The Assassin and the Desert

Of course she was worthy. She was Celaena Sardothien, gods be damned.

The third man pulled out two crescent-shaped daggers from the folds of his beige tunic and slashed at her. Her layered clothing was too cumbersome for her to dart away fast enough, so as he swiped for her face, she bent back. Her spine strained, but the two blades passed overhead, slicing through an errant strand of her hair. She dropped to the ground and lashed out with a leg, sweeping the man off his feet.

The fourth man, though, had come up behind her, a curved blade flashing in his hand as he made to plunge it through her head. She rolled, and the sword struck stone, sparking.

By the time she got to her feet, he’d raised the sword again. She caught his feint to the left before he struck at her right. She danced aside. The man was still swinging when she drove the base of her palm straight into his nose and slammed her other fist into his gut. The man dropped to the floor, blood gushing from his nose. She panted, the air ragged in her already-burning throat. She really, really needed water.

None of the four men on the ground moved. The Master began smiling, and it was then that the others gathered around the chamber stepped closer to the light. Men and women, all tan, though their hair showed the range of the various kingdoms on the continent. Celaena inclined her head. None of them nodded back. Celaena kept one eye on the four men before her as they got to their feet, sheathed their weapons, and stalked back to the shadows. Hopefully they wouldn’t take it personally.

She scanned the shadows again, bracing herself for more assailants. Nearby, a young woman watched her, and she flashed Celaena a conspirator’s grin. Celaena tried not to look too interested, though the girl was one of the most stunning people she’d ever beheld. It wasn’t just her wine-red hair or the color of her eyes, a red brown Celaena had never seen before. No, it was the girl’s armor that initially caught her interest: ornate to the point of probably being useless, but still a work of art.

The right shoulder was fashioned into a snarling wolf’s head, and her helmet, tucked into the crook of her arm, featured a wolf hunched over the noseguard. Another wolf’s head had been molded into the pommel of her broadsword. On anyone else, the armor might have looked flamboyant and ridiculous, but on the girl . . . There was a strange, boyish sort of innocence to her, and that was what made her so striking.

Still, Celaena wondered how it was possible not to be sweltering to death inside all that armor.

The Master clapped Celaena on the shoulder and beckoned to the girl to come forward. Not to attack—a friendly invitation. The girl’s armor clinked as it moved, but her boots were near-silent.

The Master used his hands to form a series of motions between the girl and Celaena. The girl bowed low, then gave her that wicked grin again. “I’m Ansel,” she said, her voice bright, amused. She had a barely perceptible lilt to her accent that Celaena couldn’t place. “Looks like we’re sharing a room while you’re here.” The Master gestured again, his calloused, scarred fingers creating rudimentary gestures that Ansel could somehow decipher. “Say, how long will that be, actually?”

Celaena fought her frown. “One month.” She inclined her head to the Master. “If you allow me to stay that long.”

With the month that it took to get here, and the month it would take to get home, she’d be away from Rifthold three months before she returned.

The Master merely nodded and walked back to the cushions atop the dais. “That means you can stay,” Ansel whispered, and then touched Celaena’s shoulder with an armor-clad hand. Apparently not all the assassins here were under a vow of silence—or had a sense of personal space. “You’ll start training tomorrow,” Ansel went on. “At dawn.”

The Master sank onto the cushions, and Celaena almost sagged with relief. Arobynn had made her think that convincing him to train her would be nearly impossible. Fool. Pack her off to the desert to suffer, would he!

“Thank you,” Celaena said to the Master, keenly aware of the eyes watching her in the hall as she bowed again. He waved her away.

“Come,” Ansel said, her hair shimmering in a ray of sunlight. “I suppose you’ll want a bath before you do anything else. I certainly would, if I were you.” Ansel gave her a smile that stretched the splattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

Celaena glanced sidelong at the girl and her ornate armor, and followed her from the room. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in weeks,” she said with a grin.

Alone with Ansell as they strode through the halls, Celaena keenly felt the absence of the long daggers usually sheathed in her belt. But they’d been taken from her at the gate, along with her sword and her pack. She let her hands dangle at her sides, ready to react to the slightest movement from her guide. Whether or not Ansel noticed Celaena’s readiness to fight her, the girl swung her arms casually, her armor clanking with the movement.

Her roommate. That was an unfortunate surprise. Sharing a room with Sam for a few nights was one thing. But a month with a complete stranger? Celaena studied Ansel out of the corner of her eye. She was slightly taller, but Celaena couldn’t see much else about her, thanks to the armor. She’d never spent much time around other girls, save the courtesans that Arobynn invited to the Keep for parties or took to the theater, and most of them were not the sort of person that Celaena cared to know. There were no other female assassins in Arobynn’s guild. But here . . . in addition to Ansel, there had been just as many women as men. In the Keep, there was no mistaking who she was. Here, she was just another face in the crowd.

For all she knew, Ansel might be better than her. The thought didn’t sit well.

“So,” Ansel said, her brows rising. “Celaena Sardothien.”

“Yes?”

Ansel shrugged—or at least shrugged as well as she could, given the armor. “I thought you’d be . . . more dramatic.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Celaena said, not sounding very sorry at all. Ansel steered them up a short staircase, then down a long hall. Children popped in and out of the rooms along the passage, buckets and brooms and mops in hand. The youngest looked about eight, the eldest about twelve.

“Acolytes,” Ansel said in response to Celaena’s silent question. “Cleaning the rooms of the older assassins is part of their training. Teaches them responsibility and humility. Or something like that.” Ansel winked at a child who gaped up at her as she passed. Indeed, several of the children stared after Ansel, their eyes wide with wonder and respect; Ansel must be well regarded, then. None of them bothered to look at Celaena. She raised her chin.

“And how old were you when you came here?” The more she knew the better.

“I had barely turned thirteen,” Ansel said. “So I just missed having to do the drudgery work.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Trying to get a read on me, are you?”

Celaena kept her face blank.

“I just turned eighteen. You look about my age, too.”

Celaena nodded. She certainly didn’t have to yield any information about herself. Even though Arobynn had ordered her not to hide her identity here, that didn’t mean she had to give away details. And at least Celaena had started her training at eight; she had several years on Ansel. That had to count for something. “Has training with the Master been effective?”

Ansel gave her a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been here for five years, and he’s still refused to train me personally. Not that I care. I’d say I’m pretty damn good with or without his expertise.”

Well, that was certainly odd. How had she gone so long without working with the Master? Though, many of Arobynn’s assassins never received private lessons with him, either. “Where are you from, originally?” Celaena asked.

“The Flatlands.” The Flatlands . . . Where in hell were the Flatlands? Ansel answered for her. “Along the coast of the Western Wastes—formerly known as the Witch Kingdom.”

The Wastes were certainly familiar. But she’d never heard of the Flatlands.

“My father,” Ansel went on, “is Lord of Briarcliff. He sent me here for training, so I might ‘make myself useful.’ But I don’t think five hundred years would be enough to teach me that.”

Despite herself, Celaena chuckled. She stole another glance at Ansel’s armor. “Don’t you get hot in all that armor?”

“Of course,” Ansel said, tossing her shoulder-length hair. “But you have to admit it’s rather striking. And very well suited for strutting about a fortress full of assassins. How else am I to distinguish myself?”

“Where did you get it from?” Not that she might want some for herself; she had no use for armor like that.

“Oh, I had it made for me.” So—Ansel had money, then. Plenty of it, if she could throw it away on armor. “But the sword”—Ansel patted the wolf-shaped hilt at her side—“belongs to my father. His gift to me when I left. I figured I’d have the armor match it—wolves are a family symbol.”

They entered an open walkway, the heat of the midafternoon sun slamming into them with full force. Yet Ansel’s face remained jovial, and if the armor did indeed make her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. Ansel looked her up and down. “How many people have you killed?”

Celaena almost choked, but kept her chin high. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”

Ansel chuckled. “I suppose it’d be easy enough to find out; you must leave some indication if you’re so notorious.” Actually, it was Arobynn who usually saw to it that word got out through the proper channels. She left very little behind once her job was finished. Leaving a sign felt somewhat . . . cheap. “I’d want everyone to know that I’d done it,” Ansel added.

Well, Celaena did want everyone to know that she was the best, but something about the way Ansel said it seemed different from her own reasoning.

“So, which of you looks worse?” Ansel asked suddenly. “You, or the person who gave those to you?” Celaena knew that she meant the fading bruises and cuts on her face.

Her stomach tightened. It was getting to be a familiar feeling.

“Me,” Celaena said quietly.

She didn’t know why she admitted it. Bravado might have been the better option. But she was tired, and suddenly so heavy with the weight of that memory.

“Did your master do that to you?” Ansel asked. This time, Celaena kept quiet, and Ansel didn’t push her.

At the other end of the walkway, they took a spiral stone staircase down into an empty courtyard where benches and little tables stood in the shade of the towering date trees. Someone had left a book lying atop one of the wooden tables, and as they passed by, Celaena glimpsed the cover. The title was in a scrawling, strange script that she didn’t recognize.

If she’d been alone, she might have paused to flip through the book, just to see words printed in a language so different from anything she knew, but Ansel continued on toward a pair of carved wooden doors.