Sarah Maas - Throne of Glass

She had greater matters to worry about—like the Test tomorrow. And this dead Champion. She’d already altered the hinges on all her doors so that they squealed loudly any time they opened. If someone entered her room, she’d know well in advance. And she’d managed to embed some stolen sewing needles into a bar of soap for a makeshift, miniature pike. It was better than nothing, especially if this murderer had a taste for Champion blood. She forced her hands to her sides, shaking her unease, and strode into the music and gaming room. She could not play billiards or cards by herself, but . . .

Celaena eyed the pianoforte. She used to play—oh, she’d loved to play, loved music, the way music could break and heal and make everything seem possible and heroic.

Carefully, as if approaching a sleeping person, Celaena walked to the large instrument. She pulled out the wooden bench, wincing at the loud scraping sound it made. Folding back the heavy lid, she pushed her feet on the pedals, testing them. She eyed the smooth ivory keys, and then the black keys, which were like the gaps between teeth.

She had been good once—perhaps better than good. Arobynn Hamel made her play for him whenever they saw each other.

She wondered if Arobynn knew she was out of the mines. Would he try to free her if he did? She still didn’t dare to face the possibility of who might have betrayed her. Things had been such a haze when she’d been captured—in two weeks, she’d lost Sam and her own freedom, and lost something of herself in those blurry days, too.

Sam. What would he make of all this? If he’d been alive when she was captured, he would have had her out of the royal dungeons before the king even got word of her imprisonment. But Sam, like her, had been betrayed—and sometimes the absence of him hit her so hard that she forgot how to breathe. She touched a lower note. It was deep and throbbing, full of sorrow and anger.

Gingerly, with one hand, she tapped out a simple, slow melody on the higher keys. Echoes—shreds of memories arising out of the void of her mind. Her rooms were so silent that the music seemed obtrusive. She moved her right hand, playing upon the flats and sharps. It was a piece that she used to play again and again until Arobynn would yell at her to play something else. She played a chord, then another, added in a few silver notes from her right hand, pushed once on a pedal, and was gone.

The notes burst from her fingers, staggering at first, but then more confidently as the emotion in the music took over. It was a mournful piece, but it made her into something clean and new. She was surprised that her hands had not forgotten, that somewhere in her mind, after a year of darkness and slavery, music was still alive and breathing. That somewhere, between the notes, was Sam. She forgot about time as she drifted between pieces, voicing the unspeakable, opening old wounds, playing and playing as the sound forgave and saved her.

Leaning against the doorway, Dorian stood, utterly transfixed. She’d been playing for some time with her back to him. He wondered when she’d notice him, or if she’d ever stop at all. He wouldn’t mind listening forever. He had come here with the intention of embarrassing a snide assassin, and had instead found a young woman pouring her secrets into a pianoforte.

Dorian peeled himself from the wall. For all her assassinating experience, she didn’t notice him until he sat down on the bench beside her. “You play beau—”

Her fingers slipped on the keys, which let out a loud, awful CLANK , and she was halfway to the rack of cue sticks when she beheld him. He could have sworn her eyes were damp. “What are you doing here?” She glanced to the door. Was she planning on using one of those cue sticks against him?

“Chaol isn’t with me,” he said with a quick smile. “If that’s what you’re wondering. I apologize if I interrupted.” He wondered at her discomfort as she turned red. It seemed far too human an emotion for Adarlan’s Assassin. Perhaps his earlier plan to embarrass her wasn’t foiled yet. “But you were playing so beautifully that I—”

“It’s fine.” She walked toward one of the chairs. He stood, blocking her path. She was of surprisingly average height. He glanced down at her form. Average height aside, her curves were enticing. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

He smiled roguishly. “We decided to meet tonight. Don’t you remember?”

“I thought it was a joke.”

“I’m Crown Prince of Adarlan.” He sank into a chair before the fire. “I never joke.”

“Are you allowed to be here?”

“Allowed? Again: I’m a prince. I can do what I like.”

“Yes, but I’m Adarlan’s Assassin.”

He wouldn’t be intimidated, even if she could grab that billiards cue and skewer him with it in a matter of seconds. “From your playing, it seems that you’re a great deal more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, trying not to get lost in her strange, lovely eyes, “I don’t think anyone who plays like that can be just a criminal. It seems like you have a soul,” he teased.

“Of course I have a soul. Everyone has a soul.”

She was still red. He made her that uncomfortable? He fought his grin. This was too much fun. “How’d you like the books?”

“They were very nice,” she said quietly. “They were wonderful, actually.”

“I’m glad.” Their eyes met, and she retreated behind the back of the chair. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought himself to be the assassin! “How’s training going? Any competitors giving you trouble?”

“Excellently,” she said, but the corners of her mouth drifted downward. “And no. After today, I don’t think any of us will be giving anyone any trouble.” It took him a moment to realize she was thinking of the competitor who had been killed while trying to escape. She chewed on her bottom lip, quiet for a heartbeat, before she asked: “Did Chaol give the order to kill Sven?”

“No,” he said. “My father commanded all the guards to shoot to kill if any of you tried to escape. I don’t think Chaol would ever have given that order,” he added, though he wasn’t sure why. But the unnerving stillness in her eyes abated, at least. When she didn’t say more, Dorian asked as casually as he could: “On that note, how are you and Chaol getting along?” Of course, it was a totally innocent question.

She shrugged, and he tried to not read too far into the gesture. “Fine. I think he hates me a bit, but given his position, I’m not surprised.”

“Why do you think he hates you?” For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to deny it.

“Because I’m an assassin, and he’s Captain of the Guard, forced to belittle himself by minding the would-be King’s Champion.”

“Do you wish it were otherwise?” He gave her a lazy grin. That question wasn’t so innocent.

She inched around the chair, coming closer to him, and his heart jumped a beat. “Well, who wants to be hated? Though I’d rather be hated than invisible. But it makes no difference.” She wasn’t convincing.

“You’re lonely?” He said it before he could stop himself.

“Lonely?” She shook her head and finally, after all that coaxing, sat down. He fought against the urge to reach across the space between them to see if her hair was as silky as it looked. “No. I can survive well enough on my own—if given proper reading material.”

He looked at the fire, trying not to think about where she’d been only weeks before—and what that kind of loneliness might have felt like. There were no books in Endovier. “Still, it can’t be pleasant to be one’s own companion at all times.”