Sarah Maas - Throne of Glass

Dorian scowled and walked off to the kennels.

Celaena smiled to herself, running a finger across a neatly trimmed hedge. She thought the dress was lovely. Festive indeed!

“No, no, Your Highness,” Chaol was saying to Nehemia, slow enough that she could understand. “I’m not a soldier. I’m a guard.”

“There is no difference,” the princess retorted, her accent thick and a bit unwieldy. Still, Chaol understood enough to bristle, and Celaena could hardly contain her glee.

She’d managed to see Nehemia a fair amount over the past two weeks—mostly just for brief walks and dinners, where they discussed what it was like for Nehemia to grow up in Eyllwe, what she thought of Rifthold, and who at court had managed to annoy the princess that day. Which, to Celaena’s delight, was usually everyone.

“I’m not trained to fight in battles,” Chaol replied through his teeth.

“You kill on the orders of your king.” Your king. Nehemia might not be fully versed in their language, but she was smart enough to know the power of saying those two words. “Your king,” not hers. While Celaena could listen to Nehemia rant about the King of Adarlan for hours, they were in a garden—other people might be listening. A shudder went through Celaena, and she interrupted before Nehemia could say more.

“I think it’s useless arguing with her, Chaol,” Celaena said, nudging the Captain of the Guard with her elbow. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have given Terrin your title. Can you reclaim it? It’d prevent a lot of confusion.”

“How’d you remember my brother’s name?”

She shrugged, not quite understanding the gleam in his eye. “You told me. Why wouldn’t I remember it?” He looked handsome today. It was in the way his hair met his golden skin—in the tiny gaps between the strands, in the way it fell across his brow.

“I suppose you’ll enjoy the feast—without me there, that is,” she said morosely.

He snorted. “Are you that upset about missing it?”

“No,” she said, sweeping her unbound hair over a shoulder. “But—well, it’s a party, and everyone loves parties.”

“Shall I bring you a trinket from the revelry?”

“Only if it consists of a sizable portion of roast lamb.”

The air was bright and clear around them. “The feast isn’t that exciting,” he offered. “It’s the same as any supper. I can assure you the lamb will be dry and tough.”

“As my friend, you should either bring me along, or keep me company.”

“Friend?” he asked.

She blushed. “Well, ‘scowling escort’ is a better description. Or ‘reluctant acquaintance,’ if you prefer.” To her surprise, he smiled.

The princess grabbed Celaena’s hand. “You’ll teach me!” she said in Eyllwe. “Teach me how to better speak your language—and teach me how to write and read it better than I do now. So I don’t have to suffer through those horribly boring old men they call tutors.”

“I—” Celaena began in the common tongue, and winced. She felt guilty for leaving Nehemia out of the conversation for so long, and having the princess be fluent in both languages would be great fun. But convincing Chaol to let her see Nehemia was always a hassle—because he insisted on being there to keep watch. He’d never agree to sitting through lessons. “I don’t know how to properly teach you my language,” Celaena lied.

“Nonsense,” Nehemia said. “You’ll teach me. After . . . whatever it is you do with this one. For an hour every day before supper.”

Nehemia raised her chin in a way that suggested saying no wasn’t an option. Celaena swallowed, and did her best to look pleasant as she turned to Chaol, who observed them with raised brows. “She wishes me to tutor her every day before supper.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said. She translated.

Nehemia gave him the withering glare that usually made people start sweating. “Why not?” She fell into Eyllwe. “She’s smarter than most of the people in this castle.”

Chaol, thankfully, caught the general gist of it. “I don’t think that—”

“Am I not Princess of Eyllwe?” Nehemia interrupted in the common tongue.

“Your Highness,” Chaol began, but Celaena silenced him with a wave of her hand. They were approaching the clock tower—black and menacing, as always. But kneeling before it was Cain. His head bent, he focused on something on the ground.

At the sound of their footsteps, Cain’s head shot up. He grinned broadly and stood. His hands were covered in dirt, but before Celaena could better observe him, or his strange behavior, he nodded to Chaol and stalked away behind the tower.

“Nasty brute,” Celaena breathed, still staring in the direction in which he’d disappeared.

“Who is he?” Nehemia asked in Eyllwe.

“A soldier in the king’s army,” Celaena said, “though he now serves Duke Perrington.”

Nehemia looked after Cain, and her dark eyes narrowed. “Something about him makes me want to beat in his face.”

Celaena laughed. “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

Chaol said nothing as he began walking again. She and Nehemia took up behind him, and as they crossed the small patio in which the clock tower stood, Celaena looked at the spot where Cain had just been kneeling. He’d dug out the dirt packed into the hollows of the strange mark in the flagstone, making the mark clearer. “What do you think this is?” she asked the princess, pointing at the mark etched into the tile. And why had Cain been cleaning it?

“A Wyrdmark,” the princess replied, giving it a name in Celaena’s own language.

Celaena’s brows rose. It was just a triangle inside of a circle. “Can you read these marks?” she asked. A Wyrdmark . . . how strange!

“No,” Nehemia said quickly. “They’re a part of an ancient religion that died long ago.”

“What religion?” Celaena asked. “Look, there’s another.” She pointed at another mark a few feet away. It was a vertical line with an inverted peak stretching upward from its middle.

“You should leave it alone,” Nehemia said sharply, and Celaena blinked. “Such things were forgotten for a reason.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Chaol, and she explained the gist of their conversation. When she finished, he curled his lip, but said nothing.

They continued on, and Celaena saw another mark. It was a strange shape: a small diamond with two inverted points protruding from either side. The top and bottom peaks of the diamond were elongated into a straight line, and it seemed to be symmetrically perfect. Had the king had them carved when he built the clock tower, or did they predate it?

Nehemia was staring at her forehead, and Celaena asked, “Is there dirt on my face?”

“No,” Nehemia said a bit distantly, her brows knotting as she studied Celaena’s brow. The princess suddenly stared into Celaena’s eyes with a ferocity that made the assassin recoil slightly. “You know nothing about the Wyrdmarks?”

The clock tower chimed. “No,” Celaena said. “I don’t know anything about them.”

“You’re hiding something,” the princess said softly in Eyllwe, though it was not accusatory. “You are much more than you seem, Lillian.”

“I—well, I should hope I’m more than just some simpering courtier,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. She grinned broadly, hoping Nehemia would stop looking so strange, and stop staring at her brow. “Can you teach me how to speak Eyllwe properly?”

“If you can teach me more of your ridiculous language,” said the princess, though some caution still lingered in her eyes. What had Nehemia seen that caused her to act that way?