Crown of Midnight

His fingers were warm, even through his gloves. He slid his other hand around her waist as she braced one of hers on his arm. She looked up at him when he began to move—a slow step, then another, and another, easing into the steady rhythm of the waltz.

He stared back at her, neither of them smiling—somehow beyond smiling at that moment. The waltz built, louder, faster, and Chaol steered her into it, never stumbling.

Her breathing turned uneven, but she couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t stop dancing. The moonlight and the garden and the golden glow from the ballroom blurred together, now miles away. “We’ll never be a normal boy and girl, will we?” she managed to say.

“No,” he breathed, eyes blazing. “We won’t.”

And then the music exploded around them, and Chaol took her with it, spinning her so that her cloak fanned out around her. Each step was flawless, lethal, like that first time they’d sparred together so many months ago. She knew his every move and he knew hers, as though they’d been dancing this waltz together all their lives. Faster, never faltering, never breaking her stare.

The rest of the world quieted into nothing. In that moment, after ten long years, Celaena looked at Chaol and realized she was home.

Dorian Havilliard stood at the ballroom window, watching Celaena and Chaol dance in the garden beyond, their dark cloaks flowing around them like they were no more than two wraiths spinning through the wind. After hours of dancing, he’d finally managed to get free of the ladies demanding his attention, and had come to the window to get some much-needed fresh air.

He’d intended to go outside, but then he’d seen them. That had been enough to still his steps—but not enough to make him walk away. He knew he should. He should walk away and pretend he hadn’t seen it, because even though it was just a dance …

Someone stepped beside him, and he glanced over in time to see Nehemia stop at the window. After months of being scarce around the court due to the rebel massacre in Eyllwe, she’d made an appearance tonight. She was resplendent in a cobalt gown with gold-thread accents, her hair coiled and braided in a coronet atop her head. Her delicate golden earrings glittered in the light of the chandelier, drawing his eye to her elegant neck. Nehemia was easily the most stunning woman in the ballroom, and he hadn’t failed to notice how many men—and women—had been watching her all night.

“Don’t cause trouble for them,” she said quietly, her accent still thick, but much improved since she’d arrived in Rifthold. Dorian raised an eyebrow. Nehemia traced an invisible pattern on the glass pane. “You and I … We will always stand apart. We will always have …” She searched for the word. “Responsibilities. We will always have burdens that no one else can ever understand. That they”—she inclined her head toward Chaol and Celaena—“will never understand. And if they did, then they would not want them.”

They would not want us, is what you mean.

Chaol spun Celaena, and she flowed smoothly through the air before snapping back into his arms.

“I’ve already decided to move on,” Dorian said with equal quiet. It was the truth. He’d awoken this morning feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

Nehemia nodded, the gold and jewels in her hair twinkling. “Then I thank you for that.” She traced another symbol on the window. “Your cousin, Roland, told me that your father has approved Councilman Mullison’s plans to swell Calaculla’s ranks—to expand the labor camp to accommodate more … people.”

He kept his face blank. There were far too many eyes on them. “Roland told you that?”

Nehemia lowered her hand from the window. “He wants me to tell my father that I support his agenda—to get my father to make the expansion as easy as possible. I refused. He says there’s a council meeting tomorrow where they will vote on Mullison’s plans. I’m not allowed to attend.”

Dorian focused on his breathing. “Roland had no right to do that. Any of it.”

“Would you stop it, then?” Her dark eyes were fixed on his face. “Speak to your father at the council meeting; convince the others to say no.”

No one except for Celaena dared speak to him like that. But her boldness had nothing to do with his response as Dorian said, “I can’t.”

His face warmed as the words came out, but it was true. He couldn’t tackle Calaculla, not without causing a lot of trouble for both himself and Nehemia. He’d already convinced his father to leave Nehemia alone. Demanding he shut down Calaculla could force him to choose sides—and make a choice that could destroy everything he had.

“You can’t, or you will not?” Dorian sighed, but she cut him off. “If Celaena were shipped to Calaculla, would you free her? Would you put a stop to the camp? When you took her from Endovier, did you think twice about the thousands you left behind?” He had, but … but not for as long as he should have. “Innocents work and die in Calaculla and Endovier. By the thousands. Ask Celaena about the graves they dig there, Prince. Look at the scars on her back, and realize that what she went through is a blessing compared to what most endure.” Perhaps he’d just gotten used to her accent, but he could have sworn she was speaking more clearly. Nehemia pointed at the garden, at Celaena and Chaol, who had stopped dancing and were talking now. “If she was sent back, would you free her?”

“Of course I would,” he said carefully. “But it’s complicated.”

“There is nothing complicated. It is the difference between right and wrong. The slaves in those camps have people who love them just as much as you loved my friend.”

He glanced around them. Ladies were eagerly watching from behind their fans, and even his mother had noticed their lengthy conversation. Outside, Celaena had resumed her post by the pillar. At the other end of the room, Chaol slipped through one of the patio doors and took up his spot in an alcove, his face blank, as if the dance had never happened. “This isn’t the place for this conversation.”

Nehemia stared at him for a long moment before nodding. “You have power in you, Prince. More power than you realize.” She touched his chest, tracing a symbol there, too, and some of the court ladies gasped. But Nehemia’s eyes were locked on his. “It sleeps,” she whispered, tapping his heart. “In here. When the time comes, when it awakens, do not be afraid.” She removed her hand and gave him a sad smile. “When it is time, I will help you.”

With that, she walked away, the courtiers parting, then swallowing up her wake. He stared after the princess, wondering what her last words had meant.

And why, when she had said them, something ancient and slumbering deep inside of him had opened an eye.

Chapter 18

Celaena sat in the parlor of Archer’s townhouse, frowning at the crackling fireplace. She hadn’t touched the tea the butler had laid out for her on the low-lying marble table, though she’d certainly indulged in two creampuffs and one chocolate torte while waiting for Archer to return. She could have come back later, but it was freezing outside, and after standing on guard duty last night, she was exhausted. And in need of anything to distract her from reliving that dance with Chaol.

After the waltz had finished, he’d merely told her that if she abandoned her post again, he’d break a hole through the ice in the trout pond and toss her in. And then, as though he hadn’t just danced with her in a way that made her knees tremble, he stalked back inside and left her to suffer in the cold. He hadn’t even mentioned the dance this morning during their run. Maybe she’d just imagined the whole thing. Maybe the frigid night air had made her stupid.

She’d been distracted during her first Wyrdmarks lesson with Nehemia that morning and had earned a fair amount of scolding as a result. She blamed the complex, near-nonsensical language. She’d learned a few languages before—enough to get by in places where Adarlan’s language laws hadn’t taken root—but Wyrdmarks were completely different. Trying to learn them while also trying to unravel the labyrinth that was Chaol Westfall was impossible.

Celaena heard the front door open. Muffled words, hurried footsteps, and then—Archer’s beautiful face popped in. “Just give me a moment to freshen up.”

She stood. “That won’t be necessary. This won’t take long.”

Archer’s green eyes glimmered, but he slipped into the parlor, shutting the mahogany door behind him.

“Sit,” she told him, not particularly caring that this was his house. Archer obeyed, taking a seat in the armchair across from the couch. His face was flushed from the cold, making his lovely eyes seem even greener.

She crossed her legs. “If your butler doesn’t stop listening at the keyhole, I’m going to cut off his ears and shove them down his throat.”

There was a muffled cough, followed by retreating footsteps. Once she was sure no one else was listening, she leaned back into the couch cushions. “I need more than a list of names. I need to know what, exactly, they’re planning—and how much they know about the king.”

Archer’s face paled. “I need more time, Celaena.”

“You have little more than three weeks left.”

“Give me five.”

“The king only gave me a month to kill you. I already have a hard time convincing everyone you’re a difficult target. I can’t give you more time.”

“But I need it to wrap up things here in Rifthold and to get you more information. With Davis dead, they’re all being extra careful. No one is talking. No one dares whisper anything.”

“Do they know Davis was a mistake?”

“Mistakes happen often enough in Rifthold for us to know that most of them are anything but mistakes.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Please. Just a little more time.”

“I don’t have any to give you. I need more than names, Archer.”

“What about the Crown Prince? And the Captain of the Guard? Perhaps they have the information you need. You’re close with both of them, aren’t you?”

She bared her teeth at him. “What do you know about them?”

Archer gave her a steady, calculating look. “You think I didn’t recognize the Captain of the Guard the day you just happened to run into me outside of the Willows?” His attention flicked to her side, where her hand currently rested on a dagger. “Have you told them about your plan to keep me alive?”

“No,” she said, her grip on the dagger relaxing. “No, I haven’t. I don’t want to involve them.”

“Or is it because you don’t actually trust either of them?”

She shot to her feet. “Don’t presume to know anything about me, Archer.”

She stalked to the door and flung it open. The butler was nowhere to be seen. She looked over her shoulder at Archer, whose eyes were wide as he watched her. “You have until the end of the week—six days—to get me more information. If you don’t give me anything by then, my next visit won’t be nearly as pleasant.”