Crown Of Midnight Part 19

Every one of the restraints she'd locked into place after she'd rampaged through Endovier snapped free.

An icy, endless rage swept through her, wiping away everything except the plan that she could see with brutal clarity. The killing calm, Arobynn Hamel had once called it. Even he had never realized just how calm she could get when she went over the edge.

If they wanted Adarlan's a.s.sa.s.sin, they'd get her.

And Wyrd help them when she arrived.

Chaol didn't know why they'd chained him up, only that he was thirsty and had a pounding headache, and that the irons holding him against the stone wall weren't going to budge. They threatened to beat him every time he tried pulling against them. They'd already knocked him about enough to convince him they weren't bluffing.

They. He didn't even know who they were. They all wore long robes and hoods that concealed their masked faces. Some of them were armed to the teeth. They spoke in murmurs, all of them growing increasingly on-edge as the day pa.s.sed.

From what he could tell, he had a split lip and would have some bruises on his face and ribs. They hadn't asked questions before unleashing two of their men on him, though he hadn't been entirely cooperative once he'd awoken and found himself here. Celaena would be impressed by just how creative his curses had been before, during, and after that initial beating.

In the pa.s.sing hours, he'd moved only once to relieve himself in the corner, since when he asked to use the washroom, they just stared at him. And they'd watched him the entire time, hands on their swords. He'd tried not to snort.

They were waiting for something, he realized with a strange clarity as the day stretched into evening. The fact that they hadn't killed him yet suggested that they wanted some sort of ransom.

Maybe it was a rebel group, seeking to blackmail the king. He'd heard of n.o.bility being captured for that reason. And heard the king himself order the rebels to kill the petty lord or lady, because he would not yield to traitorous filth.

Chaol didn't allow himself to consider that possibility, even as he began saving up his strength for whatever stand he'd make before he met his end.

Some of his captors whispered in rapid arguments, but they were usually silenced by others who told them to wait. He was just pretending to doze off when another of these arguments occurred, a hissing back and forth about whether they should just free him, and then- "She has until dawn. She'll show up."

She.

That word was the worst thing he'd ever heard.

Because there was only one she who would bother to show up for him. One she that he could be used against.

"You hurt her," he said, his voice hoa.r.s.e from a day without water, "and I'll rip you apart with my bare hands."

There were thirty of them, half fully armed, and they all turned to him.

He bared his teeth, even though his face ached. "You so much as touch her, and I'll gut you."

One of them-tall, with two swords crossed over his back-approached. Even though his face was obscured, Chaol recognized him by his weapons as one of the men who had beaten him earlier. He stopped just beyond where Chaol's feet could kick.

"Good luck with that," the man said. By his voice, he could have been anywhere from twenty to forty. "You'd better pray to whatever G.o.ds you favor that your little a.s.sa.s.sin cooperates."

He growled, pulling against the chains. "What do you want from her?"

The warrior-he was a warrior, Chaol could tell by the way he moved-c.o.c.ked his head. "None of your business, Captain. And keep your mouth shut when she arrives, or else I'll cut out your filthy royal tongue."

Another clue. The man hated royals. Which meant that these people ...

Had Archer known how dangerous this rebel group was? When he got free, he'd kill him for letting Celaena get tangled up with them. And then he'd make sure that the king and his secret guards got their hands on all of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Chaol yanked on the chains, and the man shook his head. "Do that, and I'll knock you out again. For the Captain of the Royal Guard, you were far too easy to capture."

Chaol's eyes flashed. "Only a coward captures men the way you did."

"A coward? Or a pragmatist?"

Not an uneducated warrior, then. Someone with schooling, if he could use vocabulary like that.

"How about a d.a.m.ned fool?" Chaol said. "I don't think you realize who you're dealing with."

The man clicked his tongue. "If you were that good, you would be more than the Captain of the Guard."

Chaol let out a low, breathy laugh. "I wasn't talking about me."

"She's just one girl."

Though his guts were twisting at the thought of her in this place, with these people, though he was considering every possible way to get himself and Celaena out of here alive, he gave the man a grin. "Then you're really in for a surprise."

Chapter 28.

Her rage took her to a place where she only knew three things: that Chaol had been taken from her, that she was a weapon forged to end lives, and that if Chaol was hurt, no one was going to walk out of that warehouse.

She made it across the city quickly and efficiently, a predator's stealth keeping her steps quiet on the cobblestone streets. They'd told her to arrive alone, and she'd obeyed.

But they hadn't said anything about arriving unarmed.

So she'd taken every weapon she could fit onto her, including Chaol's sword, which was strapped across her back with a second sword of her own, the two hilts within easy reach over her shoulders. From there down, she was a living armory.

When she neared the slums, her features concealed with a dark cloak and heavy hood, she scaled the side of a ramshackle building until she reached the roof.

They hadn't said anything about using the front door of the warehouse, either.

She stalked across the roofs, her supple boots finding easy purchase on the crumbling emerald shingles, listening, watching, feeling the night around her. The usual sounds of the slums greeted her as she approached the enormous two-story warehouse: half-feral orphans screeching to each other, the splatter of drunks p.i.s.sing against buildings, harlots calling out to prospective hires ...

But there was a silence around the wooden warehouse, a bubble of quiet that told her the place had enough men out front that the usual slum denizens stayed away.

The nearby rooftops were empty and flat, the gaps between buildings easily jumpable.

She didn't care what this group wanted with her. She didn't care what sort of information they expected to twist from her. When they had taken Chaol, they'd made the biggest mistake of their lives. The last mistake, too.

She reached the roof of the building beside the warehouse and dropped into a crawl before she reached the ledge and peered over.

In the narrow alley directly below, three cloaked men patrolled. On the street beyond lay the front doors to the warehouse, light spilling from the cracks to reveal at least four men outside. No one was even looking at the roof. Fools.

The wooden warehouse was a giant open s.p.a.ce three stories high, and through the open second-level window in front of her, she could see all the way to the floor below.

The mezzanine wrapped around much of the second level, and stairs led onto the third level and roof beyond-a possible escape route, if the front door wasn't an option. Ten of the men were heavily armed, and six archers were positioned around the wooden mezzanine, arrows all pointed at the first floor below.

There was Chaol, chained to one of the wooden walls.

Chaol, his face bruised and bleeding, his clothes ripped and dirty, his head hanging between his shoulders.

The ice in her gut spread through her veins.

She could scale the building to the roof, then come down from the third floor. But that would take time, and no one was looking at the open window before her.

She tipped her head back and gave the moon a wicked smile. She'd been called Adarlan's a.s.sa.s.sin for a reason. Dramatic entrances were practically her art form.

Celaena eased back from the ledge and strode away a few paces, judging how far and fast she'd need to run. The open window was wide enough that she wouldn't need to worry about shattering gla.s.s or her swords catching on the frame, and the mezzanine had a guardrail to stop her if she overshot her landing.

She had made a jump like this once before, on the night when her world had been shattered completely. But on that night, Sam had already been dead for days, and she'd leapt through the window of Rourke Farran's house for pure revenge.

This time, she wouldn't fail.

The men weren't even looking at the window when she hurtled through. And by the time she landed on the mezzanine and rolled into a crouch, two of her daggers were already flying.

Chaol caught the glint of moonlight on steel in the heartbeat before she leapt through the second-level window, landing atop the mezzanine and hurling two daggers at the archers nearest to her. They went down, and she went up-two more daggers thrown at two more archers. He didn't know if he should watch them or watch her as she gripped the mezzanine railing and flipped over it, landing on the ground below just as several arrows struck where her hands had held the rail.

The men in the room were shouting, some fleeing for the safety of pillars and the exit while others rushed at her, weapons drawn. And he could only watch in horror and awe as she drew two swords-one of them his-and unleashed herself upon them.

They didn't stand a chance.

In the fray of bodies, the remaining two archers didn't dare loose arrows that might hit one of their own-another intentional move on her part, he knew. Chaol yanked on his chains again and again, his wrists aching; if he could just get to her, the two of them could- She was a whirlwind of steel and blood. As he watched her cut through the men as though they were stalks of wheat in a field, he understood how she had gotten so close to touching Endovier's wall that day. And at last-after all these months-he saw the lethal predator he'd expected to find in the mines. There was nothing human in her eyes, nothing remotely merciful. It froze his heart.

The guard who had been taunting him all day remained nearby, twin swords drawn, waiting for her.

One of the hooded men had gotten far enough away from her to start shouting: "Enough! Enough!"

But Celaena didn't listen, and as Chaol hurled himself forward, still trying to dislodge the chains from the wall, she cleared a path through the men, leaving moaning bodies in her wake. To his credit, his tormentor stood his ground as she stalked toward him.

"Don't shoot!" the hooded man was ordering the archers. "Don't shoot!"

Celaena paused in front of the guard, pointing a blood-drenched sword at him. "Get out of my way, or I'll cut you into pieces."

His guard, the fool, snorted, lifting his swords a little higher. "Come and get him."

Celaena smiled. But then the hooded man with the ancient voice was rushing to them, arms spread to show he wasn't armed. "Enough! Put down your weapons," he told the guard. The guard faltered, but Celaena's swords remained at the ready. The old man took one step toward Celaena. "Enough! We have enough enemies as it is! There are worse things out there to face!"

Celaena slowly turned to him, her face splattered with blood and eyes blazing bright. "No, there aren't," she said. "Because I'm here now."

Blood that was not her own drenched her clothes, her hands, her neck, but all she could see were the archers ready on the mezzanine above her, and the foe still standing between her and Chaol. Her Chaol.

"Please," the hooded man said, pulling off his hood and mask to reveal a face that matched his ancient voice. Short-cropped white hair, laugh lines around his mouth, and crystal-clear gray eyes that were wide with pleading. "Perhaps our methods were wrong, but-"

She pointed a sword at him, and the masked guard between her and Chaol straightened. "I don't care who you are and what you want. I'm taking him now."

"Please listen," the old man said softly.

She could feel the ire and aggression rolling off the hooded guard in front of her, see how tightly, eagerly, he clutched the hilts of his twin swords. She wasn't ready for the bloodletting to end, either. She wasn't ready to give in at all.

So she knew exactly what would happen when she turned to the guard and gave him a lazy grin.

He charged. As she met his swords, the men who were outside burst in, steel flashing. And then there was nothing but metal ringing and the shouts of the injured going down around her, and she was soaring through them, delighting in the feral song that sang through her blood and bones.

Someone was shouting her name, though-a familiar voice that wasn't Chaol's, and as she turned, she saw the flash of a steel-tipped arrow shooting for her, then a glint of golden-brown hair, and then- Archer hit the ground, the arrow that was meant for her in his shoulder. It took all of two movements to drop one sword and draw the dagger from her boot, hurling it at the guard who had fired. By the time she looked at Archer, he was getting to his feet, putting himself between her and the wall of men, one arm splayed in front of her-facing her. Protecting the men.

"This is a misunderstanding," he said to her, panting. Blood from the wound in his shoulder leaked down his black robes. Robes. The same robes that these men wore.

Archer was a part of this group; Archer had set her up.

And then that rage, the rage that blurred the events of the night she'd been captured with the events of this night, that made Chaol's and Sam's faces bleed together, seized her so fiercely that she reached for another dagger strapped to her waist.

"Please," Archer said, taking a step toward her, wincing as the movement made the arrow shift. "Let me explain." As she saw the blood trickle down his robes, saw the agony and fear and desperation in his eyes, her rage flickered.

"Unchain him," she said, her voice filled with deadly calm. "Now."

Archer refused to break her stare. "Hear me out first."

"Unchain him now."

Archer jerked his chin to the guard who had foolishly launched the last attack against her. Limping, but surprisingly still in one piece, and, still possessing his twin blades, the guard slowly unshackled the Captain of the Guard.

Chaol was on his feet in an instant, but she noted the way he swayed, the wince he tried to hide. Still, he managed to stare down the hooded guard who stood before him, eyes gleaming with the promise of violence. The guard just stepped back, reaching for his swords again.

"You have one sentence to convince me not to kill you all," she said to Archer as Chaol came to her side. "One sentence."

Archer began shaking his head, looking between her and Chaol, his eyes filled not with fear or anger or pleading, but sorrow.

"I have been working with Nehemia to lead these people for the past six months."

Chaol stiffened, but Celaena blinked. It was enough for Archer to know he'd pa.s.sed the test. He jerked his head to the men around him. "Leave us," he said, his voice thundering with an authority she hadn't heard him use before. The men listened, those still on their feet dragging their injured companions away. She didn't let herself consider how many were dead.

The old man who had exposed his face to her was staring with a mixture of awe and disbelief, and she wondered what sort of monster she looked at that moment. But when he noticed her attention, he bowed his head to her and left with the others, taking that impulsive, brash guard with him.

Alone, she pointed her sword at Archer again, taking a step closer, keeping Chaol behind her. Of course, the Captain of the Guard stepped right up to her side.

Archer said, "Nehemia and I have been leading this movement together. She came here to organize us-to a.s.semble a group that could go into Terrasen and start gathering forces against the king. And to uncover what the king truly plans to do to Erilea."

Chaol tensed, and Celaena clamped down on her surprise. "That's impossible."

Archer snorted. "Is it? Why is it that the princess is so busy all the time? Do you know where she goes at night?"

The frozen rage flickered again, slowing, slowing, slowing the world down.