The Assassin and the Empire (Throne of Glass 0.5)(23)

Farran pulled back, loosening his grip on her throat. “I do wish I’d been allowed to play with you for a bit, but I swore not to harm you.” He cocked his head to the side, taking in the injuries she’d already suffered. “I think a few bruised ribs and a split lip are excusable.” He pulled out a pocket watch. “Alas, it’s eleven, and you and I both have places to be.” Eleven. An hour before Arobynn would even leave the Keep. And if Harding had actually been the one to betray her, then he’d probably do his best to delay them even further. Once she was brought to the royal dungeons, what odds did Arobynn have of successfully breaking her out? When the gloriella wore off, what odds did she have of breaking out?

Farran’s eyes were still on hers, glittering with delight. And then, without warning, his arm slashed through the air.

She heard the sound of a hand against flesh before she felt the stinging throb in her cheek and mouth. The pain was faint. She was thankful the numbness was still clinging to her, especially as the coppery tang of blood filled her mouth.

Farran gracefully rose from his crouch. “That was for getting blood on the carpet.”

Despite the sideways angle of her head, she managed to glare up at him, even as her blood slid down her throat. Farran straightened his gray tunic, then leaned down to turn her head forward. His smile returned.

“You would have been delightful to break,” he told her, and strode from the room, motioning to three tall, well-dressed men as he passed. Not petty guards. She’d seen those three men before. Somewhere—at some point that she couldn’t quite recall …

One of the men approached, smiling, despite the gore pooled around her. Celaena glimpsed the rounded pommel of his sword before it connected with her head and everything went black.

Chapter Eleven

Celaena awoke with a pulsing headache.

She kept her eyes shut, letting her senses take in her surroundings before she announced to the world that she was awake. Wherever she was, it was quiet, and damp, and cold, and reeked of mildew and refuse.

She knew three things before she even opened her eyes.

The first was that at least six hours had passed, because she could wriggle her toes and her fingers, and those movements were enough to tell her that all of her weapons had been removed.

The second was that because at least six hours had passed and Arobynn and the others clearly had not found her, she was either in the royal dungeons across the city or in some cell beneath Jayne’s house, awaiting transport.

The third was that Sam was still dead, and even her rage had been a pawn in some betrayal so twisted and brutal she couldn’t begin to wrap her aching head around it.

Sam was still dead. And she was in some sort of dungeon.

She opened her eyes, finding herself indeed in a dungeon, dumped onto a rotten pallet of hay and chained to the wall. Her feet had also been shackled to the floor, and both sets of chains had just enough slack that she could make it to the filthy bucket in the corner to relieve herself.

That was the first indignity she allowed herself to suffer.

Once she’d taken care of her bladder, she looked about the cell. No windows, and not enough space between the iron door and the threshold for anything more than light to squeeze through. She couldn’t hear anything—not through the walls, nor coming from outside. She could be anywhere—still beneath Jayne’s house, or in the royal dungeons, or in some other city prison …

Her mouth was parched, her tongue leaden in her mouth. What she wouldn’t give for a mouthful of water to wash away the lingering taste of blood. Her stomach was painfully empty, too, and the throbbing in her head sent splinters of light through her skull.

She had been betrayed—betrayed by Harding or someone like him, someone who would benefit from her being permanently gone, with no hope of ever coming back. And Arobynn still hadn’t rescued her.

He’d find her, though. He had to.

She tested the chains on her wrists and ankles, examining where they were anchored into the stone floor and walls, looking over every link, studying the locks. They were solid. She felt all the stones around her, tapping for loose bits or possibly a whole block that she could use as a weapon. There was nothing. All the pins had been pulled out of her hair, robbing her of a chance to even try to pick the lock. The buttons on her black tunic were too small and delicate to be useful.

Perhaps if a guard came in, she could get him close enough to use the chains against him— strangle him or knock him unconscious, or hold him hostage long enough for someone to free her and let her out.

Perhaps—

The door groaned open, and a man filled the threshold, three others behind him.

His tunic was dark, and embroidered with golden thread. If he was surprised to see her awake, he didn’t reveal it.

Royal guards.

This was the royal dungeon, then.

The guard in the doorway placed the food he was carrying on the floor and slid the tray toward her. Water, bread, a hunk of cheese. “Dinner,” he said, not stepping one foot in the room.

He and his companions knew the threat of getting too close.

Celaena glanced at the tray. Dinner. How long had she been down here? Had it been nearly a whole day—and Arobynn still hadn’t come for her? He had to have found Wesley by the stables—and Wesley would have told him what she’d gone to do. He had to know she was here.

The guard was watching her, and she looked up at him.