Endovier

After

Curled into the corner of a prison wagon, Celaena Sardothien watched the splotches of shadows and light play on the wall. Trees—just beginning to shift into the rich hues of autumn—seemed to peer at her through the small, barred window.

She rested her head against the musty wooden wall, listening to the creak of the wagon, the clink of the shackles around her wrists and ankles, the rumbling chatter and occasional laughter of the guards who had been escorting the wagon along its route for two days now.

But while she was aware of it all, she heard it through a deafening sort of silence that had settled over her like a cloak. It shut out everything. She knew she was thirsty, and hungry, and that her fingers were numb with cold, but she couldn’t feel it keenly.

The wagon hit a rut, jostling her so hard that her head knocked into the wall. Even that pain felt distant.

The freckles of light along the panels danced like falling snow.

Like ash.

Ash from a world burned into nothing—lying in ruins around her. She could taste the ash of that dead world on her chapped lips, settling on her leaden tongue.

She preferred the silence. In the silence she couldn’t hear the worst question of all: had she brought this upon herself?

The wagon passed under a particularly thick canopy of trees, blotting out the light. For a heartbeat, the silence peeled back long enough for that question to worm its way into her skull, into her skin, into her breath and her bones.

And in the dark, she remembered.

Chapter One

Eleven Days Earlier

Celaena Sardothien had been waiting for this night for the past year. Sitting on the wooden walkway tucked into the side of the gilded dome of the Royal Theater, she breathed in the music rising from the orchestra far below. Her legs dangled from the railing edge, and she leaned forward to rest her cheek on her folded arms.

The musicians were seated in a semicircle on the stage. They filled the theater with such wondrous noise that Celaena sometimes forgot how to breathe. She had seen this symphony performed four times in the past four years—but she’d always gone with Arobynn. It had become their annual autumn tradition.

Though she knew she shouldn’t, she let her eyes drift to the private box where, until last month, she’d always been seated.

Was it from spite or sheer blindness that Arobynn Hamel now sat there, Lysandra at his side? He knew what this night meant to Celaena—knew how much she’d looked forward to it every year. And though Celaena hadn’t wanted to go with him—and never wanted anything to do with him again—tonight he’d brought Lysandra. As if this night didn’t mean anything to him at all.

Even from the rafters, she could see the King of the Assassins holding the hand of the young courtesan, his leg resting against the skirts of her rose-colored gown. A month after Arobynn had won the Bidding for Lysandra’s virginity, it seemed that he was still monopolizing her time. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d worked out something with her madam to keep Lysandra until he tired of her.

Celaena wasn’t sure if she pitied Lysandra for it.

Celaena returned her attention to the stage. She didn’t know why she’d come here, or why she’d told Sam that she had plans and couldn’t meet him for dinner at their favorite tavern.

In the past month, she hadn’t seen or spoken to Arobynn, nor had she wanted to. But this was her favorite symphony, the music so lovely that, to fill the yearlong wait between performances, she’d mastered a fair portion of it on the pianoforte.

The symphony’s third movement finished, and applause thundered across the shimmering arc of the dome. The orchestra waited for the clapping to die down before it swept into the joyous allegro that led to the finale.

At least in the rafters, she didn’t have to bother dressing up and pretending to fit in with the bejeweled crowd below. She had easily snuck in from the roof, and no one had once looked up to see the black-clad figure seated along the railing, nearly hidden from view by the crystal chandeliers that had been raised and dimmed for the performance.

Up here, she could do what she liked. She could rest her head on her arms, or swing her legs in time with the music, or get up and dance if she wanted to. So what if she’d never again sit in that beloved box, so lovely with its red velvet seats and polished wooden banisters?

The music braided through the theater, and each note was more brilliant than the last.

She’d chosen to leave Arobynn. She’d paid off her debt to him, and Sam’s debt to him, and had moved out. She’d walked away from her life as Arobynn Hamel’s protégée. That had been her decision—and one she didn’t regret, not after Arobynn had so sorely betrayed her. He’d humiliated and lied to her, and used her blood money to win Lysandra’s Bidding just to spite her.

Though she still fancied herself Adarlan’s Assassin, part of her wondered just how long Arobynn would allow her to keep the title before he named someone else his successor. But no one could truly replace her. Whether or not she belonged to Arobynn, she was still the best. She’d always be the best.

Wouldn’t she?

She blinked, realizing she’d somehow stopped hearing the music. She should change spots—move to a place where the chandeliers blocked out her view of Arobynn and Lysandra. She stood, her tailbone aching from sitting on the wood.

Celaena took a step, the floorboards sagging under her black boots, but paused. Though it was as she’d remembered it, every note flawless, the music felt disjointed now. Even though she could play it from memory, it was suddenly like she’d never heard it before, or like her internal beat was now somehow off from the rest of the world.

Celaena glanced again at the familiar box far below—where Arobynn was now draping a long, elegant arm along the back of Lysandra’s seat. Her old seat, the one closest to the stage.

It was worth it, though. She was free, and Sam was free, and Arobynn … He had done his best to hurt her, to break her. Going without these luxuries was a cheap price to pay for a life without him lording over her.

The music worked itself into the frenzy of its climax, becoming a whirlwind of sound that she found herself walking through—not toward a new seat, but toward the small door that led onto the roof.

The music roared, each note a pulse of air against her skin. Celaena threw the hood of her cloak over her head as she slipped out the door and into the night beyond.

It was nearing eleven when Celaena unlocked the door to her apartment, breathing in the already familiar scents of home. She’d spent much of the past month furnishing the spacious apartment—hidden on the upper floor of a warehouse in the slums—that she now shared with Sam.

He’d offered again and again to pay for half of the apartment, but each time, she ignored him. It wasn’t because she didn’t want his money—though she truly didn’t—but rather because, for the first time ever, this was a place that was hers. And though she cared deeply for Sam, she wanted to keep it that way.

She slipped inside, taking in the great room that greeted her: to the left, a shining oak dining table large enough to fit eight upholstered chairs around it; to her right, a large red couch, two armchairs, and a low-lying table set before the darkened fireplace.

The cold fireplace told her enough. Sam wasn’t home.

Celaena might have gone into the adjacent kitchen to devour the remaining half of the berry tart Sam hadn’t finished at lunch—might have kicked off her boots and reclined before a floor-to-ceiling window to take in the stunning nighttime view of the capital. She might have done any number of things had she not spied the note atop the small table beside the front door.

I’ve gone out, it said in Sam’s handwriting. Don’t wait up.

Celaena crumpled the note in her fist. She knew exactly where he’d gone—and exactly why he didn’t want her to wait up.

Because if she were asleep, then she most likely wouldn’t see the blood and bruises on him when