“No,” he said softly. “Don’t go.”
No.
That was what she’d said to him that night he’d beaten her, in the moment before he’d struck her, when she thought he was going to hurt Sam instead. And then he’d beaten her so badly she’d been knocked unconscious. Then he’d beaten Sam, too.
Don’t.
That was what Ansel had said to her in the desert, when Celaena had pressed the sword into the back of her neck, when the agony of Ansel’s betrayal had been almost enough to make Celaena kill the girl she’d called a friend. But that betrayal still paled in comparison to what Arobynn had done to her when he’d tricked her into killing Doneval, a man who could have freed countless slaves.
He was using words as chains to bind her again. He’d had so many chances over the years to tell her that he loved her—he’d known how much she’d craved those words. But he hadn’t spoken them until he needed to use them as weapons. And now that she had Sam, Sam who said those words without expecting anything in return, Sam who loved her for reasons she still didn’t understand …
Celaena tilted her head to the side, the only warning she gave that she was still ready to attack him. “Get out of my house.”
Arobynn just looked at her one final time, nodded slowly, and left.
The Black Cygnet tavern was packed wall-to-wall, as it was most nights. Seated with Sam at a table in the middle of the busy room, Celaena didn’t particularly feel like eating the beef stew in front of her. Or like talking, even though Sam had told her all about the information he’d gathered on Farran and Jayne. She hadn’t mentioned Arobynn’s surprise visit.
A cluster of giggling young women sat nearby, tittering about how the Crown Prince was gone on a holiday to the Sorian coast, and how they wished they could join the prince and his dashing friends, and on and on until Celaena contemplated chucking her spoon at them.
But the Black Cygnet wasn’t a violent tavern. It catered to a crowd who came to enjoy good food, good music, and good company. There were no brawls, no dark dealings, and certainly no prostitutes milling about. Perhaps that was what brought her and Sam back here for dinner most nights—it felt so normal.
It was another place she’d miss.
When they arrived home after dinner, the apartment feeling strangely not hers now that Arobynn had broken in, Celaena went straight to the bedroom and lit a few candles. She was ready for this day to be over. Ready to dispatch Jayne and Farran, and then leave.
Sam appeared in the doorway. “I’ve never seen you so quiet,” he said.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the dresser. The scar from her fight with Ansel had faded from her cheek, and the one on her neck was well on its way to disappearing, too.
“I’m tired,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. She began unbuttoning her tunic, her hands feeling strangely clumsy. Was this why Arobynn had visited? Because he’d known he’d impact her like this? She straightened, hating the thought so much that she wanted to shatter the mirror in front of her.
“Did something happen?”
She reached the final button of her tunic, but didn’t take it off. She turned to face him, looking him up and down. Could she ever tell him everything?
“Talk to me,” he said, his brown eyes holding only concern. No twisted agendas, no mind games …
“Tell me your deepest secret,” she said softly.
Sam’s eyes narrowed, but he pushed off the threshold and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, setting the ends sticking up at odd angles.
After a long moment, he spoke. “The only secret I’ve borne my entire life is that I love you.” He gave her a slight smile. “It was the one thing I believed I’d go to the grave without voicing.” His eyes were so full of light that their loveliness almost stopped her heart.
She found herself walking toward him, then placing one hand along his cheek and threading the other through his hair. He turned his head to kiss her palm, as if the phantom blood that coated her hands didn’t bother him. His eyes found hers again. “What’s yours, then?”
The room felt too small, the air too thick. She closed her eyes. It took her a minute, and more nerve than she realized, but the answer finally came. It had always been there—whispering to her in her sleep, behind every breath, a dark weight that she couldn’t ever escape.
“Deep down,” she said, “I’m a coward.”
His brows rose.
“I’m a coward,” she repeated. “And I’m scared. I’m scared all the time. Always.”
He removed her hand from his cheek to kiss the tips of her fingers. “I get scared, too,” he murmured onto her skin. “You want to hear something ridiculous? Whenever I’m scared out of my wits, I tell myself: My name is Sam Cortland … and I will not be afraid. I’ve been doing it for years.”
It was her turn to raise her brows. “And that actually works?”
He laughed onto her fingers. “Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. But it usually makes me feel better to some degree. Or it just makes me laugh at myself a bit.”
It wasn’t the sort of fear she’d been talking about, but …
“I like that,” she said.
He laced his fingers with hers and pulled her onto his lap. “I like you,” he murmured, and Celaena let him kiss her until she’d again forgotten the dark burden that would always haunt her.
Chapter Five
Rourke Farran was a busy, busy man. Celaena and Sam were waiting a block away from Jayne’s house before dawn the next morning, both of them wearing nondescript clothing and cloaks with hoods deep enough to cover most of their features without giving alarm. Farran was out and about before the sun had fully risen. They trailed his carriage through the city, observing him at each stop. It was a wonder he even had time to indulge in his sadistic delights, because Jayne’s business certainly took up plenty of his time.
He took the same black carriage everywhere—more proof of his arrogance, since it made him an easily marked target. Unlike Doneval, who was constantly guarded, Farran seemed to deliberately go without guards, daring anyone to take him on.
They followed him to the bank, to the dining rooms and taverns owned by Jayne, to the brothels and the black-market stalls hidden in crumbling alleys, then back to the bank again. He made several stops at Jayne’s house in between, too. And then he surprised Celaena once by going into a bookshop—not to threaten the owner or collect dues, but to buy books.
She’d hated that, for some reason. Especially when, despite Sam’s protests, she’d quickly snuck in while the bookseller was in the back and spied the receipt ledger behind the desk. Farran hadn’t bought books about torture or death or anything wicked. Oh, no. They’d been adventure novels. Novels that she had read and enjoyed. The idea of Farran reading them too felt like a violation, somehow.
The day slipped by, and they learned little except for how brazenly he traveled about. Sam should have no trouble dispatching him tomorrow night.
When the sun was shifting into the golden hues of late afternoon, Farran pulled up at the nondescript iron door that led down into the Vaults.
At the end of the street, Celaena and Sam watched him as they pretended to be washing dung off their boots at a public spigot.
“It seems fitting that Jayne owns the Vaults,” Sam said quietly over the gushing water.
Celaena gave him a glare—or she would have, if the hood hadn’t been in the way. “Why do you think I got so mad about you fighting there? If you ever got into any trouble with the people at the Vaults, ever pissed them off, you’re significant enough that Farran himself would come to punish you.”
Sam snorted. “I can handle Farran.”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t expect him actually to make a visit, though. Seems too dirty here, even for him.”
“Should we take a look?” The street was quiet. The Vaults came alive at night, but during the day, there wasn’t anyone in the alley except for a few stumbling drunks and the half-dozen guards always posted outside.
It was a risk, she supposed—going into the Vaults after Farran—but … If Farran truly rivaled her for notoriety, it would be interesting to get a sense of what he was really like before Sam ended his life tomorrow night. “Let’s go,” she said.
They flashed silver at the guards outside, then tossed it to the guards inside, and they were in. The thugs asked no questions, and didn’t demand they remove their weapons or their hoods. Their usual clientele wanted discretion while partaking in the twisted delights of the Vaults.
From the top of the stairs just inside the front door, Celaena instantly spotted Farran sitting at one of the scarred and burned wooden tables in the center of the room, talking to a man she recognized as Helmson, the master of ceremonies during the fights. A small lunchtime crowd had gathered at the other tables, though they’d all cleared a ring around Farran. At the back of the chamber, the pits were dark and quiet, slaves working to scrape off the blood and gore before the night’s revelries.
Celaena tried not to look too long at the shackles and broken posture of the slaves. It was impossible to tell where they’d come from—if they’d begun as prisoners of war or had just been stolen from their kingdoms. She wondered if it was better to wind up as a slave here, or a prisoner in a brutal labor camp like Endovier. Both seemed like similar versions of a living hell.
Compared to the teeming crowds the other night, the Vaults were practically deserted today. Even the prostitutes in the exposed chambers flanking the sides of the cavernous space were resting while they could. Many of the girls slept in tangled heaps on the narrow cots, barely hidden from view by the shabby curtains designed to give the illusion of privacy.
She wanted to burn this place into nothing but ashes. And then let everyone know that this wasn’t the sort of thing Adarlan’s Assassin stood for. Perhaps after they’d taken out Farran and Jayne, she’d do just that. One final bit of glory and retribution from Celaena Sardothien—one last chance to make them remember her forever before she left.
Sam kept close to her as they reached the bottom of the stairs and strode to the bar tucked into the shadows beneath. A wisp of a man stood behind it, pretending to wipe down the wooden surface while his watery blue eyes stayed fixed on Farran.
“Two ales,” Sam growled. Celaena thumped a silver coin down on the bar, and the barkeep’s attention snapped to them. She was grossly overpaying, but the barkeep’s slender, scabbed hands vanished the silver in the blink of an eye.
There were enough people still inside the Vaults that Celaena and Sam could blend in— mostly drunks who never left the premises and people who seemed to enjoy this sort of wretched environment while eating their lunch. Celaena and Sam pretended to drink their ales—sloshing the alcohol on the ground when no one was looking—and watched Farran.
There was a locked wooden chest resting on the table beside Farran and the squat master of ceremonies—a chest that Celaena had no doubt was full of the Vaults’ earnings from the night before. Farran’s attention was fixed with feline intensity on Helmson, the chest seemingly forgotten. It was practically an invitation.
“How mad do you think he’d be if I stole that chest?” Celaena pondered.
“Don’t even entertain the idea.”
She clicked her tongue. “Spoilsport.”
Whatever Farran and Helmson were discussing, it was over quickly. But instead of going back up the stairs, Farran walked over to the warren of girls. He walked past every little alcove and stone chamber, and the girls all straightened. Sleeping ones were hastily awakened, any sign of sleep vanished by the time Farran stalked past. He looked them over, inspecting, making comments to the man who hovered behind him. Helmson nodded and bowed and snapped orders at the girls.
