Celaena sat on an ornately carved wooden chair, watching the Master as he stared out the window at the sky. She nearly fell out of her seat when he began speaking.
“I am glad you did not kill Ansel.” His voice was raw, and his accent thick with the clipped yet rolling sounds of some language she’d never heard before. “I have been wondering when she would decide what to do with her fate.”
“So you knew—”
The Master turned from the window. “I have known for years. Several months after Ansel’s arrival, I sent inquiries to the Flatlands. Her family had not written her any letters, and I was worried that something might have happened.” He took a seat in a chair across from Celaena. “My messenger returned to me some months later, saying that there was no Briarcliff. The lord and his eldest daughter had been murdered by the High King, and the youngest daughter—Ansel—was missing.”
“Why didn’t you ever … confront her?” Celaena touched the narrow scab on her left cheek. It wouldn’t scar if she looked after it properly. And if it did scar … then maybe she’d hunt down Ansel and return the favor.
“Because I hoped she would eventually trust me enough to tell me. I had to give her that chance, even though it was a risk. I hoped she would learn to face her pain—that she’d learn to endure it.” He smiled sadly at Celaena. “If you can learn to endure pain, you can survive anything. Some people learn to embrace it—to love it. Some endure it through drowning it in sorrow, or by making themselves forget. Others turn it into anger. But Ansel let her pain become hate, and let it consume her until she became something else entirely—a person I don’t think she ever wished to be.”
Celaena absorbed his words, but set them aside for consideration at a later time. “Are you going to tell everyone about what she did?”
“No. I would spare them that anger. Many believed Ansel was their friend—and part of me, too, believes that at times she was.”
Celaena looked at the floor, wondering what to do with the ache in her chest. Would turning it into rage, as he said, help her endure it?
“For what it is worth, Celaena,” he rasped, “I believe you were the closest thing to a friend Ansel has ever allowed herself to have. And I think she sent you away because she truly cared for you.”
She hated her mouth for wobbling. “That doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
“I didn’t think it would. But I think you will leave a lasting imprint on Ansel’s heart. You spared her life, and returned her father’s sword. She will not soon forget that. And maybe when she makes her next move to reclaim her title, she will remember the assassin from the North and the kindness you showed her, and try to leave fewer bodies in her wake.”
He walked to a latticework hutch, as if he were giving her the time to regain her composure, and pulled out a letter. By the time he returned to her, Celaena’s eyes were clear. “When you give this to your master, hold your head high.”
She took the letter. Her recommendation. It seemed inconsequential in the face of everything that had just happened. “How is it that you’re speaking to me now? I thought your vow of silence was eternal.”
He shrugged. “The world seems to think so, but as far as my memory serves me, I’ve never officially sworn to be silent. I choose to be silent most of the time, and I’ve become so used to it that I often forget I have the capacity for speech, but there are some times when words are necessary—when explanations are needed that mere gestures cannot convey.”
She nodded, trying her best to hide her surprise. After a pause, the Master said, “If you ever want to leave the North, you will always have a home here. I promise you the winter months are far better than the summer. And I think my son would be rather happy if you decided to return, too.” He chuckled, and Celaena blushed. He took her hand. “When you leave tomorrow, you’ll be accompanied by a few of my people.”
“Why?”
“Because they will be needed to drive the wagon to Xandria. I know that you are indentured to your master—that you still owe him a good deal of money before you are free to live your own life. He’s making you pay back a fortune that he forced you to borrow.” He squeezed her hand before approaching one of three trunks pushed against the wall. “For saving my life—and sparing hers.” He flipped open the lid of a trunk, then another, and another.
Sunlight gleamed on the gold inside, reflecting through the room like light on water. All that gold … and the piece of Spidersilk the merchant had given her … she couldn’t think of the possibilities that wealth would open to her, not right now.
“When you give your master his letter, also give him this. And tell him that in the Red Desert, we do not abuse our disciples.”
Celaena smiled slowly. “I think I can manage that.”
She looked to the open window, to the world beyond. For the first time in a long while, she heard the song of a northern wind, calling her home. And she was not afraid.
THE ASSASSIN
AND
THE UNDERWORLD
CHAPTER
1
The cavernous entrance hall of the Assassins’ Keep was silent as Celaena Sardothien stalked across the marble floor, a letter clutched between her fingers. No one had greeted her at the towering oak doors save the housekeeper, who’d taken her rain-sodden cloak—and, after getting a look at the wicked grin on Celaena’s face, opted not to say anything.
The doors to Arobynn Hamel’s study lay at the other end of the hall, and were currently shut. But she knew he was in there. Wesley, his bodyguard, stood watch outside, dark eyes unreadable as Celaena strode toward him. Though Wesley wasn’t officially an assassin, she had no doubt that he could wield the blades and daggers strapped to his massive body with deadly skill.
She also had no doubt that Arobynn had eyes at every gate in this city. The moment she’d stepped into Rifthold, he’d been alerted that she’d at last returned. She trailed mud from her wet, filthy boots as she made her way toward the study doors—and Wesley.
It had been three months since the night Arobynn had beaten her unconscious—punishment for ruining his slave-trade agreement with the Pirate Lord, Captain Rolfe. It had been three months since he’d shipped her off to the Red Desert to learn obedience and discipline and to earn the approval of the Mute Master of the Silent Assassins.
The letter clutched in her hand was proof that she had done it. Proof that Arobynn hadn’t broken her that night.
And she couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when she gave it to him.
Not to mention when she told him about the three trunks of gold she’d brought with her, which were on their way up to her room at this moment. With a few words, she’d explain that her debt to him was now repaid, that she was going to walk out of the Keep and move into the new apartment she’d purchased. That she was free of him.
Celaena reached the other end of the hall, and Wesley stepped in front of the study doors. He looked about five years younger than Arobynn, and the slender scars on his face and hands suggested that the life he’d spent serving the King of the Assassins hadn’t been easy. She suspected there were more scars beneath his dark clothing—perhaps brutal ones.