Celaena didn’t really know why a chill snaked down her spine in that moment. Or why she found herself suddenly digging through the saddlebags until she pulled out the Master’s letter of approval, along with the note Ansel had written her.

If the Master had known about the attack, he would have been fortifying his defenses already; he wouldn’t have sent Celaena away. She was Adarlan’s greatest assassin, and if two hundred men were marching on his fortress, he’d need her. The Master wasn’t proud—not like Arobynn. He truly loved his disciples; he looked after and nurtured them. But he’d never trained Ansel. Why?

And with so many of his loved ones in the fortress, why send only Celaena away? Why not send them all?

Her heart beat so fast it stumbled, and Celaena tore open the letter of approval.

It was blank.

She flipped the paper over. The other side was also blank. Holding it up to the sun revealed no hidden ink, no watermark. But it had been sealed by him, hadn’t it? That was his seal on the—

It was easy to steal a signet ring. She’d done it with Captain Rolfe. And she’d seen the white line around the Master’s finger—his ring had been missing.

But if Ansel had drugged her, and given her a document sealed with the Master’s signet ring …

No, it wasn’t possible. And it didn’t make sense. Why would Ansel send her away and pretend the Master had done it? Unless …

Celaena looked up at Lord Berick’s palace. Unless Ansel hadn’t been visiting Lord Berick on behalf of the Master at all. Or maybe she had at first, long enough to gain the Master’s trust. But while the Master thought she was mending the relationships between them, Ansel was really doing quite the opposite. And that Spidersilk merchant had mentioned something about a spy among the assassins—a spy working for Berick. But why?

Celaena didn’t have time to ponder it. Not with two hundred men so close to the fortress. She might have questioned Lord Berick, but that, too, would take precious time.

One warrior might not make a difference against two hundred, but she was Celaena Sardothien. That had to count for something. That did count for something.

She mounted Kasida and turned her toward the city gates.

“Let’s see how fast you can run,” she whispered into the mare’s ear, and took off.

CHAPTER

11

Like a shooting star across a red sky, Kasida flew over the dunes, and made the jump across the Cleaver as if she were leaping over a brook. They paused only long enough for the horse to rest and fill up on water, and though Celaena apologized to the mare for pushing her so hard, Kasida never faltered. She, too, seemed to sense the urgency.

They rode through the night, until the crimson dawn broke over the dunes and smoke stained the sky, and the fortress spread before them.

Fires burned here and there, and shouts rang out, along with the clashing of weapons. The assassins hadn’t yielded yet, though their walls had been breached. A few bodies littered the sand leading up to the gates, but the gates themselves showed no sign of a forced entry—as if someone had left them unlocked.

Celaena dismounted Kasida before the final dune, leaving the horse to either follow or find her own path, and crept the rest of the way into the fortress. She paused long enough to swipe a sword from a dead soldier and tuck it into her belt. It was cheaply made and unbalanced, but the point was sharp enough to do the job. From the muffled clopping of hooves behind her, she knew Kasida had followed. Still, Celaena didn’t dare take her eyes away from the scene before her as she drew her two long daggers.

Inside the walls, bodies were everywhere—assassin and soldier alike. Otherwise, the main courtyard was empty, its little rivers now flowing red. She tried her best not to look too closely at the faces of the fallen.

Fires smoldered, most of them just smoking piles of ash. Charred remnants of arrows revealed that they’d probably been ablaze when they hit. Every step into the courtyard felt like a lifetime. The shouts and clanging weapons came from other parts of the fortress. Who was winning? If all the soldiers had gotten in with so few dead on the sand, then someone had to have let them in—probably in the dead of night. How long had it taken before the night watch spotted the soldiers creeping inside? … Unless the night watch had been dispatched before they could sound the alarm.

But, as Celaena took step after step, she realized that the question she should be asking was far worse. Where is the Master?

That was what Lord Berick had wanted—the Master’s head.

And Ansel …

Celaena didn’t want to finish that thought. Ansel hadn’t sent her away because of this. Ansel couldn’t be behind this. But …

Celaena started sprinting for the Master’s greeting room, heedless of the noise. Blood and destruction were everywhere. She passed courtyards full of soldiers and assassins, locked in deadly battle.

She was halfway up the stairs to the Master’s room when a soldier came rushing down them, his blade drawn. She ducked the blow for her head and struck low and deep, her long dagger burying itself into his gut. With the heat, the soldiers had forgone metal armor—and their leather armor couldn’t turn a blade made with Adarlanian steel.

She jumped aside as he groaned and tumbled down the steps. She didn’t bother sparing him a final look as she continued her ascent. The upper level was completely silent.

Her breath sharp in her throat, she careened toward the open doors of the greeting room. The two hundred soldiers were meant to destroy the fortress—and provide a distraction. The Master could have been unguarded with everyone focused on the attack. But he was still the Master. How could Ansel expect to best him?

Unless she used that drug on him as well. How else would she be able to disarm him and catch him unawares?

Celaena hurled herself through the open wooden doors and nearly tripped on the body prostrate between them.

Mikhail lay on his back, his throat slit, eyes staring up at the tiled ceiling. Dead. Beside him was Ilias, struggling to rise as he clutched his bleeding belly. Celaena bit back her cry, and Ilias raised his head, blood dripping from his lips. She made to kneel beside him, but he grunted, pointing to the room ahead.

To his father.

The Master lay on his side atop the dais, his eyes open and his robes still unstained by blood. But he had the stillness of one drugged—paralyzed by whatever Ansel had given him.

The girl stood over him, her back to Celaena as she talked, swift and quiet. Babbling. She clenched her father’s sword in one hand, the bloodied blade drooping toward the floor. The Master’s eyes shifted to Celaena’s face, then to his son. They were filled with pain. Not for himself, but for Ilias—for his bleeding boy. He looked back to Celaena’s face, his sea-green eyes now pleading. Save my son.

Ansel took a deep breath and the sword rose in the air, making to slice off the Master’s head.

Celaena had a heartbeat to flip the knife in her hands. She cocked her wrist and let it fly.

The dagger slammed into Ansel’s forearm, exactly where Celaena had aimed. Ansel let out a cry, her fingers splaying. Her father’s sword clattered to the ground. Her face went white with shock as she whirled, clutching the bleeding wound, but the expression shifted into something dark and unyielding as she beheld Celaena. Ansel scrambled for her fallen blade.