Win. Win. Win. Take him down quickly.
“Ready yourselves,” the king ordered. “And begin on my mark.”
Celaena looked to Chaol. Wasn’t she to be allowed a moment to rest? Even Dorian raised his brows at his father, but the king refused to acknowledge his son’s silent questioning.
Cain drew his sword, a crooked grin on his face as he crouched in a defensive stance in the center of the ring.
Insults would have risen to her lips if Chaol hadn’t touched her shoulder, his chestnut eyes filled with some emotion she couldn’t yet understand. There was strength in his face that she found to be achingly beautiful.
“Don’t lose,” he whispered so only she could hear. “I don’t feel like having to escort you all the way back to Endovier.” The world became foggy around the edges as he stepped away, his head held high as he ignored the white-hot glare of the king.
Cain edged closer, his broadsword gleaming. Celaena took a deep breath and entered the ring.
The conqueror of Erilea raised his hands. “Begin!” he roared, and Celaena shook her head, trying to clear her blurry vision. She steadied herself, wielding the staff like a sword as Cain began circling. Nausea flashed through her as his muscles flexed. For some reason, the world was still hazy. She clenched her teeth, blinking. She’d use his strength against him.
Cain charged faster than she anticipated. She caught his sword on the broad side with the staff, avoiding the sharp edges, and leapt back as she heard the wood groan.
He struck so quickly that she had to concede to the edge of his blade. It sank deep into the staff. Her arms ached from the impact. Before she could recover, Cain yanked his sword from her weapon and surged toward her. She could only bound back, deflecting the blow with the iron tip of the staff. Her blood felt slow and thick, and her head spun. Was she ill? The nausea would not ease.
Grunting, Celaena pulled away with an effort of skill and force. If she were truly ill, she must finish this as quickly as possible. It was not a showcase of her abilities, especially if that book had been right and Cain had been granted the strength of all those dead Champions.
Switching onto the offensive, she nimbly swept toward him. He parried Celaena’s attack with a brush of his blade. She brought the staff down upon his sword, splinters flying into the air.
Her heart pounded in her ears, and the sound of wood against steel became almost unbearable. Why were things slowing down?
She attacked—faster and faster, stronger and stronger. Cain laughed, and she almost screamed in anger. Each time she moved a foot to trip him, each time they came too close, she either became clumsy or he stepped away, as if he knew what she planned all along. She had the infuriating feeling that he was toying with her, that there was some joke she didn’t understand.
Celaena whipped the staff through the air, hoping to catch him upon his unprotected neck. But he deflected, and though she spun and tried to knock him in his stomach, he blocked her again.
“Not feeling well?” he said, showing his white, gleaming teeth. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have been holding back all those—”
WHAM!
She grinned as the shaft of her staff slammed into his side. He bent over, and her leg lashed out and swept him off his feet, sending him crashing to the ground. She raised her staff, but a sick feeling rushed through her so powerful that her muscles slackened. She had no strength.
He knocked aside her blow as if it was nothing, and she retreated while he rose. And that’s when she heard the laugh—soft, feminine, and vicious. Kaltain. Celaena’s feet stumbled, but she stayed upright as she dared a glance at the lady, and the goblets on the table before her. And that’s when she knew that it hadn’t been wine in that glass, but bloodbane, the very drug she’d missed in the Test. At best, it caused hallucinations and disorientation. At worst . . .
She had difficulty holding the staff. Cain came at her, and she had no choice but to meet his blows, barely having the strength to raise the weapon each time. How much bloodbane had they given her? The staff cracked, splintered, and groaned. If it were a lethal dose, she’d be dead by now. They must have given her enough to disorient her, but not enough that it would be easy to prove. She couldn’t focus, and her body became hot and cold. Cain was so large—he was a mountain, and his blows . . . they made Chaol seem like a child . . .
“Tired already?” he asked. “It’s a pity all of that yapping didn’t amount to much.”
He knew. He knew they’d drugged her. She snarled and lunged. He stepped aside, and her eyes went wide as she hit nothing but air, air, air, until—
He slammed his fist into her spine, and she only saw the blur of the slate tiles before they collided with her face.
“Pathetic,” he said, his shadow falling over her as she flipped onto her back, scrambling away before he could get closer. She could taste the blood in her mouth. This couldn’t be happening—they couldn’t have betrayed her like this. “If I were Grave, I’d be insulted that you’d beaten me.”
Her breath came fast and hard, and her knees ached as she stumbled upright, charging at him. Too fast for her to block, he grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and hurled her back. She kept upright as she tripped, and stopped a few feet from him.
Cain circled her, swinging his sword idly. His eyes were dark—dark like that portal to that other world. He was drawing out the inevitable, a predator playing with his meal before eating it. He wanted to enjoy every moment.
She had to end this now, before the hallucinations started. She knew they’d be powerfuclass="underline" seers had once used bloodbane as a drug to view spirits from other worlds. Celaena shot forward with a sweep of the staff. Wood slammed into steel.
The staff snapped in two.
The iron-tipped head soared to the other side of the veranda, leaving Celaena with a piece of useless wood. Cain’s black eyes met with hers for a moment before his other arm lashed out and connected with her shoulder.
She heard the crack before she felt the pain, and Celaena screamed, dropping to her knees as her shoulder dislocated. His foot met with the shoulder, and she went flying backward, falling so hard that her shoulder relocated with a sickening crunch. The agony blinded her; the world went in and out of focus. Things were so slow . . .
Cain grabbed the collar of her jacket to pull her to her feet. She staggered back out of his grasp, the ground rushing beneath her, and then fell—hard.
She raised the shaft of broken wood with her left hand. Cain, panting and grinning, approached.
Dorian clenched his teeth. Something was terribly wrong. He’d known it from the moment the duel started, and began sweating when she had the opportunity to bestow a winning blow and failed to deliver it. But now . . .
He couldn’t watch as Cain kicked her shoulder, and felt as if he’d vomit when the brute picked her up and she fell to the ground. She kept wiping her eyes, and sweat shone on her forehead. What was wrong?
He should stop it—he should call off the duel now. Let her start tomorrow, with a sword and her senses. Chaol hissed, and Dorian almost cried out as Celaena attempted to stand, but collapsed. Cain teased her—breaking not only her body, but her will . . . He had to stop it.
Cain swung his sword at Celaena, who threw herself backward—but not fast enough. She yelped as the blade sliced across her thigh, clothing and flesh ripping. Blood colored her pants. Despite it, she stood again, her face set in defiant rage.
Dorian had to help her. But if he interfered, they might just proclaim Cain the victor. So he watched, in growing horror and despair, as Cain’s fist slammed into her jaw.
Her knees twisted as she fell.