Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

“Why would anything be wrong?”

How long have you been yearning for him? was what he really wanted to ask. Damn him for caring. Damn him for every moment he’d spent with her.

“You look like you could splatter someone against a wall.”

He raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t been making a face.

“When you get angry,” she explained, “your eyes get this … cold look. Glazed.”

“I’m fine.”

They kept walking, and she kept following him to … to wherever he was going. The library, he decided, turning down a passageway. He’d go to the royal library.

“If you have something to say,” he drawled, putting his temper on a tight leash, “then just say it.”

“I don’t trust your cousin.”

He paused, the shining hallway around them empty. “You don’t even know him.”

“Call it instinct.”

“Roland is harmless.”

“Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe he has his own agenda in being here. And you’re too smart to be a pawn in anyone’s game, Dorian. He’s from Meah.”

“And?”

“And Meah is a small, insignificant port city. It means he’s got little to lose and a lot to gain. That makes people dangerous. Ruthless. He’ll use you, if he can.”

“The same way an assassin from Endovier used me to become King’s Champion?”

Her lips thinned. “Is that what you think I did?”

“I don’t know what to think.” He turned away.

She snarled—actually snarled—at him. “Well, let me tell you what I think, Dorian. I think you’re used to getting what you want—who you want. And just because you couldn’t get who you wanted this one time—”

He whirled toward her. “You know nothing about what I wanted. You didn’t even give me the chance to tell you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not having this conversation right now. I came to warn you about your cousin, but you clearly don’t care. So don’t expect me to care when you find yourself nothing more than a puppet. If you aren’t one already.”

He opened his mouth, so close to exploding he could have punched the nearest wall, but Celaena was already striding off.



Celaena stood in front of the bars to Kaltain Rompier’s cell.

The once-beautiful lady was curled against the wall, her dress soiled and her dark hair unbound and matted. She had buried her face in her arms, but Celaena could still see that her skin gleamed with sweat and had a slightly grayish hue. And the smell …

She hadn’t seen her since the duel; since the day Kaltain had drugged Celaena’s water with bloodbane so she would die at Cain’s hands. Once she’d defeated Cain, Celaena had left without witnessing the screaming fit that Kaltain had thrown. So she’d missed the moment where Kaltain had accidentally confessed to poisoning her, claiming to have been manipulated by her former beau, Duke Perrington. The duke had denied her accusations, and Kaltain had been sent down here to await her punishment.

Two months later, it seemed that they still didn’t know what to do with her—or didn’t care.

“Hello, Kaltain,” Celaena said quietly.

Kaltain lifted her head, her black eyes gleaming in recognition. “Hello, Celaena.”





Chapter 9


Celaena took a step closer to the bars. A bucket for relieving herself, a bucket of water, the crumbs of her last meal, and moldy hay that formed a rough pallet; that was all Kaltain had been given.

All she deserves.

“Come to laugh?” Kaltain said. Her voice, which had once been rich and cultured, was little more than a hoarse whisper. It was freezing down here—it was a wonder Kaltain hadn’t fallen ill already.

“I have some questions for you,” Celaena said, keeping her words soft. Though the guards hadn’t challenged her right to enter the dungeons, she didn’t want them eavesdropping.

“I’m busy today.” Kaltain smiled, leaning her head against the stone wall. “Come back tomorrow.” She looked so much younger with her ebony hair unbound. She couldn’t be much older than Celaena herself.

Celaena dropped into a crouch, one hand braced against the bars for balance. The metal was bitingly cold. “What do you know about Roland Havilliard?”

Kaltain looked toward the stone ceiling. “He’s visiting?”

“He’s been appointed to the king’s council.”

Kaltain’s night-dark eyes met Celaena’s. There was a hint of madness there—but also wariness and exhaustion. “Why ask me about him?”

“Because I want to know if he can be trusted.”

Kaltain wheezed a laugh. “None of us can be trusted. Especially not Roland. The things I’ve heard about him are enough to turn even your stomach, I bet.”

“Like what?”

Kaltain smirked. “Get me out of this cell and I might tell you.”

Celaena returned the smirk. “How about I walk inside that cell and find another way to get you to talk?”

“Don’t,” she whispered, shifting enough so that Celaena could see the bruises circling her wrists. They looked unnervingly like handprints.

Kaltain tucked her arms into the folds of her skirts. “The night watch looks the other way when Perrington visits.”