Thanks to everyone that reviewed, followed, and favourited! I'm sorry it took so long to update, but my wifi went really spotty, and I'm trying to aim for longer chapter anyway.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, the characters and world all belong to Sarah J. Maas
Celaena dreamed that night.
She was wandering down the corridor, the lantern the shifting guards held clamped between her fingers. It had been a simple matter to slide the keys from the guard's belt when he got a little too close in an attempt to taunt her with quips of how she couldn't possibly be Adarlan's Assassin. Then once he looked down, eyes wide, when she purposefully clinked them together, she'd wrestled the lantern from his hand and used it to knock him out cold. Then she took his own dagger and slit his throat for good measure.
Now here she was, wraith-like in the ghostly light, her ragged slip of a dress looking like a nightgown worthy for a murdered ghost to haunt in. She wasn't sure what had happened to the suit she'd been wearing on the fateful night she'd gone to slaughter Farran and his ilk, whether he'd taken it off her to torture her, or she'd been handed over to the castle in her trusty clothing and the attendants there had stripped her of it. Either way, she was sure Arobynn would have it tracked down and recovered, if they hadn't burned it. She still remembered how much he'd paid for it. Wyrd forbid he lost his investment.
She slipped through the door with the other key she'd nabbed off the dead guard and sashayed out. The door swung shut behind her and she slowed the momentum as it closed, making sure the sound was nothing more than a muffled thump. She stalked through the moonlit corridors, footsteps a whisper of dust on the cold stone floors, and was astounded she didn't meet anyone. She climbed countless staircases, traversed seemingly infinite thresholds, until on a whim, she slowed in front of a seemingly unremarkable door.
Unremarkable, that is, save for the guards posted outside it.
Celaena stood in front of them for what seemed like a full minute, but time might be fluid in this dream. Sure enough, they didn't notice her. She even waved her hand in front of their faces and stuck her tongue out at them, and they didn't even blink.
So she did the only logical thing to do. Clutching her stolen dagger, she twisted the doorknob, and went in.
The door led to what looked like a suite, with several doors leading to different rooms. Celaena peeked in one to see a billiard room, then another to see a bathroom. But she felt that strange, otherworldly tug within her pull her towards another door, just as nondescript as the others, and she followed it, the grip on her dagger tightening with every step until her tendons stood out harsh and white on the back of her hand.
It was a bedroom she found herself in.
Her heart rate increased cautiously. Gods above, she knew Aedion - the old Aedion, at least, if she remembered correctly - would kill her for being this. . . reckless. But it was a dream wasn't it? She couldn't get hurt. And if she was, she would just wake up safe - well, safer - and secure in her cell.
So she stepped forward. The door's hinged creaked in warning cry as it swung shut. She winced at the sound, then turned to examine them, loathe as she was to turn her back on the figure in the bed, seemingly asleep. But she examined them intently, and straightened up with an appreciative eyebrow raised. They were altered so they would squeal loudly upon entry. Smart man; not trusting people in the castle not to slit his throat in his sleep. Good move.
But no so good for her, she noted with dismay as, somehow, despite the guards' obliviousness to her presence, the man was stirring. As the sheets rustled she caught a glimpse of long, wiry limbs, then a dark head of hair shifting on the pillow. She moved over to stand a few metres from him and looked down to observe a pleasant set of features collaborating together to give him a nice sort of face, before grey eyes fluttered open.
Neither of them moved. His eyes - instantly alert, Celaena noted with approval - fastened on the lantern in her hand first, shedding light over the bedclothes. Then they lazily travelled up her beaten and bruised body to fix on her face. They narrowed in suspicion.
She gave him a smile of hers - not a reassuring one, but the one that she used to slant the other assassins in the Keep, that promised nothing but wickedness and ruthlessness. His eyes narrowed further.
He spoke first. "I, a common criminal, wake up in the middle of the night to find a tortured, ghostly woman standing over me with a lantern." He cocked a grin, and Celaena felt her lips respond in one, as he inquired, "Might I ask as to why?"
She didn't move, only brought her lantern up so she could further study his features. "Might I inquire as to why a common criminal is sleeping in a heavily guarded room in the palace?"
"Don't you already know, fair lady? You are, after all, clearly well acquainted with the place."
Lies. Lies and more lies, mixed in with some flattery. "Of course I know," she countered smoothly, fighting lies with lies. "I felt like hearing it from your point of view."
He gave a short bark of laughter, but eyed the dagger she still clutched in her hand. "Very well." He looked her dead in the eye. "I'm here as a part of the gods-awful competition that old tyrant-" he jerked his head towards the door "-is throwing to try and find himself a Champion. Someone who he can send to do his dirty work. I'm just one of many criminals dragged in from all over the empire to fight for the title. It's that or we're going back to whatever hellhole we were dragged from." He shrugged. "Now, can I ask your name?"
She shifted the arm holding her dagger, but maintained her easy going air. Nevertheless, the angle of the blade now meant it glinted in the light, and drew the man's attention down to it. He swallowed surreptitiously. "I have many names," she purred in reply. "Which would you like?"
He clearly got the sense she wasn't going to tell him, because he shot her another rueful grin. "Well, mine's Nox Owen, Lady of Many Names."
She nodded then, but was fairly certain some of her surprise shone through when she put forward, "Nox Owen? The thief from Perranth?"
"That's the one." He grey eyes glittered. "And the way you said it, suggests to me you're already from Terrasen."
"I might be," she replied coyly.
He laughed slightly, shaking his head. "Well, so long as I'm up, I think I'll nip to the toilet briefly." He stood from the bed, and she noted that he was slightly taller than her, and perhaps three years older at most. He tossed her another laughing look. "Will you still be here, or will you be gone by the time I get back?"
"I shall be wherever I please," she replied, and he chuckled, but left the room.
The moment he was gone, she felt the otherworldly instinct pull her towards the wall - one with a large tapestry on it. She stepped towards it, and studied the pattern of a woods, with a white stag and a woman in the centre. She had silver hair, and her head was tilted back to watch the stag. It was so skilfully woven that her hair seemed to ripple-
Had Celaena needed to breathe in this dream, she would have sucked in a breath. The tapestry was blowing gently in the wind.
But there was no wind.
She approached it, and observed that it was blowing outwards. She took hold of one side and pushed the folds back, and back, and back, until she found two vertical grooves that were connected in a crossbar just above her head-
It is a door.
Without hesitation, she opened it. But before she went to step in, she glanced back.
She couldn't leave the entryway wide open. When Nox came back, he'd see it. So she dropped the tapestry, letting its heavy folds envelop her, and stepped through. She needn't worry about being locked in; it was a dream, after all.
So she let the door slam shut, effectively locking her in, as she stepped into darkness.
Dorian wasn't sure why his father had asked him to entertain Aedion Ashryver this morning, other than the fact that you'd have to be a fool to not notice how restless the General had been for the past few days, how much he'd argued against the suggested plans for taking more slaves from Terrasen to feed Endovier. Perhaps his father, having undoubtedly heard of both men's reputations for having the more. . . unorthodox fun at bars, was hoping that Dorian could get him to calm down in that way.
But if so, his father was clearly blind. Any idiot could see how much Aedion secretly loathed him.
"So, Prince," Aedion huffed finally, as they completed their seventh circuit of the rose garden. It was early spring, and the frost was only just starting to fade from the hedges. The flower themselves were nothing but small hard buds poking out amongst a circlet of thorns, some of them spun with cobwebs. Dorian had to admit to himself that he was only paying such attention to his mother's beloved gardens because it was that, or pay attention to the man beside him. "You seem oddly quiet this morning. Are you tiring of my company?"
Dorian winced as they stopped to stand by a fountain. Had he been that obvious? "Of course not," he drawled in response. "Perhaps I'm just slightly unsettled that this castle is currently playing host to Adarlan's Assassin." He ignored the eerie stillness Aedion suddenly conducted himself with, and barrelled on. "I mean, it's enough to put anyone on edge." He paused, then added, "You two look shockingly similar, you know? Are you related?"
The Wolf of the North said stiffly, "I don't know why you would think that."
Dorian laughed. "Seriously? The two of you could pass for twins. Maybe she's from Wendlyn. That's where the Ashryver's originate from, yes?"
Aedion nodded slowly. "Yes."
Dorian clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, we all have family members we'd prefer to deny are related to us." His lips twisted at the thought of Hollin. "Everyone."
"Perhaps," Aedion commented, and maybe the sly twinkle to his eye should have warned Dorian of the sudden subject change, but for some reason, it didn't. "Does that include Captain Westfall in that category? I know he must certainly hate being associated with his family. I'm sure it must be insufferable for him, having to arrange all the guard schedules to protect the nobles for this accursed competition, without having the added burden of his father visiting to place bets on it. Not to mention the doubtless coaxing he'll be subjected to in an attempt to get him back to- Anielle, was it?"
Dorian clenched his fists, suddenly finding himself with the urge to punch in the gleaming teeth that were bared in a cocky grin. "Shut up, Aedion," he snapped, for a moment forgetting propriety and speaking through gritted teeth, glaring at the general.
He had the nerve to laugh. "Calm yourself, Your Highness. We wouldn't want a reputation for violence to mar your father's so perfectly constructed empire." Was he imagining the faint sneer as he said that, like the words tasted foul? "Not to mention how few foreign ambassadors would be willing to offer their beloved princesses in a marriage alliance if they believed you would treat them foully." He was speaking with bitterness! But why? The only reason Dorian could think of was the man's cousin Aelin, and she was dead by his father's indirect hand. Was he still wound up about that?
"My father has no need for marriage alliances."
"True. But I can't say I wouldn't expect him to take some noblewoman from the conquered country as a prize or hostage." Nor could I, thought Dorian, and cringed out the thought. But, in all honesty, he wouldn't put such a thing past his father.
"If he couldn't rely on his armies to do it for him, I'm sure he would have bound me to princess Nehemia or Aelin years ago."
Aedion had gone very, very still, like a predator who sighted his prey. Or prey that had sighted its predator. "Terrasen would never have allowed it. Nor Eyllwe."
"I'm sure they wouldn't have," Dorian acquiesced. He waved a hand. "Shall we continue?"
Aedion cast a disdainful look ahead of the path, then back again. He shook his head, and started walking away. "Not that this hasn't been delightful, but I'm afraid I must take my leave, Your Highness," he injected as much sarcasm into the title as it was humanely possible. "Oh, and by the way," he called as he rounded a corner. "I was sorry to hear about Rosamund. I know you cared for her deeply."
He was gone a second later. Lucky for him.
A sudden wind, as tumultuous and haunted as his thoughts, suddenly ripped down the pathway. The head height bushes shuddered like they were in a gale and Dorian was thrown into one. The thorns sliced a deep, stinging gash in the back of his hand, but he didn't wince, because he wasn't present enough to do so.
Rosamund. . . His first love.
How dare Aedion bring her up?
But then he swiftly and methodically shut the pain away, as he had for the past eight months - there was no point in mourning her idiocy - and turned his mind to more pressing matters as the wind died down to nonexistence.
He had made it do so.
He took a shuddering breath as he examined his hands, the right one bright with blood. He couldn't have. . . He didn't. . . He couldn't have done that. It was magic! Magic had disappeared! It was impossible!
So how had he done it?
He panted, though he'd done no strenuous activities. He glanced left and right, then tucked his hands behind his back and continued walking. Nowhere, anywhere - he had to get away.
He hadn't done magic. He hadn't. He couldn't.
But he had a horrible sinking feeling as he walked away from the lane with the battered bushes, that the fact Aedion Ashryver was barely gone by the time the winds had tore through it, was lucky for him as well.
Despite the fact it was a dream, it was uncomfortable vivid. Celaena had always dreamed surprisingly clearly, her mind images as bright and blazing as the fires she'd accidentally summoned as a child, but she could never have created the feel of the heat radiating from the metal lamp she held, nor the gentle sputtering of the candle in the moisture, nor the bone chilling damp and cold that clung to her skin like wet strands of hair, making her shiver.
She was sure that if she was doing this whilst awake, conscious, and fully in control of her limbs, she would have brought some useful marker with her, perhaps have swiped a few sticks of chalk from the attendants basket she saw back in Nox's room. But, this being a dream, she wasn't quite present in her own mind, and she hadn't thought of that.
A choice she regretted when she was faced with a divergence of the pathway, splitting into three doors. They all seemed to lead into darkness.
Celaena hesitated, and in that moment, the candle in the lantern flickered and finally guttered out. Snorting with disgust, she threw it aside, paying it no more heed even as it collided with the wall with an ear-splitting clang.
The ghostly wind or instinct that had enticed her down there blew towards the passage on the farthest right. Celaena peered into the shadows beyond it but couldn't distinguish anything that set her apart from the others.
She drew herself up and huffed her annoyance. Since magic had disappeared, the only ones possibly capable of drawing her down here in this way were the gods, if they saw fit. And how dare they start playing games with her, after they'd abandoned Terrasen all those years ago? How dare they tell her where to go?
It was petty, worthless rebellion, but it made her feel better all the same.
So she set off in a defiant march, not towards the one on the far right, but on the far left. Let the gods make of that what they will. Let them call it blasphemy. She wouldn't care.
They hadn't cared ten years ago, when Aelin Galathynius was turned to ashes and dust.
The passage swiftly became darker and damper, and now she'd left the strange guidance behind she slowed her pace to avoid tripping. Her nose was attacked with the stink of sewage that had Celaena reminiscing on that ill-fated mission she and Sam had gone on, with the convoy from Melisande, and the slave traders-
No! She bit back a snarl. Anger, hot and fiery, clawed its way through her chest as she remembered the terrible thought she'd had in her long hours in the dungeons. Arobynn betrayed them, Arobynn killed off Sam Cortland. . . Just to think her dead lover's name sent tears pricking in her eyes and shudders racking her hands.
Then she rounded a corner and the sight dispelled every other thought in her mind.
It was nothing remarkable. A sewer, without a doubt, with a narrow channel flowing through a tunnel, surrounded by rock, growing with lichen and algae. She turned her head to try to seek out the source of the faint light that filtered into the chamber, and her breath snagged in her chest as she caught sight of the gate that the sewage flowed out through.
Holy gods. They gave Nox Owen - a condemned thief and a competitor in this fanciful competition - chambers that connected to this? A way out? She laughed to herself at the idiocy. Nox was bright; he'd find it sooner or later. And when he did. . .
The king's face would be a sight to see.
Curious as to how she would have got out, she crept towards to sewage grate, the spaces between the bars just wide enough for her to wriggle through, but saw nothing but the moonshine off the Avery beyond. She picked up a stone and tossed it, listening intently for any muttered voices, or shifting armour. There was none. No guards then.
It hit her then, that she was planning an escape route she had no hope of using. There was no way she could get through the halls the way she had if she was awake, so why was she bothering with this part? It was a fools errand.
Sighing, in resignation, she trooped back up the stairs in the passageway until she found herself in the convergence of the three paths.
She glanced towards the one on the far right. She could still feel that otherworldly pull, wrapping its tendrils round her mind and tugging. And she was curious as to what was down there. So she lifted her chin and let the breeze guide her, telling herself it was just to satiate her curiosity.
No other reason.
This passage was longer than the other. She went down so many stairs she wondered whether she would descend to the bottom of the earth, until a light emerged through the blackness ahead. She squinted, feeling her pupils dilate, but stepped forward.
It was a door.
It was a very nondescript door. There was nothing interesting about it, save for a single bronze knocker shaped like a skull. Nevertheless, she stood there, considering it, until a voice jarred her out of her thoughts, "Well aren't you going to go in?"
She screamed, and jumped back, trying to catch her balance on the damp floor. And stared.
The thing was alive. It's gleaming metal eyes glinted in an oddly human way and were (somehow; they weren't hollow) filled with far too much intelligence for it to sit calmly in Celaena's mind. She shuddered, and it made a peculiar rasping noise that sent shivers up her spine. It appeared to be chuckling.
"You're-" She swallowed her sticky words and tried again. "You're alive?"
The knocker seemed to eye her with amusement. Oh dear gods, she thought. That's something I never thought I'd think. "My name is Mort, thank you very much for asking," he huffed. "And I'm not alive, no, just. . . living."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Who said it did?" Mort watched as she opened and closed her mouth wordlessly. "Go on in. She's waiting for you."
"Excuse me?"
"She's been waiting for you for ten years, Princess," he continued, and seemed to take a sadistic amount of pleasure in the gasp of shock and terror his words ripped out of her. "What are you waiting for? Head in. After all," he added slyly. "She did save your life."
Celaena didn't let herself ponder that for a moment longer, violently yanking the door open and shoving her way through, heart pounding that one word through her circulation until it was tattooed on the inside of her skull.
Princess, princess, princess, princess.
She slammed the door, Mort's scratchy laughter still grating along her bones. She was so preoccupied with her racing pulse that for a moment she didn't take in where she was.
Then another beat passed and she pushed herself off the wall.
The floor was painted a swirling dark blue dotted with silver stars, whilst the ceiling was painted to reflect the earth, green and brown intermingling with the blue of lakes and rivers. Two chiselled sarcophagi were laid out in the chamber, one a man, and one a woman, both with faces so lifelike she could have sworn they were just sleeping. Her eyes skipped over the inscription at the bottom of the woman's figure - Ah! Time's Rift! - and came to rest on the woman standing in the corner.
Light without a source streamed through her, as though she too, was here in a dream. She wore midnight coloured robes that fell to the floor and her eyes were a clear, pale blue. Her hair was a silver waterfall of ice and it shimmered as she shifted, revealed the pointed ears of the Fae, or the demi-Fae.
One glance at the legendary sword of truth that hung on the wall behind her, then at the sarcophagi, then back at her, had it all clicking in Celaena's mind.
"Hello, child," Elena Galathynius Havilliard said, voice as liquid as moonlight, blue eyes surveying Celaena with all the sadness of their fallen kingdom.
I'm trying to make my chapters longer, so the updates might be less frequent. In the meantime, review? I love hearing your thoughts.