The Assassin and the Empire (Throne of Glass 0.5)(24)

“This dungeon is impenetrable,” he said. “And those chains are made with Adarlanian steel.”

She stared at him. He was middle-aged, perhaps forty. He wore no weapons—another precaution. Usually, the royal guards joined young and stayed until they were too old to carry a sword. That meant this man had years of extensive training. It was too dark to see the three guards behind him, but she knew they wouldn’t trust just anyone to watch her.

And even if he’d said the words to intimidate her into behaving, he was probably telling the truth. No one got out of the royal dungeons, and no one got in.

If it had been a whole day and Arobynn hadn’t yet found her, she wasn’t getting out either. If her betrayer had been able to fool her, and Sam, and Arobynn, then they’d find a way to keep the King of the Assassins from knowing she was in here, too.

Now that Sam was dead, there wasn’t anything left outside of the dungeons worth fighting for, anyway. Not when Adarlan’s Assassin was crumbling apart, and her world with her. The girl who’d taken on a Pirate Lord and his entire island, the girl who’d stolen Asterion horses and raced along the beach in the Red Desert, the girl who’d sat on her own rooftop, watching the sun rise over the Avery, the girl who’d felt alive with possibility … that girl was gone.

There wasn’t anything left. And Arobynn wasn’t coming.

She’d failed.

And worse, she’d failed Sam. She hadn’t even killed the man who’d ended his life so viciously.

The guard shifted on his feet, and she realized she’d been staring at him. “The food is clean,” was all the guard said before he backed out of the room and shut the door.

She drank the water and ate as much of the bread and cheese as she could stomach. She couldn’t tell if the food itself was bland, or if her tongue had just lost all sense of taste. Every bite tasted like ash.

She kicked the tray toward the door when she was finished. She didn’t care that she could have used it as a weapon, or a lure to get one of the guards closer.

Because she wasn’t getting out, and Sam was dead.

Celaena leaned her head against the freezing, damp wall. She’d never be able to make sure he was safely buried in the earth. She’d failed him even in that.

When the roaring silence came to claim her again, Celaena walked into it with open arms.

The guards liked to talk. About sporting events, about women, about the movement of Adarlan’s armies. About her, most of all.

Sometimes, flickers of their conversations broke through the wall of silence, holding her attention for a moment before she let the quiet sweep her back out to its endless sea.

“The captain’s going to be furious he wasn’t here for the trial.”

“Serves him right for gallivanting with the prince along the Sorian coast.”

Sniggers.

“I heard the captain’s racing back to Rifthold, though.”

“What’s the point? Her trial is tomorrow. He won’t even make it in time to see her executed.”

“You think she’s really Celaena Sardothien?”

“She looks my daughter’s age.”

“Better not tell anyone—the king said he’d flay us all alive if we breathe one word.”

“Hard to imagine that it’s her—did you see the list of victims? It just went on and on.”

“You think she’s wrong in the head? She just looks at you without really looking at you, you know?”

“I bet they needed someone to pay for Jayne’s death. They probably grabbed a simple girl to pretend it was her.”

Snorts. “Won’t matter to the king, will it? And if she won’t talk, then it’s her own damn fault if she’s innocent.”

“I don’t think she’s really Celaena Sardothien.”

“I heard it’ll be a closed trial and execution because the king doesn’t want anyone seeing who she really is.”

“Trust the king to deny everyone else the chance to watch.”

“I wonder if they’ll hang or behead her.”

Chapter Twelve

The world flashed. Dungeons, rotten hay, cold stones against her cheek, guards talking, bread and cheese and water. Then guards entered, crossbows aimed at her, hands on their swords. Two days had passed, somehow. A rag and a bucket of water were thrown at her. Clean herself up for her trial, they said. She obeyed. And she didn’t struggle when they gave her new shackles on her wrists and ankles—shackles she could walk in. They took her down a dark, cold hallway that echoed with distant groans, then up the stairs. Sunlight shone through a barred window—harsh, blinding—as they went up more stairs, and eventually into a room of stone and polished wood.

The wooden chair was smooth beneath her. Her head still ached, and the places where Farran’s men had struck her were still sore.

The room was large, but sparsely appointed. She’d been shoved into a chair set in the center of the room, a safe distance from the massive table on the far end—the table at which twelve men sat facing her.

She didn’t care who they were, or what their role was. She could feel their eyes on her, though. Everyone in the room—the men at the table and the dozens of guards—was watching her.

A hanging or a beheading. Her throat closed up.

There was no point in fighting, not now.