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

The royal family dined at their table atop the dais in the front of the hall with Perrington, Roland, and a woman who looked like she might be Roland’s mother. From the other side of the room, Celaena could hardly see little Prince Hollin, but he seemed to be pale, rotund, and blessed with a head full of ebony curls. It seemed rather unfair to put Hollin next to Dorian—where comparisons could easily be made—and though she’d heard every nasty rumor about Hollin, she couldn’t help but feel a shred of pity for the boy.

Chaol, to her surprise, opted to sit beside her, five of his men joining them at the table. Though there were several guards posted around the room, she had no doubt that the ones at her table were just as alert and watchful as those stationed by the doors and dais. Her tablemates were all polite to her—wary, but polite. They didn’t mention what had happened last night, but they did quietly ask how she was feeling. Ress, who had guarded her during the competition, seemed genuinely relieved that she was better, and was the chattiest of them all, gossiping as much as any old court hen.

“And then,” Ress was saying, his boyish face set with fiendish delight, “just as he got into her bed, stark naked as the day he was born, her father walked in”—winces and groans came from the guards, even Chaol himself—“and he dragged him out of bed by his feet, took him down the hall, and dumped him down the stairs. He was shrieking like a pig the whole time.”

Chaol leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “You would be, too, if someone were dragging your naked carcass across the ice-cold floor.” He smirked as Ress tried to deny it. Chaol seemed so comfortable with the men, his body relaxed, eyes alight. And they respected him, too—always glancing at him for approval, for confirmation, for support. As Celaena’s chuckle faded, Chaol looked at her, his brows high. “You’re one to laugh. You moan about the cold floors more than anyone I know.”

She straightened as the guards gave hesitant smiles. “If I recall correctly, you complain about them every time I wipe the floor with you when we spar.”

“Oho!” Ress cried, and Chaol’s brows rose higher. Celaena gave him a grin.

“Dangerous words,” Chaol said. “Do we need to go to the training hall to see if you can back them up?”

“Well, as long as your men don’t object to seeing you knocked on your ass.”

“We certainly do not object to that,” Ress crowed. Chaol shot him a look, more amused than warning. Ress quickly added, “Captain.”

Chaol opened his mouth to reply, but then a tall, slim woman walked onto the small stage erected along one side of the room.

Celaena craned her neck as Rena Goldsmith floated across the wooden platform to where a massive harp and a man with a violin waited. She’d seen Rena perform only once before—years ago, at the Royal Theater, on a cold winter night like this. For two hours, the theater was so still that it seemed as if everyone had stopped breathing. Rena’s voice had floated through Celaena’s head for days afterward.

From their table, Celaena could hardly see Rena—just enough to tell that she wore a long green dress (no petticoats, no corset, no ornamentation save for the woven leather belt circling her narrow hips), and that her red-gold hair was unbound. Silence rippled through the hall, and Rena curtsied to the dais. When she took her seat before the green-and-gold harp, the spectators were waiting. But how long would the court’s interest hold?

Rena nodded to the reedy violinist, and her long, white fingers began plucking out a melody on the harp. After a few notes the rhythm established itself, followed by the slow, sad sweep of the violin. They wove together, blending, lifting up, up, up, until Rena opened her mouth.

And when she sang, the whole world faded.

Her voice was soft, ethereal, the sound of a lullaby half-remembered. The songs she sang, one by one, held Celaena in place. Songs of distant lands, of forgotten legends, of lovers forever waiting to be reunited.

Not a single soul stirred in the hall. Even the servants remained along the walls and in doorways and alcoves. Rena paused between songs only long enough to allow a heartbeat of applause before the harp and the violin began anew, and she hypnotized them all once more.

And then Rena looked toward the dais. “This song,” she said softly, “is in honor of the esteemed royal family who invited me here tonight.”

This song was an ancient legend—an old poem, actually. One Celaena hadn’t heard since childhood, and never set to music.

She heard it now as if for the first time: the story of a Fae woman blessed with a horrible, profound power that was sought by kings and lords in every kingdom. While they used her to win wars and conquer nations, they all feared her—and kept their distance.

It was a bold song to sing; dedicating it to the king’s family was even bolder. But the royals made no outcry. Even the king just stared blankly at Rena as though she weren’t singing about the very power he’d outlawed ten years ago. Perhaps her voice could conquer even a tyrant’s heart. Perhaps there was an unstoppable magic inherent in music and art.

Rena went on, spinning the ageless story of the years that the Fae woman served those kings and lords, and the loneliness that consumed her bit by bit. And then, one day, a knight came, seeking her power on behalf of his king. As they traveled to his kingdom, his fear turned to love—and he saw her not for the power she wielded, but for the woman beneath. Of all the kings and emperors who had come courting her with promises of wealth beyond imagining, it was the knight’s gift, of seeing her for who she was—not what she was—that won her heart.