Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #1)(118)

“But I’d like to remain your friend.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “Always.”

She thought about touching his arm, or about kissing his cheek, but “free” kept echoing through her again and again and again, and she couldn’t stop smiling.

He rolled his neck, and his smile was a bit strained. “I think Nehemia is on her way here to tell you about the contract. She’ll be mad at me for telling you first; apologize for me, will you?” He paused when he opened the door, his hand still upon the knob. “Congratulations, Celaena,” he said quietly. Before she could reply, he shut the door and left.

Alone, Celaena looked to the window and put a hand on her heart, whispering the word to herself again and again.

Free.





Chapter 54

Several hours later, Chaol stared at the door to her dining room. He didn’t entirely know what he was doing back here. But he’d looked for Dorian in his rooms, and he hadn’t been there, and he needed to tell him that things weren’t as they’d seemed when he walked in on them earlier. He glanced at his hands.

The king had barely said anything to him over the past week, and Cain’s name hadn’t been mentioned in any of their meetings. Not that it would be, as Cain was little more than a pawn in a game to amuse the king, and certainly not a member of the royal guard.

But he was still dead. Cain’s eyes would open no more because of him . . . He would not draw breath because of him . . . His heart had stopped beating because of him . . .

Chaol’s hand drifted to where his sword should have been. He’d thrown it in the corner of his room as soon as he’d returned from the duel last week. Mercifully, someone had cleaned the blood from it. Perhaps the guards who had taken Chaol to his chambers and given him a strong drink. They’d sat in silence until some semblance of reality returned, and then left without a word, not waiting for Chaol to thank them.

Chaol ran a hand through his short hair and opened the dining room door.

Celaena was picking at her dinner, slouched in her seat. Her brows rose. “Two visits in one day?” she said, setting down her fork. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

He frowned. “Where’s Dorian?”

“Why would Dorian be here?”

“I thought he usually came here at this hour.”

“Well, don’t expect to find him here after today.”

He approached, stopping at the edge of the table. “Why?”

She popped a piece of bread into her mouth. “Because I ended it.”

“You did what?”

“I’m the King’s Champion. Surely you realize how inappropriate it would be for me to have a relationship with a prince.” Her blue eyes glittered, and he wondered at the slight emphasis she put on prince, and why it made his heart skip a beat.

Chaol fought his own smile. “I was wondering when you’d come to your senses.” Did she fret as he did? Did she constantly think about her blood-covered hands? But for all of her swaggering, for all of her gloating and parading about with hands on her hips . . .

There was still something soft in her face. It gave him hope—hope that he had not lost his soul in the act of killing, hope that humanity could still be found, and honor could be regained . . . She had come out of Endovier and could still laugh.

She twirled her hair around a finger. She was still wearing that absurdly short nightgown, which slid up her thighs as she propped her feet on the edge of the table. He focused on her face.

“Would you like to join me?” she asked, gesturing with one hand to the table. “It’s a shame for me to celebrate alone.”

He looked at her, at that half grin on her face. Whatever had happened with Cain, whatever had happened at the duel . . . that would haunt him. But right now . . .

He pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down. She filled a goblet with wine and handed it to him. “To four years until freedom,” she said, lifting her glass.

He raised his in salute. “To you, Celaena.”

Their eyes met, and Chaol didn’t hide his smile as she grinned at him. Perhaps four years with her might not be enough.

?

Celaena stood in the tomb, and knew she was dreaming. She often visited the tomb in her dreams—to slay the ridderak again, to be trapped inside Elena’s sarcophagus, to face a featureless young woman with golden hair and a crown far too heavy for her to bear—but tonight . . . tonight, it was just her and Elena, and the tomb was filled with moonlight, not a sign to be seen of the ridderak’s corpse.

“How are you recovering?” the queen asked, leaning against the side of her own sarcophagus.

Celaena stayed in the doorway. The queen’s armor was gone, replaced by her usual flowing gown. None of the fierceness twisted her features, either. “Fine,” Celaena said, but glanced down at herself. In this dream world, her injuries were gone. “I didn’t know you were a warrior,” she said, jerking her chin toward the stand where Damaris stood.

“There are many things history has forgotten about me.” Elena’s blue eyes glowed with sorrow and anger. “I fought on the battlefields during the demon wars against Erawan—at Gavin’s side. That’s how we fell in love. But your legends portray me as a damsel who waited in a tower with a magic necklace that would help the heroic prince.”