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

Celaena didn’t know when she began crying. Somehow she skipped a breath, and it set her lips wobbling. She shouldn’t cry, not here, not with these people around her. But then a warm, calloused hand grasped hers beneath the table, and she turned her head to find Chaol looking at her. He smiled slightly—and she knew he understood.

So Celaena looked at her Captain of the Guard and smiled back.



Hollin was squirming beside him, hissing and grousing about how bored he was and what a stupid performance this was, but Dorian’s attention was on the long table in the back of the hall.

Rena Goldsmith’s unearthly music wove through the cavernous space, wrapping them in a spell that he would have called magic had he not known better. But Celaena and Chaol just sat there, staring at each other.

And not just staring, but something more than that. Dorian stopped hearing the music.

She had never looked at him like that. Not once. Not even for a heartbeat.

Rena was finishing her song, and Dorian tore his eyes away from them. He didn’t think anything had happened between them, not yet. Chaol was stubborn and loyal enough to never make his move—or to even realize that he looked at Celaena the same way she looked at him.

Hollin’s complaining grew louder, and Dorian took a long, long breath.

He would move on. Because he would not be like the ancient kings in the song and keep her for himself. She deserved a loyal, brave knight who saw her for what she was and did not fear her. And he deserved someone who would look at him like that, even if the love wouldn’t be the same, even if the girl wouldn’t be her.

So Dorian closed his eyes, and took another long breath. And when he opened his eyes, he let her go.



Hours later, the King of Adarlan stood at the back of the dungeon chamber as his secret guards dragged Rena Goldsmith forward. The butcher’s block at the center of the room was already soaked with blood. Her companion’s headless corpse lay a few feet away, his blood trickling toward the drain in the floor.

Perrington and Roland stood silent beside the king, watching, waiting.

The guards shoved the singer to her knees before the stained stone. One of them grabbed a fistful of her red-gold hair and yanked, forcing her to look at the king as he stepped forward.

“It is punishable by death to speak of or to encourage magic. It is an affront to the gods, and an affront to me that you sang such a song in my hall.”

Rena Goldsmith just stared at him, her eyes bright. She hadn’t struggled when his men grabbed her after the performance or even screamed when they’d beheaded her companion. As if she’d been expecting this.

“Any last words?”

A queer, calm rage settled over her lined face, and she lifted her chin. “I have worked for ten years to become famous enough to gain an invitation to this castle. Ten years, so I could come here to sing the songs of magic that you tried to wipe out. So I could sing those songs, and you would know that we are still here—that you may outlaw magic, that you may slaughter thousands, but we who keep the old ways still remember.”

Behind him, Roland snorted.

“Enough,” the king said, and snapped his fingers.

The guards shoved her head down on the block.

“My daughter was sixteen,” she went on. Tears ran over the bridge of her nose and onto the block, but her voice remained strong and loud. “Sixteen, when you burned her. Her name was Kaleen, and she had eyes like thunderclouds. I still hear her voice in my dreams.”

The king jerked his chin to the executioner, who stepped forward.

“My sister was thirty-six. Her name was Liessa, and she had two boys who were her joy.”

The executioner raised his ax.

“My neighbor and his wife were seventy. Their names were Jon and Estrel. They were killed because they dared try to protect my daughter when your men came for her.”

Rena Goldsmith was still reciting her list of the dead when the ax fell.





Chapter 16


Celaena dipped her spoon into her porridge, tasted it, then dumped in a mountain of sugar. “I much prefer eating breakfast together than going out in the freezing cold.” Fleetfoot, her head on Celaena’s lap, huffed loudly. “I think she does, too,” she added with a grin.

Nehemia laughed softly before taking a bite of her bread. “It seems like this is the only time of day either of us get to see you,” she said in Eyllwe.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy hunting down the conspirators on the king’s list?” A pointed glance in her direction; another bite of toast.

“What do you want me to say?” Celaena stirred the sugar into her porridge, focusing on that instead of the look on her friend’s face.

“I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you think your freedom is worth this price.”

“Is this why you’ve been so on edge lately?”

Nehemia set down her toast. “How can I tell my parents about you? What excuses can I make that will convince them that my friendship with the King’s Champion”—she used the common-tongue language for the two words, spitting them out like poison—“is in any way an honorable thing? How can I convince them that your soul isn’t rotted?”

“I didn’t realize that I needed parental approval.”

“You are in a position of power—and knowledge—and yet you just obey. You obey and you do not question, and you work only toward one goal: your freedom.”