Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #1)(26)

“You have the skills,” Chaol said, “but some of your moves are still undisciplined.”

She broke her stare with Cain and glared up into Chaol’s face. “That’s never stopped me from killing before,” she spat.

Chaol chuckled at her agitation and pointed his sword at the rack, allowing her to get to her feet. “Pick another—something different. Make it interesting, too. Something that will make me sweat, please.”

“You’ll be sweating when I skin you alive and squish your eyeballs beneath my feet,” she muttered, picking up the rapier.

“That’s the spirit.”

She practically threw the rapier into place, and drew the hunting knives without hesitation.

My dear old friends.

A wicked smile spread across her face.





Chapter 12

Just as Celaena was about to launch herself and her knives at the captain, someone stomped a spear on the ground and called the room to attention. She faced the voice and found a stocky, balding man standing beneath the mezzanine.

“Your attention now,” the man repeated. Celaena looked to Chaol, who nodded, taking the knives from her as they joined the twenty-three other competitors encircling the man. “I’m Theodus Brullo, Weapons Master and judge of this competition. Of course, our king’s the final judge of you sorry lot, but I’ll be the one determining every day if you’re fit to be his Champion.”

He patted his sword hilt, and Celaena had to admire the beautiful woven gold of the pommel. “I’ve been Weapons Master here for thirty years, and lived in this castle for twenty-five more than that. I’ve trained many a lord and knight—and many a would-be Champion of Adarlan. It will be very hard to impress me.”

Beside Celaena, Chaol stood with his shoulders thrown back. It occurred to her that Brullo might have trained the captain. Given how easily Chaol had kept up with her, if Brullo had trained him, then the Weapons Master must live up to his title. She knew better than anyone not to underestimate opponents based on their appearance.

“The king’s already told you all there is to know about this competition,” Brullo said, holding his hands behind his back. “But I figured you lot are itching to know more about each other.” He pointed a stubby finger at Cain. “You. What’s your name, occupation, and where do you hail from? And be honest about it—I know none of you are bakers and candlestick makers.”

Cain’s insufferable grin returned. “Cain, soldier in the king’s army. I hail from the White Fang Mountains.” Of course he did. She’d heard tales of the brutality of the mountain folk from that region, and seen a few of them up close, seen the fierceness in their eyes. Many of them had rebelled against Adarlan—and most wound up dead. What would his fellow mountain-dwellers say if they could see him now? She gritted her teeth; what would the people of Terrasen say if they could see her now?

Brullo, however, either didn’t know or didn’t care, and didn’t even give a nod before he pointed to the man to Cain’s right. Celaena immediately liked him. “And you?”

A slender, tall man with thinning blond hair surveyed the circle and sneered. “Xavier Forul. Master Thief of Melisande.” Master Thief! That man? Of course, she realized, his reed-thinness probably aided in slipping into houses. Maybe it wasn’t a bluff.

One by one, the twenty-one other competitors introduced themselves. There were six more seasoned soldiers—all of them thrown out of the army for questionable behavior, which must have been truly questionable, given that Adarlan’s army was notorious for ruthlessness. Then there were the three other thieves—including the dark-haired, gray-eyed Nox Owen, whom she’d actually heard of in passing, and who’d been giving her such charming smiles all morning. The three mercenaries looked ready to boil someone alive, and then there were the two shackled murderers.

As his name suggested, Bill Chastain, the Eye Eater, ate the eyes of his victims. He looked surprisingly plain, with mousy brown hair, tan skin, and average height, though Celaena had trouble not staring at his scar-flecked mouth. The other murderer was Ned Clement, who’d gone for three years under the name Scythe, for the weapon he’d used to torture and hack apart temple priestesses. It was a wonder they hadn’t executed either man, though from their tanned skin, she guessed they’d spent the years since their captures toiling under the sun in Calaculla, the southern sister labor camp to Endovier.

Next came two scarred, silent men who seemed to be cronies of some far-off warlord, and then the five assassins.

She immediately forgot the names of the first four: a gangly, haughty boy; a hulking brute; a disdainful runt of a man; and a sniveling, hawk-nosed prat who claimed he had an affinity for knives. They weren’t even in the Assassins Guild—not that Arobynn Hamel would ever allow them in. Membership required years of training and a more-than-impressive track record. While these four might be skilled, they lacked the refinement that Arobynn favored in his followers. She’d have to keep an eye on them, but at least they weren’t the Silent Assassins from the windswept dunes of the Red Desert. Those would be worthy of her—they’d make her sweat a bit. She’d spent a month training with them one burning summer, and her muscles still ached at the memory of their grueling exercises.

The last assassin, who called himself Grave, made her pause. He was slight and short, with the kind of wicked face that made people quickly look away. He’d entered the room wearing shackles, and only had them removed when his guards—all five of them—gave him a stern warning. Even now, they stood nearby, watching him relentlessly. As he introduced himself, Grave flashed an oily smile, revealing his brown teeth. Her disgust didn’t improve when Grave ran an eye over her body. An assassin like that never stopped at just killing. Not if his victim was female. She willed herself to hold his hungry gaze.