Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)(76)

“What is this?” the king demanded. The councilmen and assembled lords were gaping.

But Celaena was smiling as her eyes locked onto one of the ministers at the table, and she walked right toward him.

And no one, not even Dorian’s father, said anything as she set the severed head atop the minister’s stack of papers.

“I believe this belongs to you,” she said, releasing her grip on the hair. The head lolled to the side with a thud. Then she patted—patted—the minister’s shoulder before rounding the table and plopping into an empty chair at one end, sprawling across it.

“Explain yourself,” the king growled at her.

She crossed her arms, smiling at the minister, whose face had turned green as he stared at the head before him.

“I had a little chat with Grave about Princess Nehemia last night,” she said. Grave, the assassin from the competition—and Minister Mullison’s champion. “He sends his regards, minister. He also sends this.” She tossed something onto the long table: a small golden bracelet, engraved with lotus blossoms. Something Nehemia would have worn. “Here’s a lesson for you, Minister, from one professional to another: cover your tracks. And hire assassins without personal connections to you. And perhaps try not to do it so soon after you’ve publicly argued with your target.”

Mullison was looking at the king with pleading eyes. “I didn’t do this.” He recoiled from the severed head. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. I’d never do something like this.”

“That’s not what Grave said,” Celaena crooned. Dorian could only stare at her. This was different from the feral creature she’d become the night Nehemia had died. What she was right now, the edge on which she was balancing … Wyrd help them all.

But then Chaol was at her chair, grasping her elbow. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Celaena looked up at him and smiled sweetly. “Your job, apparently.” She shook off his grip with a thrash, then got out of her seat, stalking around the table. She pulled a piece of paper out of her tunic and tossed it in front of the king. The impertinence in that throw should have earned her a trip to the gallows, but the king said nothing.

Following her around the table, a hand still on his sword, Chaol watched her with a face like stone. Dorian began praying they wouldn’t come to blows—not here, not again. If it riled his magic and his father saw … Dorian wouldn’t even think of that power when he was in a room with so many potential enemies. He was sitting beside the person who would give the order to have him put down.

His father took the paper. From where he sat, Dorian could see that it was a list of names, at least fifteen long.

“Before the unfortunate death of the princess,” she said, “I took it upon myself to eliminate some traitors to the crown. My target,” she said, and he knew his father was aware she meant Archer, “led me right to them.”

Dorian couldn’t look at her for a moment longer. This couldn’t be the whole truth. But she hadn’t gone after them to hunt them down, she’d gone to save Chaol. So why lie now? Why pretend she’d been hunting them? What sort of game was she playing?

Dorian looked across the table. Minister Mullison was still trembling at the severed head in front of him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the minister vomited right there. He was the one who had made the anonymous threat against Nehemia’s life?

After a moment, his father looked up from the list and surveyed her. “Well done, Champion. Well done indeed.”

Then Celaena and the King of Adarlan smiled at each other, and it was the most terrifying thing Dorian had ever seen.

“Tell my exchequer to give you double last month’s payment,” the king said. Dorian felt his gorge rise—not just for the severed head and her blood-stiffened clothing, but also for the fact that he could not, for the life of him, find the girl he had loved anywhere in her face. And from Chaol’s expression, he knew his friend felt the same.

Celaena bowed dramatically to the king, flourishing a hand before her. Then, with a smile devoid of any warmth, she stared down Chaol before stalking from the room, her dark cape sweeping behind her.

Silence.

And then Dorian’s attention returned to Minister Mullison, who merely whispered, “Please,” before the king ordered Chaol to have him dragged to the dungeons.

Celaena wasn’t done—not nearly. Perhaps the bloodletting was over, but she still had another person to visit before she could return to her bedroom and wash off the stink of Grave’s blood.

Archer was resting when she arrived at his townhouse, and his butler didn’t dare stop her as she strode up the carpeted front steps, stormed down the elegant wood-paneled hallway, and flung open the double doors to what could only have been his room.

Archer jolted in bed, wincing as he put a hand to his bandaged shoulder. Then he took in her appearance, the daggers still strapped to her waist. He went very, very still.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She stood at the foot of his bed, staring down at him, at his wan face and injured shoulder. “You’re sorry, Chaol’s sorry, the whole damn world is sorry. Tell me what you and your movement want. Tell me what you know about the king’s plans.”

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” Archer said gently. “But I needed to know that I could trust you before I told you the truth. Nehemia”—she tried not to wince at the name—“said you could be trusted, but I needed to know for sure. And I needed you to trust me, too.”