The Assassin and the Desert (Throne of Glass 0.3)

The Assassin and the Desert (Throne of Glass 0.3)
Sarah J. Maas


Chapter One

There was nothing left in the world except sand and wind.

At least, that’s how it seemed to Celaena Sardothien as she stood atop the crimson dune and gazed across the desert. Even with the wind, the heat was stifling, and sweat made her many layers of clothes cling to her body. But sweating, her nomad guide had told her, was a good thing—it was when you didn’t sweat that the Red Desert became deadly. Sweat reminded you to drink. When the heat evaporated your perspiration before you could realize you were sweating, that’s when you could cross into dehydration and not know it.

Oh, the miserable heat. It invaded every pore of her, made her head throb and her bones ache. The muggy warmth of Skull’s Bay had been nothing compared to this. What she wouldn’t give for just the briefest of cool breezes!

Beside her, the nomad guide pointed a gloved finger toward the southwest. “The sessiz suikast are there.” Sessiz suikast. The Silent Assassins—the legendary order that she’d been sent here to train with.

“To learn obedience and discipline,” Arobynn Hamel had said. In the height of summer in the Red Desert was what he’d failed to add. It was a punishment. Two months ago, when Arobynn had sent Celaena along with Sam Cortland to Skull’s Bay on an unknown errand, they’d discovered that he’d actually dispatched them to trade in slaves. Needless to say, that hadn’t sat well with Celaena or Sam, despite their occupation. So they’d freed the slaves, deciding to damn the consequences. But now . . . As punishments went, this was probably the worst. Given the bruises and cuts that were still healing on her face a month after Arobynn had bestowed them, that was saying something.

Celaena scowled. She pulled the scarf a bit higher over her mouth and nose as she took a step down the dune. Her legs strained against the sliding sand, but it was a welcome freedom after the harrowing trek through the Singing Sands, where each grain had hummed and whined and moaned. They’d spent a whole day monitoring each step, careful to keep the sand beneath them ringing in harmony. Or else, the nomad had told her, the sands could dissolve into quicksand.

Celaena descended the dune, but paused when she didn’t hear her guide’s footsteps. “Aren’t you coming?”

The man remained atop the dune, and pointed again to the horizon. “Two miles that way.” His use of the common tongue was a bit unwieldy, but she understood him well enough.

She pulled down the scarf from her mouth, wincing as a gust of sand stung her sweaty face. “I paid you to take me there.”

“Two miles,” he said, adjusting the large pack on his back. The scarf around his head obscured his tanned features, but she could still see the fear in his eyes.

Yes, yes, the sessiz suikast were feared and respected in the desert. It had been a miracle that she’d found a guide willing to take her this close to their fortress. Of course, offering gold had helped. But the nomads viewed the sessiz suikast as little less than shadows of death—and apparently, her guide would go no farther.

She studied the westward horizon. She could see nothing beyond dunes and sand that rippled like the surface of a windblown sea.

“Two miles,” the nomad said behind her. “They will find you.”

Celaena turned to ask him another question, but he had already disappeared over the other side of the dune. Cursing him, she tried to swallow, but failed. Her mouth was too dry. She had to start now, or else she’d need to set up her tent to sleep out the unforgiving midday and afternoon heat.

Two miles. How long could that take?

Taking a sip from her unnervingly light waterskin, Celaena pulled her scarf back over her mouth and nose and began walking.

The only sound was the wind hissing through the sand.

Hours later, Celaena found herself using all of her self-restraint to avoid leaping into the courtyard pools or kneeling to drink at one of the little rivers running along the floor. No one had offered her water upon her arrival, and she didn’t think her current escort was inclined to do so either as he led her through the winding halls of the red sandstone fortress.

The two miles had felt more like twenty. She had been just about to stop and set up her tent when she’d crested a dune and the lush green trees and adobe fortress had spread before her, hidden in an oasis nestled between two monstrous sand dunes.

After all that, she was parched. But she was Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s greatest Assassin. She had a reputation to uphold.

She kept her senses alert as they walked farther into the fortress—taking in exits and windows, noting where sentries were stationed. They passed a row of open-air training rooms in which she could see people from all kingdoms and of all ages sparring or exercising or just sitting quietly, lost in meditation. They climbed a narrow flight of stairs that went up and up into a large building. The shade of the stairwell was wonderfully cool. But then they entered a long, enclosed hall, and the heat wrapped around her like a blanket.

For a fortress of supposedly silent assassins, the place was fairly noisy, with the clatter of weapons from the training rooms, the buzzing of insects in the many trees and bushes, the chatter of birds, the gurgle of all that crystal-clear water running through every room and hall.

They approached an open set of doors at the end of the hallway. Her escort—a middle-aged man flecked with scars that stood out like chalk against his tan skin—said nothing to her. Beyond the doors, the interior was a mixture of shadow and light. They entered a giant chamber flanked by blue-painted wooden pillars that supported a mezzanine on either side. A glance into the darkness of the balcony informed her that there were figures lurking there—watching, waiting. There were more in the shadows of the columns. Whoever they thought she was, they certainly weren’t underestimating her. Good.