The Assassin and the Desert (Throne of Glass 0.3)(28)

Celaena didn’t move. “Go to hell.”

Ansel chuckled. “I’ve been to hell. I spent some time there when I was twelve, remember? And when I march into the Flatlands with Berick’s troops, I’ll see to it that High King Loch sees a bit of hell, too. But first . . .”

She turned to the Master and Celaena sucked in a breath. “Don’t,” Celaena said. From this distance, Ansel would kill him before she could do anything to stop her.

“Just look the other way, Celaena.” Ansel stepped closer to the old man.

“If you touch him, I’ll put this sword through your neck,” Celaena snarled. The words shook, and she blinked away the building moisture in her eyes.

Ansel looked over her shoulder. “I don’t think you will.”

Ansel took another step closer to the Master, and Celaena’s second dagger flew. It grazed the side of Ansel’s armor, leaving a long mark before it clattered to a stop at the foot of the dais.

Ansel paused, giving Celaena a faint smile. “You missed.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Why?”

Celaena put a hand over her heart, tightly gripping her sword with the other. “Because I know what it feels like.” She dared another step. “Because I know how it feels to have that kind of hate, Ansel. I know how it feels. And this isn’t the way. This,” she said louder, gesturing to the fortress and all the corpses in it, all the soldiers and assassins still fighting. “This is not the way.”

“Says the assassin,” Ansel spat.

“I’ve become an assassin because I had no choice. But you have a choice, Ansel. You’ve always had a choice. Please don’t kill him.”

Please don’t make me kill you was what she truly meant to say.

Ansel shut her eyes. Celaena steadied her wrist, testing the balance of her blade, trying to get a sense of its weight. When Ansel opened her eyes, there was little of the girl she’d grown to care for over the past month.

“These men,” Ansel said, her sword rising higher. “These men destroy everything.”

“I know.”

“You know, and yet you do nothing! You’re just a dog chained to your master.” She closed the distance between them, her sword lowering. Celaena almost sagged with relief, but didn’t lighten her grip on her own blade. Ansel’s breathing was ragged. “You could come with me.” She brushed back a strand of Celaena’s hair. “The two of us alone could conquer the Flatlands—and with Lord Berick’s troops . . .” Her hand grazed Celaena’s cheek, and Celaena tried not to recoil at the touch and at the words that came out of Ansel’s mouth. “I would make you my right hand. We’d take the Flatlands back.”

“I can’t,” Celaena answered, even though she could see Ansel’s plan with perfect clarity—even if it was tempting.

Ansel stepped back. “What does Rifthold have that’s so special? How long will you bow and scrape for that monster?”

“I can’t go with you, and you know it. So take your troops and leave, Ansel.”

She watched the expressions flitter across Ansel’s face. Hurt. Denial. Rage.

“So be it,” Ansel said.

She struck, and Celaena only had time to tilt her head to dodge the hidden dagger that shot out of Ansel’s wrist. The blade grazed her cheek, and blood warmed her face. Her face! Of all the places for Ansel to cut her . . .

Ansel swiped with her sword, so close that Celaena had to flip herself backward. She landed on her feet, but Ansel was fast enough and near enough that Celaena could only bring up her blade. Their swords met.

Celaena spun, shoving Ansel’s sword from hers. The force was so strong that Ansel stumbled, and Celaena used it to gain the advantage, striking again and again. Ansel met each blow, her superior sword hardly impacted.

They passed the prostrate Master and the dais. Celaena dropped to the ground, swiping at Ansel with a leg. Ansel leapt back, dodging the blow. Celaena used the precious seconds to snatch her fallen dagger from where it lay on the dais steps.

When Ansel struck again, she met the crossed blades of Celaena’s sword and dagger.

Ansel let out a low laugh. “How do you imagine this ending?” She pressed Celaena’s blades. “Or is it a fight to the death?”

Celaena braced her feet against the floor. She’d never known Ansel was so strong—or so much taller than her. And Ansel’s armor—how would she get through that? There was a joint between the armpit and the ribs—and then around her neck . . .

“You tell me,” Celaena said. The blood from her face slid down her throat. “You seem to have everything planned.”

“I tried to protect you.” Ansel shoved hard against Celaena’s blades, but not strongly enough to dislodge them. “And you came back anyway.”

“You call that protection? Drugging me and leaving me in the desert?” She’d been fooled and betrayed. Celaena bared her teeth.

But before she could launch another assault, Ansel struck with her free hand, right across the X made by their weapons, her fist slamming between Celaena’s eyes.

Celaena’s head snapped back, the world flashing, and she landed hard on her knees. Her sword and dagger clattered to the floor.

Ansel was on her in a second, her bloodied arm across Celaena’s chest, the other hand pressing the edge of her sword against Celaena’s unmarred cheek.