“You seemed rather friendly with Sardothien,” Chaol said, his voice cold.

“Jealous, are we?” Dorian teased.

“I’m more concerned for your safety. She might be pretty and might impress you with her cleverness, but she’s still an assassin, Dorian.”

“You sound like my father.”

“It’s common sense. Stay away from her, Champion or no.”

“Don’t give me orders.”

“I’m only doing it for your safety.”

“Why would she kill me? I think she likes being pampered. If she hasn’t attempted to escape or kill anyone, then why would she do it now?” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “You worry too much.”

“It’s my occupation to worry.”

“Then you’ll have gray hair before you’re twenty-five, and Sardothien certainly will not fall in love with you.”

“What nonsense are you talking?”

“Well, if she does try to escape, which she won’t, then she’ll break your heart. You’d be forced to throw her in the dungeons, hunt her down, or kill her.”

“Dorian, I don’t like her.”

Sensing his friend’s growing irritation, Dorian changed the subject. “What about that dead Champion—the Eye Eater? Any idea yet who did it, or why?”

Chaol’s eyes darkened. “I’ve studied it again and again over the past few days. The body was totally destroyed.” The color leeched from Chaol’s cheeks. “Innards scooped out and gone; even the brain was . . . missing. I’ve sent a message to your father about it, but I’ll continue investigating in the meantime.”

“I bet it was just a drunken brawl,” Dorian said, though he had been in plenty of brawls himself and had never known anyone to go about removing someone’s innards. A trickle of fear formed in the back of Dorian’s mind. “My father will probably be glad to have the Eye Eater dead and gone.”

“I hope so.”

Dorian grinned and put an arm around the captain’s shoulders. “With you looking into it, I’m sure it’ll be solved tomorrow,” he said, leading his friend into the dining hall.

Chapter 20

Celaena closed her book and sighed. What a terrible ending. She stood from the chair, unsure where she was going, and walked out of her bedroom. She’d been willing to apologize to Chaol when he found her sparring with Nehemia that afternoon, but his behavior . . . She paced through her rooms. He had more important things to do than guard the world’s most famous criminal, did he? She didn’t enjoy being cruel, but . . . hadn’t he deserved it?

She’d really made a fool out of herself by mentioning the vomiting. And she’d called him all sorts of nasty things. Did he trust her or hate her? Celaena looked at her hands and realized she had wrung them so badly that her fingers were red. How had she gone from the most feared prisoner in Endovier to this sappy mess?

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?”