And Celaena felt it. She felt each footstep, the phantom bruises on her face throbbing with the memory of Arobynn’s fists. And suddenly, as the memory of that day echoed through her, she remembered the words Sam kept screaming at Arobynn as the King of the Assassins beat her, the words that she somehow had forgotten in the fog of pain: I’ll kill you!

Sam had said it like he meant it. He’d bellowed it. Again and again and again.

The clear, unexpected memory was almost jarring enough for her to forget where she was—but then the snow-white robes of the Master came into view. Her mouth went dry.

“We only wanted to have some fun,” Ansel said quietly. “We can return the horses.”

Celaena, head still lowered, glanced toward Ansel. She was staring up at the Master as he towered over them. “I’m sorry,” Celaena murmured, wishing she could convey it with her hands, too. Though silence might have been preferable, she needed him to hear her apology.

The Master just stood there.

Ansel was the first to break under his stare. She sighed. “I know it was foolish. But there’s nothing to worry about. I can handle Lord Berick; I’ve been handling him for ages.”

There was enough bitterness in her words that Celaena’s brows rose slightly. Perhaps his refusal to train her wasn’t easy for Ansel to bear. She was never outright competitive about getting the Master’s attention, but … After so many years of living here, being stuck as the mediator between the Master and Berick didn’t exactly seem like the sort of glory Ansel was interested in. Celaena certainly wouldn’t have enjoyed it.

The Master’s clothes whispered as they moved, and Celaena flinched when she felt his calloused fingers hook under her chin. He lifted her head so she was forced to look at him, his face lined with disapproval. She remained perfectly still, bracing herself for the strike, already praying he wouldn’t damage her too significantly. But then the Master’s sea-green eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he gave her a sad smile as he released her.

Her face burned. He hadn’t been about to hit her. He’d wanted her to look at him, to tell him her side of the story. But even if he wasn’t going to strike her, he still might punish them. And if he kicked out Ansel for what they’d done … Ansel needed to be here, to learn all that these assassins could teach her, because Ansel wanted to do something with her life. Ansel had a purpose. And Celaena …

“It was my idea,” Celaena blurted, her words too loud in the empty chamber. “I didn’t feel like walking back here, and I thought it would be useful to have horses. And when I saw the Asterion mares … I thought we might as well travel in style.” She gave him a shaky half grin, and the Master’s brows rose as he looked between them. For long, long moment, he just watched them.

Whatever he saw on Ansel’s face suddenly made him nod. Ansel quickly bowed her head. “Before you decide on a punishment …” She turned to Celaena, then looked back at the Master. “Since we like horses so much, maybe we could … be on stable duty? For the morning shift. Until Celaena leaves.”

Celaena almost choked, but she schooled her features into neutrality.

A faint glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes, and he considered Ansel’s words for a moment. Then he nodded again. Ansel loosened a breath. “Thank you for your lenience,” she said. The Master glanced toward the doors behind them. They were dismissed.

Ansel got to her feet, and Celaena followed suit. But as Celaena turned, the Master grabbed her arm. Ansel paused to watch as the Master made a few motions with his hand. When he finished, Ansel’s brows rose. He repeated the motions again—slower, pointing to Celaena repeatedly. When it seemed she was certain she understood him, Ansel turned to Celaena.

“You’re to report to him at sunset tomorrow. For your first lesson.”

Celaena bit back her sigh of relief, and gave the Master a genuine grin. He returned a hint of a smile. She bowed deeply, and couldn’t stop smiling as she and Ansel left the hall and headed to the stables. She had three and a half weeks left—that would be more than enough time to get that letter.

Whatever he had seen in her face, whatever she had said … somehow, she’d proven herself to him at last.

It turned out that they weren’t just responsible for shoveling horse dung. Oh, no—they were responsible for cleaning the pens of all the four-legged livestock in the fortress, a task that took them from breakfast until noon. At least they did it in the morning, before the afternoon heat really made the smell atrocious.

Another benefit was that they didn’t have to go running. Though after four hours of shoveling animal droppings, Celaena would have begged to take the six-mile run instead.

Anxious as she was to be out of the stables, she couldn’t contain her growing trepidation as the sun arced across the sky, heading toward sunset. She didn’t know what to expect; even Ansel had no idea what the Master might have in mind. They spent the afternoon sparring as usual—with each other, and with whatever assassins wandered into the shade of the open-air training courtyard. And when the sun finally hovered near the horizon, Ansel gave Celaena squeeze on the shoulder and sent her to the Master’s hall.

But the Master wasn’t in his receiving hall, and when she ran into Ilias, he just gave her his usual smile and pointed toward the roof. After taking a few staircases and then climbing a wooden ladder and squeezing through a hatch in the ceiling, she found herself in the open air high atop the fortress.

The Master stood by the parapet, gazing across the desert. She cleared her throat, but he remained with his back to her.

The roof couldn’t have been more than twenty square feet, and the only thing on it was a covered reed basket placed in the center. Torches burned, illuminating the rooftop.

Celaena cleared her throat again, and the Master finally turned. She bowed, which, strangely, was something she felt he actually deserved, rather than something she ought to do. He gave her a nod and pointed to the reed basket, beckoning her to open the lid. Doing her best not to look skeptical, hoping there was a beautiful new weapon inside, she approached. She stopped when she heard the hissing.

Unpleasant, don’t-come-closer hissing. From inside the basket.

She turned to the Master, who hopped onto one of the merlons, his bare feet dangling in the gap between one block of stone and the next, and beckoned her again. Palms sweating, Celaena took a deep breath and snatched back the lid.

A black asp curled into itself, head drawn back low as it hissed.

Celaena leapt away a yard, making for the parapet wall, but the Master let out a low click of his tongue.

His hands moved, flowing and winding through the air like a river—like a snake. Observe it, he seemed to tell her. Move with it.

She looked back at the basket in time to see the slender, black head of the asp slide over the rim, then down to the tiled roof.

Her heart thundered in her chest. It was poisonous, wasn’t it? It had to be. It looked poisonous.

The snake slithered across the roof, and Celaena inched back from it, not daring to look away for even a heartbeat. She reached for a dagger, but the Master again clicked his tongue. A glance in his direction was enough for her to understand the meaning of the sound.

Don’t kill it. Absorb.

The snake moved effortlessly, lazily, and tasted the evening air with its black tongue. With a deep, steadying breath, Celaena observed.