Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(38)

Nehemia laughed. “Elentiya, I’m honestly surprised you told me.”

An opening and closing door, then footsteps, then Philippa knocked and bustled in, carrying a letter for Celaena. “Good morning, beautiful ladies,” she clucked, making Nehemia grin. “A letter for our most esteemed Champion.”

Celaena beamed at Philippa and took it, and her smile grew as she read the contents once the servant left. “It’s from Archer,” she told Nehemia. “He’s given me some names of people who might be involved in this movement—people associated with Davis.” She was a little shocked he’d risk putting it all in a letter. Perhaps she needed to teach him a thing or two about code-writing.

Nehemia had stopped smiling, though. “What sort of man just hands out this information like it’s nothing more than morning gossip?”

“A man who wants his freedom and has had enough of serving pigs.” Celaena folded the letter and stood. If the men on this list were anything like Davis, then perhaps handing them over to the king and using them as leverage wouldn’t be so horrible after all. “I should get dressed; I need to go into the city.” She was halfway to her dressing room when she turned. “We’ll have our first lesson over breakfast tomorrow?”

Nehemia nodded, digging into her food again.

It took her all day to hunt down the men—to learn where they lived, whom they spoke to, how well-guarded they were. None of it yielded anything useful.

She was tired and cranky and hungry when she trudged back to the castle at sundown, and her mood only took a turn for the worse when she arrived at her rooms and found a note from Chaol. The king had commanded her to be on guard duty yet again for the royal ball that night.

Chapter 17

Chaol knew Celaena was in a foul mood without even having to speak to her. Actually, he hadn’t dared speak to her since before the ball had started, other than to position her outside on the patio, hidden in the shadows of a pillar. A few hours in the winter night would cool her down.

From his spot inside, tucked into an alcove near a servants’ entrance, he could keep an eye on the glittering ball in front of him, as well as the assassin standing watch just outside the towering balcony doors. Not that he didn’t trust her—but having Celaena in one of these moods always set him on edge, too.

She was currently leaning against the pillar, arms crossed—not hiding in the shadows as he’d told her to. He could see the tendrils of her breath curling in the night air, and the moonlight glinting off the hilt of one of the daggers she wore at her side.

The ballroom had been decorated in hues of white and glacier blue, with swaths of silk floating from the ceiling and ornate glass baubles hanging between. It was something out of a winter dream, and it was in honor of Hollin, of all people. A few hours of entertainment and a small fortune spent for a boy who was currently sulking on his little glass throne, shoveling sweets down his throat as his mother smiled at him.

He’d never tell Dorian, but Chaol dreaded the day when Hollin would grow into a man. A spoiled child was easy enough to deal with, but a spoiled, cruel leader would be another matter entirely. He hoped that between him and Dorian, they could check whatever corruption was already rotting away in Hollin’s heart—once Dorian ascended to the throne.

The heir was on the dance floor, fulfilling his obligation to court and crown by dancing with whatever ladies demanded his attention. Which, not surprisingly, was almost all of them. Dorian played his role well and smiled throughout the waltzes, a graceful and competent partner, never once complaining or turning any lady away. The dance finished, Dorian bowed to his partner, and before he could take one step, another courtier was curtsying in front of him. If Chaol had been in Dorian’s shoes, he would have winced, but the prince just grinned, took the lady’s hand, and swept her around the floor.

Chaol glanced outside again and straightened. Celaena wasn’t by the pillar.

He stifled a snarl. Tomorrow, they were going to have a nice, long chat about the rules and the consequences of abandoning posts while on guard duty.

A rule that he was also breaking, he realized as he slipped from the alcove and out the door that had been left ajar to allow fresh air into the toasty ballroom.

Where in hell had she gone? Perhaps she’d actually seen some sign of trouble—not that there’d ever been an attack on the palace, and not that anyone would ever be foolish enough to try during a royal ball.

But he still put a hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached the columns at the top of the stairs leading down into the frosted garden. She’d been standing right here, and—

Chaol spotted her.

Well, she’d certainly abandoned her post. But not to face some potential threat.

Chaol crossed his arms. Celaena had left her post to dance.

The music was loud enough that it reached them out here, and at the foot of the steps, Celaena waltzed with herself. She even held the edge of her dark cloak in one hand as if it were the skirts of a ball gown, her other hand poised on the arm of an invisible partner. He didn’t know if he should laugh, yell, or just go back inside and pretend he’d never seen it.

She turned, an elegant sweeping motion that brought her to face him, and halted.

Well, the last option was no longer a possibility. Laughter or yelling, then. Though neither felt appropriate now.

Even in the moonlight, he could see her scowl. “I’m bored to tears and nearly dead with cold,” she said, dropping her cloak.