Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #1)(104)

“Take it,” he said.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She lifted a hand to grab the blade, but someone touched her elbow.

“If I may,” Nehemia said in Eyllwe, “I’d like to offer this to you instead.” The princess held out her beautifully carved iron-tipped staff. Celaena glanced between Chaol’s sword and her friend’s weapon. The sword, obviously, was the wiser choice—and for Chaol to offer his own weapon made her feel strangely lightheaded—but the staff . . .

Nehemia leaned in to whisper in Celaena’s ear. “Let it be with an Eyllwe weapon that you take them down.” Her voice hitched. “Let wood from the forests of Eyllwe defeat steel from Adarlan. Let the King’s Champion be someone who understands how the innocents suffer.”

Hadn’t Elena said almost the same thing, all those months ago? Celaena swallowed hard, and Chaol lowered his sword, taking a step back from them. Nehemia didn’t break her stare.

She knew what the princess was asking of her. As the King’s Champion, she might find ways to save countless lives—ways to undermine the king’s authority.

And that, Celaena realized, was what Elena, the king’s own ancestor, might want, too.

Though a bolt of fear went through her at the thought, though standing against the king was the one thing Celaena had thought she’d never be brave enough to do, she couldn’t forget the three scars on her back, or the slaves she’d left in Endovier, or the five hundred butchered Eyllwe rebels.

Celaena took the staff from Nehemia’s hands. The princess gave her a fierce grin.

Chaol, surprisingly enough, didn’t object. He only sheathed his sword and bowed his head to Nehemia as she clapped Celaena on the shoulder before she walked off.

Celaena gave the staff a few experimental sweeps in the space around her. Balanced, solid, strong. The rounded iron tip could knock a man out cold.

She could feel the lingering oil from Nehemia’s hands and smell her friend’s lotus-blossom scent on the engraved wood. Yes, the staff would do just fine. She’d taken down Verin with her bare hands. She could defeat Grave and Cain with this.

She glanced at the king, who was still speaking with Perrington, and found Dorian watching her instead. His sapphire eyes reflected the brilliance of the sky, though they darkened slightly as he flicked them toward Nehemia. Dorian was many things, but he wasn’t stupid; had he realized the symbolism in Nehemia’s offer? She quickly dropped his stare.

She’d worry about that later. Across the ring, Grave began pacing, waiting for the king to return his attention to the duel and give the order to begin.

She loosed a shuddering breath. Here she was, at long last. She gripped the staff in her left hand, taking in the strength of the wood, the strength of her friend. A lot could happen in a few minutes—a lot could change.

She faced Chaol. The wind ripped a few strands of hair from her braid, and she tucked them behind her ears.

“No matter what happens,” she said quietly, “I want to thank you.”

Chaol tilted his head to the side. “For what?”

Her eyes stung, but she blamed it on the fierce wind and blinked away the dampness. “For making my freedom mean something.”

He didn’t say anything; he just took the fingers of her right hand and held them in his, his thumb brushing the ring she wore.

“Let the second duel commence,” the king boomed, waving a hand toward the veranda.

Chaol squeezed her hand, his skin warm in the frigid air. “Give him hell,” he said. Grave entered the ring and drew his sword.

Pulling her hand from Chaol’s, Celaena straightened her spine as she stepped into the ring. She quickly bowed to the king, then to her opponent.

She met Grave’s stare and smiled as she bent her knees, holding the staff in two hands.

You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, little man.





Chapter 48

As she expected, Grave launched himself at her, going straight for the center of the staff in his hope to break it.

But Celaena whirled away. As Grave struck nothing but air, she slammed the butt of the staff into his spine. He staggered, but kept upright, turning on one foot as he charged after her again.

She took the blow this time, angling her staff so he hit the bottom half. His blade wedged in the wood, and she jumped toward him, letting the force of his own blow snap the upper part of the staff straight into his face. He stumbled, but her fist was waiting. As it met with his nose, she savored the rush of pain through her hand and the crunch of his bones beneath her knuckles. She leapt back before he had a chance to strike. Blood gleamed as it trickled from his nose. “Bitch!” he hissed, and swung.

She met his blade, holding the staff with both hands, pushing the wood shaft into his sword, even when it let out a splintering groan.

She shoved him, grunting, and spun. She whacked the back of his head with the top of the staff, and he teetered, but regained his footing. He wiped at his bloody nose, eyes gleaming as he panted. His pockmarked face became feral, and he charged, aiming a direct blow to her heart. Too fast, too wild for him to stop.

She dropped into a crouch. As the blade sailed overhead, she lashed out at his legs. He didn’t even have time to cry out as she swept his feet out from under him, nor did he have time to raise his weapon before she crouched over his chest, the iron-coated tip of the staff at his throat.