The Assassin and the Empire (Throne of Glass 0.5)(7)

They reached the enormous intersection at the heart of the shopping district, where the domed Royal Theater rose up above streets packed with horses and wagons and people.

“Where do we draw the line?” Sam asked her quietly. “When do we say enough?”

“This is the last time.”

He let out a derisive snort. “I’m sure it is.” He turned down one of the avenues—in the opposite direction from home.

“Where are you going?”

He looked over his shoulder. “I need to clear my head. I’ll see you at home.” She watched him cross the busy avenue, watched until he was swallowed up by the hustle of the capital.

Celaena began walking, too, wherever her feet took her. She passed by the steps of the Royal Theater and kept walking, the shops and vendors blurring together. The day was blossoming into a truly lovely example of autumn—the air was crisp, but the sun was warm.

In some ways, Sam was right. But she’d dragged him into this mess—she’d been the one who had started things in Skull’s Bay. Though he claimed to have been in love with her for years, if she’d only kept her distance these past few months, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Perhaps, if she’d been smart, she would have just broken his heart and let him remain with Arobynn. Having him hate her was easier than this. She was … responsible for him now. And that was terrifying.

She cared for him more than she’d ever cared for anyone. Now that she’d ruined the career he’d worked for his whole life, she’d hand over all her money to make sure that he could at least be free. But she couldn’t just explain that she paid for everything because she felt guilty. He’d resent that.

Celaena paused her walking and found herself at the other end of the broad avenue, across the street from the gates to the glass castle. She hadn’t realized she’d walked so far—or been so lost in her thoughts. She usually avoided coming this close to the castle.

The heavily guarded iron gates led to a long, tree-lined path that snaked up to the infamous building itself. She craned her head back to take in the towers that brushed the sky, the turrets sparkling in the midmorning sun. It had been built atop the original stone castle, and was the crowning achievement in Adarlan’s empire.

She hated it.

Even from the street, she could see people milling about the distant castle grounds— uniformed guards, ladies in voluminous dresses, servants clad in the clothes of their station … What sort of lives did they lead, dwelling within the shadow of the king?

Her eyes rose to the highest gray stone tower, where a small balcony jutted out, covered with creeping ivy. It was so easy to imagine that the people within had nothing to worry about.

But inside that shining building, decisions were made daily that altered the course of Erilea. Inside that building, it had been decreed that magic was outlawed, and that labor camps like Calaculla and Endovier were to be established. Inside that building, the murderer who called himself King dwelled, the man she feared above all others. If the Vaults were the heart of Rifthold’s underworld, then the glass castle was the soul of Adarlan’s empire.

She felt like it watched her, a giant beast of glass and stone and iron. Staring at it made her problems with Sam and Arobynn feel inconsequential—like a gnat buzzing before the gaping maw of a creature poised to devour the world.

A chill wind blew past, ripping strands of hair from her braid. She shouldn’t have let herself walk so close, even if the odds of ever encountering the king were next to none. Just the thought of him sent a wretched fear splintering through her.

Her only consolation was that most people from the kingdoms conquered by the king probably felt the same way. When he’d marched into Terrasen nine years ago, his invasion had been swift and brutal—so brutal that it made even Celaena sick to recall some of the atrocities that had been committed to secure his rule.

Shuddering, she turned on her heel and headed home.

Sam didn’t return until dinner.

Celaena was sprawled on the couch before the roaring fireplace, book in hand, when Sam strode into the apartment. His hood still concealed half of his face, and the hilt of the sword strapped to his back glinted in the orange light of the room. As he locked the door behind him, she caught the dull gleam of the gauntlets strapped to his forearms—thick, embroidered leather that concealed hidden daggers. He moved with such precise efficiency and controlled power that she blinked. Sometimes it was so easy to forget that the young man she shared the apartment with was also a trained, ruthless killer.

“I found a client.” He pulled off his hood and leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

Celaena shut the book she’d been gobbling down and set it on the couch. “Oh?”

His brown eyes were bright, though his face was unreadable. “They’ll pay. A lot. And they want to keep it from reaching the Assassins Guild’s ears. There’s even a contract in it for you.”

“Who’s the client?”

“I don’t know. The man I spoke to had the usual disguises—hood, unremarkable clothing. He could have been acting on behalf of someone else.”

“Why do they want to avoid using the Guild?” She moved to perch on the arm of the couch. The distance between her and Sam felt too large, too full of lightning.

“Because they want me to kill Ioan Jayne and his Second in Command, Rourke Farran.”