Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #1) by Sarah J. Maas

Celaena had already spent one blistering summer in the heat of the Red Desert, but to tell Nehemia that would only invite difficult questions. Instead, she said: “I’d like to see Eyllwe very much.”

Nehemia’s gaze lingered on Celaena’s brow for a moment before she grinned. “Then it shall be so.”

Celaena’s eyes brightened, and she tilted her head back so she could see the castle looming above them. “I wonder if Chaol sorted through the mess of that murder.”

“My bodyguards tell me that the man was . . . very violently killed.”

“To say the least,” Celaena murmured, watching the shifting colors of the fading sun turn the castle gold and red and blue. Despite the ostentatious nature of the glass castle, she had to admit that it did look rather beautiful at times.

“You saw the body? My guards weren’t allowed close enough.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m sure you don’t want to know the details.”

“Indulge me,” Nehemia pressed, smiling tightly.

Celaena raised an eyebrow. “Well—there was blood smeared everywhere. On the walls, on the floor.”

“Smeared?” Nehemia said, her voice dropping into a hush. “Not splattered?”

“I think so. Like someone had rubbed it on there. There were a few of those Wyrdmarks painted, but most had been rubbed away.” She shook her head at the image that arose. “And the man’s body was missing its vital organs—like someone had split him open from neck to navel, and—I’m sorry, you look like you’re going to be ill. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No. Keep going. What else was missing?”

Celaena paused for a moment before saying: “His brain. Someone had made a hole in the top of his head, and his brain was gone. And the skin from his face had been ripped off.”

Nehemia nodded, staring at a barren bush in front of them. The princess chewed on her bottom lip, and Celaena noted that her fingers curled and uncurled at the sides of her long, white gown. A cold breeze blew past them, making Nehemia’s multitude of fine, thin braids sway. The gold woven into her braids clinked softly.

“I’m sorry,” Celaena said. “I shouldn’t have—”

A step fell behind them, and before Celaena could whirl, a male voice said: “Look at this.”

She tensed as Cain came to stand nearby, half-hidden in the shadow of the clock tower behind them. Verin, the curly-haired loudmouth thief, was at his side. “What do you want?” she said.

Cain’s tan face twisted in a sneer. Somehow, he’d gotten bigger—or maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. “Pretending to be a lady doesn’t mean you are one,” he said. Celaena shot Nehemia a look, but the princess’s eyes remained upon Cain—narrowed, but her lips strangely slack.

But Cain wasn’t done, and his attention shifted to Nehemia. His lips pulled back, revealing his gleaming white teeth. “Neither does wearing a crown make you a real princess—not anymore.”

Celaena took a step closer to him. “Shut your stupid mouth, or I’ll punch your teeth down your throat and shut it for you.”

Cain let out a sharp laugh, which Verin echoed. The thief circled behind them, and Celaena straightened, wondering if they’d actually pick a fight here. “Lots of barking from the prince’s lapdog,” Cain said. “But does she have any fangs?”

She felt Nehemia’s hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off as she took another step toward him, close enough for the curls of his breath to touch her face. Inside the castle, the guards remained loitering about, talking amongst themselves. “You’ll find out when my fangs are buried in your neck,” she said.

“Why not right now?” Cain breathed. “Come on—hit me. Hit me with all that rage you feel every time you force yourself to miss the bull’s-eye, or when you slow yourself down so you don’t scale walls as fast as me. Hit me, Lillian,” he whispered so only she could hear, “and let’s see what that year in Endovier really taught you.”

Celaena’s heart leapt into a gallop. He knew. He knew who she was, and what she was doing. She didn’t dare to look at Nehemia, and only hoped her understanding of the common language was still weak enough for her not to have understood. Verin still watched from behind them.

“You think you’re the only one whose sponsor is willing to do anything to win? You think your prince and captain are the only ones who know what you are?”

Celaena clenched her hand. Two blows, and he’d be on the ground, struggling to breathe. Another blow after that, and Verin would be beside him.

“Lillian,” Nehemia said in the common tongue, taking her by the hand. “We have business. Let us go.”

“That’s right,” Cain said. “Follow her around like the lapdog you are.”

Celaena’s hand trembled. If she hit him . . . If she hit him, if she got into a brawl right here and the guards had to pull them apart, Chaol might not let her see Nehemia again, let alone leave her rooms after lessons, or stay late to practice with Nox. So Celaena smiled and rolled her shoulders as she said brightly: “Shove it up your ass, Cain.”

Cain and Verin laughed, but she and Nehemia walked away, the princess holding her hand tightly. Not from fear or anger, but just to tell her that she understood . . . that she was there. Celaena squeezed her hand back. It had been a while since someone had looked out for her, and Celaena had the feeling she could get used to it.