Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(112)

The healer finished with him, giving him a timid, slightly concerned smile. And when it was time to decide who should be looked at next, the glaring contest between Chaol and Celaena was one for the ages.

At last, Chaol just shook his head and slumped into the seat that Dorian had recently vacated. He had blood everywhere, and ended up peeling off his tunic and shirt so the healer could cleanse his minor wounds. Despite the scratches and cuts, the abrasions on his hands and knees, the healer still asked no questions, her pretty face an unreadable, professional mask.

Celaena turned to Dorian, her voice quiet. “I’ll come to your rooms when I’m done here.”

From the corner of his eye, he sensed Chaol stiffening, and Dorian bit down on his surge of jealousy as he realized he was being dismissed. The captain was making a good show of not looking at them. What had happened during the time he’d blacked out? And what had happened when she’d gone to kill Archer?

“Fine,” Dorian said, and thanked the healer for her help.

At least he had time now to piece himself together, to sort through all that had happened in the last few hours. And to plan how to explain his magic to Chaol.

But even as he walked out of the dining room, part of him realized that his magic—that he—was the least of their concerns. Because even from that first day in Endovier, this had always been about them.

Celaena didn’t need a healer to look at her head. When the magic had taken her over, it had somehow healed everything. All that was left of her wounds now were bloodstains and torn clothing. And exhaustion—utter exhaustion.

“I’m taking a bath,” she told Chaol, who still sat shirtless under the healer’s ministrations.

She needed to wash Archer’s blood off her.

She shucked off her clothing and bathed, scrubbing herself until her skin hurt, washing her hair twice. When she emerged, she slipped into a clean tunic and pants, and just as she finished combing out her dripping hair, Chaol walked into her bedroom and sat at the chair before her desk. The healer gone, he’d put his shirt back on, and she could see the white bandages peeking through the rips in the dark cloth.

Celaena checked on Fleetfoot, who was still unconscious on the bed, and then walked to the balcony doors. She studied the night sky for a long moment, seeking out a familiar constellation—the Stag, the Lord of the North. She took a long breath.

“My great-grandmother was Fae,” she said. “And even though my mother couldn’t switch into an animal form the way the Fae can, I somehow inherited the ability to shift. Between my Fae form and my human form.”

“And you can’t shift anymore?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “When magic stopped ten years ago, I lost my ability. It’s what saved my life, I think. As a child, when I was scared or upset or had tantrums, I couldn’t control the shift. I was learning to master it, but I would have given myself away at some point.”

“But in that—that other world, you could …”

She turned to face him, seeing the haunted gleam in his eyes. “Yes. In that world, magic, or something like it, still exists. And it is just as awful and overwhelming as I remembered.” She eased onto the edge of her bed, the distance between them feeling like leagues. “I had no control over it—over the shift, or the magic, or myself. I was as likely to hurt you as I was to hurt that creature.” She closed her eyes, her hands shaking a bit.

“So you did open a portal to another world. How?”

“All those books I’ve been reading on the Wyrdmarks—they had spells to open temporary portals.” And then she explained about finding the passage on Samhuinn, and the tomb and Elena’s command to become the Champion, and what Cain had been doing and how she had killed him, and how tonight she had wanted to open a portal to see Nehemia. She left out the Wyrdkeys, the king, and what she suspected he might be doing with Kaltain and Roland.

When she finished, Chaol said, “I would say you’re insane, except I have the blood of that creature on me, and went into that world myself.”

“If anyone knew—not just about the spells to open portals, but about what I am,” she said wearily, “you understand that I would be executed.”

His eyes flashed. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I swear it.”

She bit her lip, nodding, and walked back to the window. “Archer told me that he was the one who had Nehemia assassinated, because she was a threat to his control over the group. He posed as Councilman Mullison and hired Grave. He kidnapped you to lure me away. He planted that anonymous threat against her life, too. Because he wanted me to blame you for her death.”

Chaol swore, but she kept gazing out the window, kept looking at that constellation.

“But even though I know you’re not responsible,” she said softly, “I still …” She found his face full of anguish.

“You still can’t trust me,” he finished.

She nodded. In this, she knew Archer had won, and hated him for it. “When I look at you,” she whispered, “all I want to do is touch you. But what happened that night … I don’t know if I can ever forget it.” The deepest cut on his cheek had scabbed, and she knew it would scar. “For my part, I am sorry for what I did to you.”

He stood, wincing at his wounds, and walked over to her. “We both made mistakes,” he said in that voice that made her heart stumble.