Throne of Glass: Chapters 10–19

She saw the floor first. Red marble, its white veins illuminated in the light of the sun, which slowly vanished as the opaque glass doors groaned shut.

He was tall and lean, but not gangly, and he inclined his head to her.

It wasn’t that he was ugly—in fact, his tanned face was rather pleasant, but there was something nasty about his demeanor, about his obsidian eyes as they shifted and met her own.

"...Until then, while my court is aware that some sort of contest is being held among my closest friends and advisors”—he waved a huge, scarred hand to encompass the room—“you will keep your business private...”

Celaena and Chaol didn’t speak as they strode down the hallway, quickly moving from the throng of competitors and their sponsors, who lingered to speak with one another—and size each other up.

Both she and the prince had grown up under strict, unforgiving fathers—well, father figure in her case. Arobynn had never replaced the father she’d lost, nor had he ever tried to. But at least Arobynn had an excuse for being equal parts tyrannical and doting.

“I bet they won’t expect to be trounced by a beautiful lady.”

“Only a few years,” Dorian said with a sigh.
“‘Only’! Why, Your Highness! How droll! That is a very long stretch of time!”

“Simply stunning. Though such pale green tends to wash out women of pallid skin.”

Lined with pillars that supported a mezzanine, the floor was checkered black-and-white tile, and the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that made up one entire wall were open, the gossamer curtains blowing in the chilly breeze that drifted in from the garden.

“That was with a pickax,” she said, her smile growing feral. “All I had to do was crack a man’s head open or hurl the ax into his stomach.”

The noise was strange, somehow more painful than receiving the blow, but Celaena thought little of it when he charged again and she met his weapon, parrying with ease.

She withdrew and feinted, her feet jabbing and flexing on the floor with birdlike grace.

There were six more seasoned soldiers—all of them thrown out of the army for questionable behavior, which must have been truly questionable, given that Adarlan’s army was notorious for ruthlessness.

Next came two scarred, silent men who seemed to be cronies of some far-off warlord, and then the five assassins.

She immediately forgot the names of the first four: a gangly, haughty boy; a hulking brute; a disdainful runt of a man; and a sniveling, hawk-nosed prat who claimed he had an affinity for knives.

Some of the Champions, Grave, Ned, and Bill included, had been given long manacles.

Her head spun, and she would have cursed at the stitch that lanced through her side had she had any breath to do so.

The straggling Champion passed by.

She wasn’t that out of shape—after all, her pickax in the mines had been heavy. And it definitely had nothing to do with her fellow competitors walloping her at the race yesterday.

No wonder the councilman was sweating so profusely. Nehemia was a force to be reckoned with.

“You use the intonation of the peasants. Is that taught in your books?”

“If I’m fortunate, I’ll only be here until spring. Unless my father decides that a man from Adarlan might make me a good consort, and then I’ll be here until that matter is settled.”

A lecture was coming on, and he was in no mood to be patronized.

“Good. I’ve felt a bit invisible with that hulking lout showing off these past few days.” He jerked his chin toward Cain, who was in the middle of examining his bulging biceps.

A large ring of black, iridescent stone glimmered on Cain’s finger—strange that he’d wear it to practice.

The late-afternoon sunlight warmed her face, and the last balmy breeze of autumn rushed through her unbound hair.

Pelor lifted his head, glaring at the Weapons Master with surprising brazenness.

The tightness in her stomach abated, and she sighed through her nose.

As she reached for her last arrow, she heard one of the competitors, a red-haired mercenary named Renault, snigger.

A young woman slipped me a tin of salve while we were waiting in line for breakfast.

“Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t force you to marry her. I’m surprised your father allows for her to still bear the title. The impetuous, haughty girl—do you know she refused to wear the dress I sent her?”

Bored of these women, bored of these cavaliers who masqueraded as companions, bored of everything.

Bored of these women, bored of these cavaliers who masqueraded as companions, bored of everything.

He’d hoped his journey to Endovier would quell that boredom, and that he’d be glad to return home, but he found home to be the same.

He didn’t want to think about Rosamund—or about the boorish husband she’d left him for.

Though he was somewhat rotund, hard muscle lay in the arm beneath her hand.

“I certainly hope so,” the duke grumbled, his face darkening beneath his ruddy hair.

She gave a morose shake of the head. “How tragic.”

“Foolish and daft and impossible.”