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

But would they be friends of hers? The thought of strangers touching Nehemia’s belongings, packing them away like any other objects, made her wild with grief and rage.

Almost as wild as she’d been earlier today, when she’d walked into her own dressing room and ripped every gown off its hanger, pulled out every pair of shoes, every tunic, every ribbon and cloak and thrown them into the hallway.

She’d burned the dresses that reminded her most of Nehemia, the dresses she’d worn at their lessons, at their meals, and on their walks around the castle. It was only when Philippa came in to scold her about the smoke that Celaena had relented, allowing her to take whatever clothing survived and donate it. But it had been too late to stop Celaena from burning the dress she’d worn the night of Chaol’s birthday. That gown had burned first.

And when her dressing room was empty, she shoved a bag of gold into Philippa’s hands and told her to go buy some new clothes. Philippa had only given her a sad look—another thing that made Celaena sick—and left.

It took Celaena an hour to gently, carefully pack up Nehemia’s clothes and jewelry, and she tried not to dwell too long on the memories that accompanied each item. Or the lotus-blossom smell that clung to everything.

When she had sealed all the trunks, she went to Nehemia’s desk, which was still littered with papers and books as if the princess had only stepped outside for a moment. As she reached for the first paper, her eyes fell upon the arc of scars around her right hand—the teeth marks of the ridderak.

The papers were covered with scribblings in Eyllwe and—and Wyrdmarks.

Countless Wyrdmarks, some in long lines, some forming symbols like the ones Nehemia had traced underneath Celaena’s bed all those months ago. How had the king’s spies not taken these? Or had he not even bothered to have her rooms searched? She started stacking them into a pile. Perhaps she could still learn some things about the marks, even if Nehemia were—

Dead, she made herself think. Nehemia is dead.

Celaena looked at the scars on her hand again and was about to turn from the desk when she spotted a familiar-looking book half tucked beneath some papers.

It was the book from Davis’s office.

This copy was older, more damaged, but it was the same book. And written on the inside cover was a sentence in Wyrdmarks—such basic marks that even Celaena could understand them.


Do not trust—

The final symbol, though, was a mystery. It looked like a wyvern—the Royal Seal. Of course she shouldn’t trust the King of Adarlan.

She flipped through the book, scanning it for any information. Nothing.

And then she turned to the back cover. And there, Nehemia had written—


It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.

It was scribbled in the common tongue, then in Eyllwe, then in some other languages that Celaena didn’t recognize. Different translations—as if Nehemia had wondered whether the riddle held any meaning in another tongue. The same book, the same riddle, the same writing in the back.

An idle lord’s nonsense, Nehemia had said.

But Nehemia … Nehemia and Archer led the group to which Davis had belonged. Nehemia had known Davis; known him and lied about it, lied about the riddle, and—

Nehemia had promised. Promised that there would be no more secrets between them.

Promised and lied. Promised and deceived her.

She fought down a scream as she tore through every other piece of paper on the desk, in the room. Nothing.

What else had Nehemia lied about?

It is only with the eye …

Celaena touched her necklace. Nehemia had known about the tomb. If she had been feeding information to this group, and had encouraged Celaena to look into the eye carved into the wall … then Nehemia had been looking, too. But after the duel, she’d returned the Eye of Elena to Celaena; if Nehemia had needed it, she would have kept it. And Archer hadn’t mentioned knowing anything about this.

Unless this wasn’t the eye the riddle referenced.

Because …

“By the Wyrd,” Celaena breathed, and rushed out of the room.



Mort hissed when she appeared at the door to the tomb. “Plan on desecrating any other sacred objects tonight?”

Carrying a satchel full of papers and books that she’d grabbed from her rooms, Celaena merely patted his head as she walked by. His bronze teeth clanked against each other as he sought to bite her.

The tomb was filled with moonlight bright enough to see by. And there, directly across the tomb from the eye in the wall, was another eye, golden and gleaming.

Damaris. It was Damaris, the Sword of Truth. Gavin could see nothing but what was right—

It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.

“Am I so blind?” Celaena dumped her leather satchel on the floor, the books and papers spilling across the stones.

“It appears so!” Mort sang. The eye-shaped pommel was the exact size …

Celaena lifted the sword from its stand and unsheathed it. The Wyrdmarks on the blade seemed to ripple. She rushed back to the wall.

“In case you didn’t realize,” called Mort, “you’re supposed to hold the eye against the hole in the wall and look through it.”

“I know that,” snapped Celaena.

And so, not daring to breathe the entire time, Celaena lifted the pommel to the hole until both eyes were evenly aligned. She stood on her toes and peered in—and groaned.