Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(66)

Archer said, “Nehemia and I have been leading this movement together. She came here to organize us—to assemble a group that could go into Terrasen and start gathering forces against the king. And to uncover what the king truly plans to do to Erilea.”

Chaol tensed, and Celaena clamped down on her surprise. “That’s impossible.”

Archer snorted. “Is it? Why is it that the princess is so busy all the time? Do you know where she goes at night?”

The frozen rage flickered again, slowing, slowing, slowing the world down.

And then she remembered: remembered how Nehemia convinced her not to look into the riddle she’d found in Davis’s office and had been so slow and forgetful about her promise to research the riddle; remembered the night Dorian had come to her rooms because Nehemia had been out, and he hadn’t been able to find her anywhere in the castle; remembered Nehemia’s words to her before their fight, about how she had important matters in Rifthold to look after, things as important as Eyllwe …

“She comes here,” Archer said. “She comes here to feed us all of the information that you confide in her.”

“If she’s part of your group,” Celaena ground out, “then where is she?”

Archer drew his word and pointed it at Chaol. “Ask him.”

A sharp pain twisted in her gut. “What is he talking about?” she asked Chaol.

But Chaol was staring at Archer. “I don’t know.”

“Lying bastard,” Archer snapped, and bared his teeth with a savagery that made him, for once, look anything but attractive. “My sources told me that the king informed you over a week ago of the threat to Nehemia’s life. When were you planning on telling anyone about that?” He turned to Celaena. “We brought him here because he was ordered to question Nehemia about her behavior. We wanted to know what kind of questions he’d been commanded to ask. And because we wanted you to see what sort of man he really is.”

“That’s not true,” Chaol spat. “That’s a damned lie. You haven’t asked me one thing, you gutter-born piece of filth.” He turned pleading eyes to Celaena. The words were still sinking in, each more awful than the next. “I knew about the anonymous threat to Nehemia’s life, yes. But I was told that she would be questioned by the king. Not me.”

“And we realized that,” Archer said. “Moments before you arrived, Celaena, we realized the captain wasn’t the one. But it’s not questioning that they’re going to be doing tonight, is it, Captain?” Chaol didn’t answer—and she didn’t care why.

She was pulling away from her body. Inch by inch. Like a tide ebbing from the shore.

“I just sent men to the castle a moment ago,” Archer went on. “Perhaps they can stop it.”

“Where is Nehemia?” she heard herself asking, from lips that felt far away.

“That’s what my spy discovered tonight. Nehemia insisted on staying in the castle, to see what kind of questions they wanted to ask her, to see how much they suspected and knew—”

“Where is Nehemia?”

But Archer just shook his head, his eyes bright with tears. “They aren’t going to question her, Celaena. And by the time my men get there, I think it will be too late.”

Too late.

Celaena turned to Chaol. His face was stricken and pale.

Archer shook his head again. “I’m sorry.”

Chapter 29

Celaena hurtled through the city streets, discarding her cloak and heavier weapons as she went, anything to give her additional speed, anything to get her back to the castle before Nehemia … Before Nehemia—

A clock began sounding somewhere in the capital, and a lifetime passed between each booming peal.

It was late enough that the streets were mostly deserted, but the people who saw her kept well out of her way as she sprinted past, her lungs nearly shattering. She pushed that pain away, willing strength into her legs, praying to whatever gods still cared to give her swiftness and strength. Who would the king use? If not Chaol, then who?

She didn’t care if it was the king himself. She’d destroy them. And that anonymous threat to Nehemia—she’d sort that out, too.

The glass castle loomed closer, its crystalline towers glowing with a pale greenish light.

Not again. Not again, she told herself with each step, each pound of her heart. Please.

She couldn’t take the front gate. The guards there would surely stop her or cause a ruckus that might prompt the unknown assassin to act faster. There was a high stone wall bordering one of the gardens; it was closer, and far less monitored.

She could have sworn she heard hooves thundering after her, but there was nothing in the world except her and the distance to Nehemia. She neared the stone wall surrounding the garden, her blood roaring in her ears as she made a running jump for it.

She hit the side as silently as she could, her fingers and feet immediately finding purchase, digging in so hard her fingernails cracked. She scrambled up and over the wall before the guards even looked her way.

She landed on the gravel path of the garden, falling onto her hands. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered pain in her palms, but she was already running again, careening toward the glass doors that led to the castle. Patches of snow glowed blue in the moonlight. She’d go to Nehemia’s room first—go there and lock Nehemia up safely, and then take down the bastard who was coming for her.