himself and Chaol each a glass. “I don’t
even understand why he needs a so-called Champion when he has you and your men.
Plus the gods know how many shady people working for him.”
Chaol set down the papers as Dorian
handed him the glass, but frowned. “The other councilmen have already selected
their Champions. Whether you want to or not, your father’s competition will happen.” Chaol drummed his fingers
on the worn fabric of the back of the couch. “If you refuse to play, it will
make a statement” A flash of bronze eyes. “And I don’t think it’s the kind of
statement you want to make right now.”
Chaol knew—had always known—about
Dorian’s tumultuous relationship with his father. Dorian had never been
outright rebellious, perhaps because Chaol was usually there to subtly
interfere, to keep Dorian from saying or doing something he’d later regret. But
each year, each month, each gods-damned day,
it was getting harder and harder to submit.
He didn’t know why, exactly. He’d
never seen one of those far-off battlefields where his father’s armies still
fought to quell any rebel uprisings, had never seen the labor camps at
Calaculla or Endovier, had never even been in one of his Father’s interrogation
chambers, hidden away in Rifthold. Dorian didn’t support the rebels, didn’t
want to be a part of anyone’s
rebellion, but . . . Perhaps it was just that he was as much a slave to the
crown as the rest of the continent.
Dorian took a long sip of his water.
It was already warm.
“If I’m going to be press ganged
into this competition,” Dorian mused, more to himself than to his friend, “then
I want to win.”
Chaol nodded as if he’d been
expecting it. Which wasn’t surprising at all. Nor were the captain’s next
words. “I have a list of possible Champions we could approach.”
Dorian finished his water. “Who?”
Chaol rattled off four names—three
of them soldiers of some notoriety, and one a mercenary Chaol had worked with
in years past. But Dorian shook his head.
“No. No, they’re too . . .
ordinary.” The other councilmen had picked soldiers and mercenaries and
thieves. And if Dorian couldn’t make a statement to his father by refusing to
participate, then perhaps . . .
He went back to the open window to
study Rifthold, as if he could see every person and creature winding through
the city. He’d never been allowed to roam Rifthold on his own, and the last
time he’d had a night out had been a year ago. The party at the riverfront
estate remained the most lavish Dorian had ever seen, and Chaol had nearly lost
his position when they learned—when his father
learned—who had actually been at that party.
Wealthy rebels from the kingdom of
Melisande, courtesans from the finest brothel in Adarlan. And mixed in with
them all had been thieves, mercenaries, and assassins.
Not just any assassins, gods above,
but Arobynn Hamel, King of the Assassins, and his cabal of notorious killers.
Dorian had unwittingly danced and drank with them all, and Chaol, who had been
told the estate belonged to the visiting emissary from Melisande, had let him
remain there for hours. No one had
known who either of them were, thanks to masks they’d donned at another party
earlier that night, but . . . Even now, Dorian couldn’t suppress a chill at the
thought of whom he might have been dancing with, whom he might have clinked
glasses with . . .
For a heartbeat, Dorian could have
sworn he felt a cool northern wind on his face, faintly scented with pine and
snow. He leaned his head out the window, trying to catch some more of it, but
only the relentless, beating sunshine greeted him. He loosed a sigh and again
studied the city.
Arobynn Hamel would be a good
Champion, but the man had no incentive to participate. They probably wouldn’t
even be able to find him. Or come out of that meeting alive. But . . .
But.
“Celaena Sardothien,” Dorian
murmured.
“What?”
Dorian turned from the window to
find Chaol approaching him. “Celaena Sardothien.”
Chaol just stared at him with
narrowed brows.
It had been almost a year since the
infamous assassin had been captured, tried, and sentenced to a lifetime of
labor in the Salt Mines of Endovier. Dorian and Chaol had been in the seaside
town of Suria when it happened, and though they’d raced back to Rifthold, by
the time they’d returned, she was gone. The guards who had watched her had all
been conveniently reassigned to border outposts, and his father had sealed each
and every document regarding her capture. Or anything about her. Even the
papers had little information, save for a list of victims and her punishment.
They didn’t even know how old she was.
“No,” Chaol said—quietly but laced
with a building temper.
Dorian angled his head. “Rumor
claimed Sardothien was the best. Who better to be my father’s Champion?
Besides, I heard she was pretty, too.” He grinned. “Why not have something
pleasant to look at during the competition?”
“She’s been in Endovier for a year,
Dorian. I doubt she’s much to look at. In fact, she’s probably dead.”
Dorian might have ignored it had
Chaol not spoken so calmly, so clearly.
“Tell me what you know,” Dorian
said. Oh, Chaol was definitely hiding something.
“She’s probably dead,”Chaol repeated
and crossed his arms. They had fought before—many times. And in this horrible
heat . . . Dorian shoved his own temper down.
“Tell me.”
Chaol gave him a pinning stare, one
he usually reserved for his men. Dorian refused to break it, and in turn gave
him the gloriously bored state he reserved for sycophantic councilmen.
After a moment, Chaol sighed through
his nose and said, “I’ve made a few . . . inquiries over the past year. To
Endovier. They all have gone unanswered.” A flicker of anger—and concern—in his
eyes.
“If my father had all the documents
about her capture and trial locked away, then he probably gave an order for all
inquiries about her to be ignored.”
“The question is why, though.”
Dorian shook his head. “Your guess
is as good as mine. Maybe whoever—whatever—she is threatens him. Or undermines
him in some way.” He glanced again to the window, to the land beyond the city,
and smiled slightly. “And if no one will answer your letters, then perhaps we
should just go see for ourselves if she’s alive or not.”
“And if she’s still capable of
work.”
Dorian grimaced. After a year in a
place like Endovier, it’d be a miracle if she still breathed. He hadn’t even
considered the damage to her body. “I’m sure a few months of good food and
exercise will help her recover.”
“That won’t mean anything if she's
broken in other ways.”
“You mean if she’s still sane.”
A half smile, edged with no little
amount of disgust. “If she was even sane to begin with.”
Silence fell, and Dorian had another
glass of water. But if Sardothien was sane, if she wasn’t yet broken, if she
was still alive . . .
“Endovier is two weeks away,” Chaol
said slowly. “Not an easy journey to make. Or a safe one. It’s right on
Terrasen’s border—and the rebels have been restless all summer.”
“I’m going with you, so don’t even
start trying to convince me to stay here.” Dorian couldn’t keep the snap from
his voice. Gods, just the thought of getting out of the castle, getting away
from his father, even for a month . . .
Chaol held up his hands. “It’s my
job to at least attempt to keep you
safe. And even if I say yes to your accompanying me, your father still has to
agree. And I’ll have some conditions
of my own.”
Dorian rolled his eyes. He might as
well be living in the royal nursery. “Leave my father to me.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
Dorian opened his mouth to object
but found a faint smirk on Chaol’s face. Perhaps the captain wanted to get out
of the castle for a while, too. “So you’re really not going to put up a fight
about hunting down Sardothien?”
“I’ve learned to pick my battles
with you.”
He studied his friend. “Let’s hear
your conditions, then.”
Chaol’s smile faded, and he took a
seat on the back of the couch. “We travel with my men—men picked by me.” Dorian
nodded. That was fine. And smart, if Terrasen’s rebels were indeed restless.
“This journey might be your idea, but I’ll be the one leading it.” Dorian
tensed a bit at that but nodded again. “And,” Chaol added, “when we get to
Endovier, if I think it’s too dangerous to take her out of the mines, then
you’ll yield.”
Dorian straightened. “So you get
final say about whether she’s suitable?”
A terse nod. “I’m not questioning
your judgment—”
“Oh, I think all of your conditions
say quite the opposite.”
A flash of ire, then a shake of his
head. “I’m not going to get into an argument with you about it. If you don’t
like the terms, then pick another Champion.”
What Chaol didn’t need to say was
that if he refused to escort him, no other guard would dare cross the captain’s
orders to bring Dorian to Endovier. And Chaol also wasn’t above going to
Dorian’s father to ensure that his order became a royal command.
Dorian gritted his teeth. “Those
aren’t unreasonable demands,” he admitted. “But—in
regard to Sardothien’s suitability . . .” Chaol stilled. “We’ll decide
together.”
Chaol loosed a breath. Then another.
Judging, weighing, calculating. When Chaol had that contemplative look on his
face, it was impossible to tell what he’d decide. Keeping Dorian and this
castle safe was his first priority, but Dorian knew that he also considered
their friendship to be almost as important, and sometimes weighed it in his
decisions. Even if, as it had last year, it sometimes got him in trouble.
But Chaol sighed a third time and
said, “Fine. We’ll decide if she’s fit to participate together. But”—Dorian groaned—“promise you’ll not
let your desire to needle your father cloud your judgment.”
“I wouldn’t—”
A pointed look.
Dorian lifted his eyes to the stone
ceiling. “Fine, fine. I promise.”
Chaol finished off the jug of water,
and both of them approached the window to stare out across the sweeping city.
The Captain of' the Guard rapped his
knuckles against the stone window ledge. “To Endovier, then.”
“If
my father says yes,” Dorian added, already wondering how he could approach the
king about it.
“I have a feeling you’ll find a way
to convince him,” Chaol said, a hint of a smile in his voice.
Thunder grumbled in the distance,
the clouds sweeping closer, and Dorian could have sworn he heard all of
Rifthold sigh in relief. He again wiped the sweat from his brow and grinned.
“To Endovier, then.”
