Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(69)

“But if your father didn’t want her dead, who did? I had extra patrols on alert for any threat; I picked those men myself. Whoever did this got through them like they were nothing. Whoever did this …”

Dorian tried not to think of the murder scene. One of Chaol’s guards had taken a look at the three bodies and vomited all over the floor. And Celaena had just stood there, staring at Nehemia, as if she’d been sucked out of herself.

“Whoever did this got some kind of sick delight out of it,” Chaol finished. The bodies flashed through Dorian’s mind again: carefully, artfully arranged.

“What does it mean, though?” It was easier to keep talking than to really consider what had happened. The way Celaena had looked at him without really seeing him, the way she’d wiped away his tears with a finger, then grazed her nails across his neck, as though she could sense the pulsing life’s blood beneath. And when she’d launched herself at Chaol …

“How long will you keep her here?” Dorian said, looking down the stairs.

She had attacked the Captain of the Guard in front of his men. Worse than attacked.

“As long as it takes,” Chaol said quietly.

“For what?”

“For her to decide not to kill us all.”

Celaena knew where she was before she awoke. And she didn’t care. She was living the same story again and again.

The night she’d been captured, she’d also snapped, and come so close to killing the person she most wanted to destroy before someone knocked her out and she awoke in a rotting dungeon. She smiled bitterly as she opened her eyes. It was always the same story, the same loss.

A plate of bread and soft cheese, along with an iron cup of water, lay on the floor on the other side of the cell. Celaena sat up, her head throbbing, and felt the bump on the side of her skull.

“I always knew you’d wind up here,” Kaltain said from the cell beside hers. “Did Their Royal Highnesses tire of you, too?”

Celaena pulled the tray closer, then leaned against the stone wall behind the pallet of hay. “I tired of them,” she said.

“Did you kill anyone particularly deserving?”

Celaena snorted, closing her eyes against the pounding in her mind. “Almost.”

She could feel the stickiness of the blood on her hands and beneath her nails. Chaol’s blood. She hoped the four scratches scarred. She hoped she would never see him again. If she did, she’d kill him. He’d known the king wanted to question Nehemia. He’d known that the king—the most brutal and murderous monster in the world—had wanted to question her friend. And he hadn’t told her. Hadn’t warned her.

It wasn’t the king, though. No—she had gathered enough in the few minutes she’d been in that bedroom to know this wasn’t his handiwork. But Chaol had still been warned about the anonymous threat, had been aware that someone wanted to hurt Nehemia. And he hadn’t told her.

He was so stupidly honorable and loyal to the king that he didn’t even think that she could have done something to prevent this.

She had nothing left to give. After she’d lost Sam and been sent to Endovier, she’d pieced herself back together in the bleakness of the mines. And when she’d come here, she’d been foolish enough to think that Chaol had put the final piece into place. Foolish enough to think, just for a moment, that she could get away with being happy.

But death was her curse and her gift, and death had been her good friend these long, long years.

“They killed Nehemia,” she whispered into the dark, needing someone, anyone, to hear that the once-bright soul had been extinguished. To know that Nehemia had been here, on this earth, and she had been all that was good and brave and wonderful.

Kaltain was silent for a long moment. Then she said quietly, as if she were trading one piece of misery for another, “Duke Perrington is going to Morath in five days, and I am to go with him. The king told me I can either marry him, or rot down here for the rest of my life.”

Celaena turned her head, opening her eyes to find Kaltain sitting against the wall, grasping her knees. She was even dirtier and more haggard than she’d been a few weeks ago. She still clutched Celaena’s cloak around her. Celaena said, “You betrayed the duke. Why would he want you for his wife?”

Kaltain laughed quietly. “Who knows what games these people play, and what ends they have in mind?” She rubbed her dirty hands on her face. “My headaches are worse,” she mumbled. “And those wings—they never stop.”

My dreams have been filled with shadows and wings, Nehemia had said; Kaltain, too.

“What has one to do with the other?” Celaena demanded, the words sharp and hollow.

Kaltain blinked, raising her brows as though she had no idea what she’d said. “How long will they keep you here?” she asked.

For trying to kill the Captain of the Guard? Forever, perhaps. She wouldn’t care. Let them execute her.

Let them put an end to her, too.

Nehemia had been the hope of a kingdom, of many kingdoms. The court Nehemia had dreamed of would never be. Eyllwe would never be free. Celaena would never get the chance to tell her that she was sorry for the things she’d said. All that would remain were the last words Nehemia had spoken to her. The last thing her friend had thought of her.

You are nothing more than a coward.