She awoke to a rather rude amount of knocking on the door.
She groaned. The sun wasn't even fully up.
"Celaena," a familiar voice called, "Arobynn wants to see you. Now."
Her heart skipped a beat out of fear. But then, she reminded herself, she hadn't done anything wrong, at least not recently. Still, Arobynn was not to be trifled with.
She tossed the sheets off and dressed. Since she was rushing, she only took fifteen minutes, instead of her usual forty.
Ben, who had knocked before, stood at the end of the hall. He didn't chastise her for her liberal use of the word "now," but when she reached him, he ruffled her immaculate hair.
She made an annoyed noise at him, and he just smiled down at her.
She squinted back at him, and then turned down the stairs in the direction of Arobynn's office. She debated saying something, but for once nothing witty came to mind and she couldn't bring herself to ask if Arobynn was angry with her, because that would seem weak and cowardly. So she straightened her back and strutted, trying to psych herself up.
After another minute of walking, she and Ben reached the doors to his office. Ben, ever the gentleman, held one open for her so Celaena could walk in.
"Good morning," Arobynn said simply with a sip of his tea.
"If you could call this ungodly hour morning," she replied cheekily with confidence she never felt around the King of Assassins.
Arobynn regarded her calmly. "After how long it took you to get here, I'd say it's near afternoon."
Celaena fought the swell of embarrassment that colored her cheeks.
"If you're going to be one of my assassin's," he continued, "you're going to have to learn something: I do not like to be kept waiting. Is it truly possible that after four years you don't know this?"
It may have been phrased as a question, but it was a warning. She hung her head.
A pitiful "sorry" slipped out before she could stop it.
And it merited the standard narrowing of the eyes and clipped response of "Don't be sorry; be better."
"That aside, Celaena, you know I have high hopes for you. In fact, I was thinking we could see about that today."
Celaena's ears pricked up. Does he mean..?
"I was thinking it's time for you to have your first mission."
Celaena barely heard anything after those words. Her first mission.
Arobynn continued, giving her the details with no fanfare, but Celaena only half listened. Go to a nearby city, pose as a serving girl, Ben would accompany her, leaving tonight... Finally, finally, after four years of hard work she could prove her worth. She would show them all who Celaena Sardothien was.
Maybe the proper thing to do was go back to her room and pack, but she was glowing with energy. She nearly pranced around the Assassin's Keep, until she "ran into" her rival, Sam Cortland, in the training room. Sam had started going on missions about three months ago when he turned thirteen, though as was customary he worked only in the wings of the missions.
He wasn't Arobynn's protégé.
He was, however, attempting to beat the sand out of the punching bag with relentless kicks and punches in the corner of the large room. Celaena nearly snorted. He would be up this early to train.
Still, she smiled. She couldn't wait to rub her mission in his face.
Silent as Death, she crept behind him. Oh she couldn't wait to see the look on his face when she told him… When she was inches from his back, Sam suddenly spun around.
His hot, sweaty hands grabbed her arms.
"It doesn't matter how quiet you are once you're in the room once I heard your clunking on the stairs, I knew it was you," he breathed on her face.
She bit back a growl. She hadn't been really careful because the whole sneaking thing was a bit of a whim. "How'd you know it was me?" she snapped, trying to compose herself. She pushed back against the wall, trying to escape but she couldn't.
"You're the only one in the keep under a hundred pounds. Obviously it was you."
A second later, he stepped back and released her. Celaena managed to avoid completely falling over and straightened up without looking completely foolishly. They stared at each other for a long minute before Sam broke the silence.
"Why are you here, Celaena? If you're looking to train, I'll move elsewhere."
His complete submission stunned Celaena momentarily before she remembered why she'd come down.
With a cocky smile, she told him. "Arobynn has decided that at twelve I'm ready for my first mission. I'm to leave tonight."
Sam stiffened. "He's letting you join a mission at twelve?"
Celaena felt her smile grow. "No, no. I mean, Ben is gonna come—" Sam's shoulders almost seemed to ease? "—but it's all on me. You know, being his protégé..." She trailed off dramatically.
"And where will your mission be?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Why? You wanna try and mess it up?"
He rolled his eyes. "I don't care if you don't tell me. I was trying to be polite. I forgot that's always a waste of time with you."
She shouldered her way past Sam, trying to remain dignified. Before she could get away, Sam grabbed her arm.
He grit his teeth, as if in physical pain, when she was the one who would have a bruise on her arm if he didn't let up. "Be careful."
That's all he said before Celaena pulled away and walked back to her rooms feeling far less satisfied than she had hoped. When she passed Arobynn at the top of the stairs, she said nothing and just went to her room.
She packed that night. She had a full trunk prepared, but Ben convinced her to limit herself to a large bag. After all, they would travel for the night, she'd complete her mission in the morning, and they would come home by tomorrow night.
Celaena saw no sign of Arobynn after that in the Keep. No words of wisdom as Ben helped her into the carriage that would take them. She would've died before admitting it, but she almost, almost wished he had seen her off.
But him ignoring her was probably a sign of faith. He was starting to see her for what she was. An asset to the keep, a skilled woman, an assassin.
At least Ben was supportive.
"He had a meeting with Clarisse," Ben said, as if she had asked. "Otherwise I'm sure he'd see us off," he continued, clapping a hand on her shoulder.
Celaena almost protested, but his hand was warm and reassuring. She leaned into his shoulder once they settle inside the carriage.
"Do you wanna run through your cover?" Ben asked gently.
"I know it," she replied. Of course she did. She'd been training for four years, waiting for this moment. She would take to her role like a bird to the sky, of this Celaena was certain.
But Ben insisted. "C'mon, Celaena. Humor an old man," he pleaded with an extra squeeze on her shoulder.
She let out a rather unladylike snort. "And what definition of old are we using?" Ben was a little more than ten years older than her. That hardly constituted as old.
Ben just smiled at her. It was not the disarming smile that to marks meant they never saw the blade in their spleen. It was a smile for her, and to Celaena the smile was about as close to home as she would ever get.
"What are you doing here?" Ben said with a sudden booming voice, trying to catch her off guard.
"M'lord, I'm just a serving girl. Much apologies," she replied in a perfectly submissive voice, rolling her eyes a second later.
But Ben wouldn't let her off the hook. "What's your name, girl? I may report you for your insolence!" he continued in the same booming voice, the gentle pressure of his arm around her shoulders belying his harsh words.
"My… my name is Katherine Palmer, sir. Please don't report me. I need this job, m'lord. I have a family, and my mother is so sick—"
"Stop your simpering. Be gone with you, wench."
"So are we done?" Celaena asked.
Ben gave her shoulder an extra squeeze to say yes. Ben was like that a lot, quiet. He was watchful, too, in a way none of the other assassins—not even Arobynn—were.
Celaena fully expected to sit in silence for the rest of the ride, given Ben's disposition, but as quiet and watchful as he was, he was also rather paternal towards Celaena. Worrywart, she thought.
"You know, Celaena," Ben said after a minute, "this mission won't go perfectly."
Celaena pulled away slightly with a hmph.
He squeezed her shoulder, again, this time with a chuckle attached. "It's not a reflection on you, of course. No mission goes perfectly. And really, there's nothing we can do in the sparring room to train you for these situations. You have to adapt."
Celaena wanted to argue, but she knew Ben meant well. At least Arobynn had complete faith in her to complete the mission. Instead, she found herself listening to Ben's plethora of reassurances for the next hour until the lull of the carriage put her to sleep.
Celaena was shaken awoke a few hours later, though she could have sworn it was moments. Her entire body tensed, ready to spring free, until she realized the only thing securing her was Ben's arm, once again around her shoulder. The realization eased her, before a wave of nausea ruined it. She'd fallen asleep on the way to her first mission! What if Ben told Arobynn? He wouldn't, would he? Because Arobynn would punish her, or kill her, or throw her out… Before she could beg Ben not to… inform… the King of Assassins about her mishap, Ben spoke.
"Alright, Celaena, we're about an hour away. You know what to do?"
Celaena nodded, but Ben ran through the plan anyway.
"And if you forget any detail when asked—" Ben said
"Kill the asker?" Celaena supplied.
Ben let out an amused sigh. "I was going to say just act stunned and silly. You know, killing isn't the answer to everything. Thinking that way is just an occupational hazard."
"Oh?" she asked. "Then what is?"
Ben signed again, less amused and more sad. "It depends. Everything depends, and there's never only one answer. You just learn as you go along."
Celaena heard the words, but the meaning didn't quite reach her. If a person was dead, they couldn't cause any more problems. That was how it worked. Usually. That was how it usually worked.
Though Celaena attempted to spent the majority of the next hour attempt to exude confidence, internally she ran through her lines again and again. Not lines, she reminded herself, who she was. Who she would be for the next hours. This was what Arobynn taught her—how to forget who she was and become someone else. She would hide Celaena Sardothien for the next few hours, until it was time to slip the poison into her target's evening wine. After what felt both like hours and seconds, the carriage halted. Ben exited the carriage first, holding the door and helping her exit. The sun had only begun to greet the sky, Celaena noticed as she stepped out. Right on schedule. She eyed her surroundings. They weren't quite at the target's home, but rather a main road in the city. So this was the west, she thought.
"I'll be back, with the carriage, here, in three hours. The mansion you're to go to is two blocks down that way," Ben said, gesturing with his hand. "Now go change and be off with you," he continued with an uneasy smile.
Celaena hopped back in the carriage, shut the window, and changed into an outfit befitting a scullery maid. A moment later, the carriage was off and Celaena began the short walk to the mansion.
Mansions, no matter how grand and modern the architect who designed them believes them to be, were consistent. There was some marvelous entrance, with a large wall, but not quite so large the common folk couldn't admire it with envy. And there was always an entrance to the side for the most discreet members of the household: the staff.
The mansion belonged to not a lord of Adarlan, but rather a sheriff. A very, very corrupt sheriff who lined his pockets with from less than savory sources. Of course, most people in Adarlan gained revenue from sources they would not normally declare, but this sheriff, Van Whorthian, was particularly unscrupulous. He let criminals go free for prices, be their infraction petty theft or kidnapping, and used the town's taxes to line his pockets. He was also known for his visits so frequent to the brothels that it was said all the courtesans knew his name. But Whorthian was not always content to pay for his bedwarmers, and what was less widely spread was the frequency with which these bedwarmers weren't always willing. Though often memories of his household and left with no legal defense, at least one was wealthy enough to pay the Assassin's Keep's fee.
Celaena slipped into the kitchen. Though the servants had no way to fight Whorthian, many quit with enough frequency that a new face among the kitchen maids would go unnoticed. She spent the next hour and a half being everywhere and nowhere. No one spoke to her; all of the other sculleries simply focused on their own duties. When the breakfast meal—and it was large enough to be for more than one, which Celaena had not anticipated—no one protested, save a few confused glances, when Celaena shuffled and took the first tray out. It had a large platter of eggs on it, as well as a bottle of wine—for why should such an unscrupulous man not be an alcoholic?—and a few other pieces of fruit. It was easy enough to find her way to the dining hall. She listened a moment, then glanced around before slipping the small packet of Oleander into the bottle, counting on the fact whatever company the sheriff was keeping was either as corrupt as Whortham, or less inclined to drink before noon. After pausing a moment longer than needed, Celaena entered the dining room.
The room was ornate, in the tackiest way. Someone had aimed to demonstrate wealth and tried to achieve it with expensive furnishings. Then they aimed to style the room and simply thrown the most vibrant colors possible at the room to attempt to imitate taste. It was all Celaena could do not to gag.
The table at the center sat three figures. At the head, the fattest pig she'd ever seen toyed with long, black whiskers and only a shadow of white hair crowning his head. To his right sat a dark haired man who looked slightly older than Arobynn, and next to that man was a smaller version, most likely a son.
"Girl, what are you waiting for? Come and serve us, already," guffawed the man at the head of the table. It took no great thinking to realize it was Von Whortham. Even Sam would be able to tell, Aelin thought, smirking to herself.
Celaena walked around, carefully, and parceled the eggs onto each plate. Then she offered fruit to each person.
"Well, sheriff, this one is certainly prettier than the scullery last night," the dark haired man said. "Compliments."
The sheriff guffawed again, and Celaena nearly cringed. "Yes, lord, but a good deal slower to serve," he replied, with a dismissive glance at how long it was taking Celaena to serve both a pear, and the shiniest apple of the bunch to the boy. "Hurry up, girl. My throat is dry."
"Father," said the boy, taking his eyes off the fruit. "Might I have some wine as well?"
The father regarded his son. "One alcoholic at breakfast is enough."
The sheriff bristled. "I say let the boy have a taste. Your silver lake is hardly known for its fine vineyards, the way my land is."
The lord regarded him coolly. "It's hardly your land, sheriff, but I would hate to insult you." The lord snapped his fingers at Celaena. "Pour my Terrin a small glass, girl."
Celaena would've growled at the repetition of the dismissive girl if she was not frozen. This was hardly the plan. Slowly, she began to to pour into the boy's goblet, before in the least believable accident dropping the bottle, knocking the glass over and shattering the sheriff's wine.
"You stupid girl!" the sheriff roared. "That was a twenty year vintage wine. You stupid, stupid girl!"
"M… M'lord, apologies," she blubbered.
"I should hang you for this," he continued. "I very well may, you stupid shit!"
The sheriff may well have continued, but despite his ire he was aware of his company. He grabbed her arm and all but threw her into the hallway.
He towered over Celaena by nearly a foot. He pressed her against the wall and hissed, and said foul things, and grabbed her shoulder.
But Celaena barely heard his words and didn't feel the spittle that came from them. The moment he had grabbed her, Celaena felt at peace. It was the feeling one got when they were out in the snow so long they weren't cold, they were numb. When you're that cold, you don't feel the movements, you just move because you must. There is no thinking, only action. And as the sheriff of some insignificant western city pressed Arobynn Hamel's protégé against the wall, it was a matter of instinct for her to rip the dagger up her cuff out and stab the fat pig through the heart.
She had left the mansion no more than two minutes later.
Once Celaena escaped, she was left with an issue. Ben would not be back for another hour, and she had no way of finding him. So she traced her path back to the road where she had been dropped off, no longer deserted, and hid in in ally. It was there she spent the next hour thinking. Thinking and thinking and thinking, and understanding nothing.
At least the sheriff was dead. At least Arobynn would be proud.
But all she could really think of was the feeling of the dagger ripping through cloth and piercing human flesh. This was her life. She had trained for it for years. And yet, somehow, this was so different. It should've been no different from training, but it was worlds different.
A warm embrace shocked Celaena out of her thoughts.
"Don't cry," Ben said, holding her in a way she had not been held in… in a very long time.
Celaena had not realized she was.
She stood quickly, determined to hide her shaking legs, and went into the carriage for a very long ride home. She said nothing to Ben about her first assassination. Her mind roared with a loudness she could not even whisper.
She did not sleep on the carriage ride home. Instead, a moment after arriving home, she went to Arobynn's office. For all the attention he gave her, she may as well have been there to tell him she had finished one of the books he required her to read.
"And did all go well?" the King of Assassins asked.
"Perfectly," she said, before slipping out of the room like the shadow she was trained to be.
When Celaena Sardothien reached her rooms, she did not leave until the midday after.
That evening, Ben slid into a chair across from the King of Assassins. He regarded Arobynn Hamel evenly. The redheaded man was someone Ben once considered more than his equal—his brother. His partner in crime, for so many years.
Now he was his king.
"I trust everything went smoothly," the king said.
Ben simply looked at him and murmured, "Luckily."
Arobynn let out a dark chuckle that sent chills down Ben's arms. "Where she is concerned, very little is luck."
"Perhaps" was all Ben said.
A moment passed, and outside the guild some clock struck ten times.
"She's too young to wear your brand," Ben said. It was phrased so simply, so cleanly, and yet it was a challenge as blatant as if he held a sword in front of Arobynn's neck.
"Is that what you consider it?" Hamel asked in a bored tone. "You consider the symbol of loyalty to the Keep a brand?"
They both referred to the tattoo all of the Keep's assassin's received at eighteen on their shoulder. It was a small mark, a six pointed star with a line connecting the top two points. Eighteen. Not twelve.
"You know the truth as well as I," Ben growled. "Don't take me for a fool, Aro. Drop the pretenses. She's hardly half grown and you want to stick your claim on her the way a shepherd does cattle or Clarisse does her whores."
The king chuckled again. "I consider myself much more a shepard than a pander, but I suppose it makes no difference."
"She's too young," Ben growled again, his knuckles tensing as he clenched the arms of his chair.
"Is that your only complaint?" Arobynn purred. "Her youth? And here I thought you liked it so…so very much."
It took a great deal of Ben's self control not to loose a dagger at what was once his dearest friend's throat. Instead, he just repeated. "She is too young. And I may well kill her myself if you attempt to carve your mark into her flesh with anything other than the scars she already bears from this training."
Ben half expected Arobynn to at least narrow his eyes, but the King of Assassin's knew his subject well enough to know Ben would do no such thing, and it was terribly hard for the King to act like anything but a cat playing with mice.
"Very well," Arobynn said. "If it means so much to you, I suppose I can wait. The ink will hardly define how singularly she is mine."
All Arobynn did was smile his laziest smile as Ben bowed his stiffest bow and headed out the door.
And though Ben had won this small battle, he knew he may very well lose the war.