“I suppose not,” he said, and vigorously rubbed his arms for warmth. “But I’ve seen a few illustrations of the Eye, and your necklace looks like it. Perhaps it’s a replica.”
“Perhaps.” She quickly found another subject. “When’s your brother arriving?”
He looked skyward. “I’m lucky. We received a letter this morning that snows in the mountains prevented Hollin from coming home. He’s stuck at school until after his spring term, and he’s beside himself.”
“Your poor mother,” Celaena said, half-smiling.
“She’ll probably send servants to deliver his Yulemas presents, regardless of the storm.”
Celaena didn’t hear him, and though they talked for a good hour afterward meandering through the grounds, she couldn’t get her heart to calm. Elena had to have known someone would recognize her amulet—and if this was the real thing . . . The king could kill her on the spot for wearing not only an heirloom of his house, but something of power.
Yet again, she could only wonder what Elena’s motives actually were.
Celaena glanced from her book to the tapestry on the wall. The chest of drawers remained where she’d shoved it in front of the passageway. She shook her head and returned to her book. Though she scanned the lines, none of the words registered.
What did Elena want with her? Dead queens usually didn’t come back to give orders to the living. Celaena clenched her book. It wasn’t like she wasn’t fulfilling Elena’s command to win, either—she would have fought this hard to become the King’s Champion anyway. And as for finding and defeating the evil in the castle . . . well, now that it seemed tied to who was murdering the Champions, how could she not try to figure out where it was coming from?
A door shut somewhere inside her rooms, and Celaena jumped, the book flying from her hands. She grabbed the brass candlestick beside her bed, ready to leap off the mattress, but lowered it as Philippa’s humming filtered through the doors to her bedroom. She groaned as she climbed out of the warmth of her bed to retrieve her book.
It had fallen under the bed, and Celaena knelt upon the icy floor, straining to reach the book. She couldn’t feel it anywhere, so she grabbed the candle. She saw the book immediately, tucked against the back wall, but as her fingers grappled onto the cover, a glimmer of candlelight traced a white line across the floor beneath her bed.
Celaena yanked the book back to her and stood with a jolt. Her hands trembled as she pushed the bed out of position, her feet slipping on the half-frozen floor. It moved slowly, but eventually, she had shifted it enough to see what had been sketched on the floor beneath.
Everything inside of her turned to ice.
Wyrdmarks.
Dozens of Wyrdmarks had been drawn onto the floor with chalk. They formed a giant spiral, with a large mark in its center. Celaena stumbled back, slamming into her dresser.
What was this? She ran a shaking hand through her hair, staring at the center mark.
She’d seen that mark. It had been etched on one side of Verin’s body.
Her stomach rising in her throat, she rushed to her nightstand and grabbed the pitcher of water atop it. Without a thought, she tossed the water onto the marks, then raced to her bathing chamber to draw more water. When the water had finished loosening the chalk, she took a towel and scrubbed the floor until her back ached and her legs and hands were frozen.
Then, only then, did she throw on a pair of pants and a tunic and head out the door.
Thankfully, the guards didn’t say anything when she asked them to escort her to the library at midnight. They remained in the main room of the library as she set off through the stacks, heading toward the musty, forgotten alcove where she’d found the majority of the books on the Wyrdmarks. She couldn’t walk fast enough, and kept looking over her shoulder.
Was she next? What did any of it mean? She wrung her fingers. She rounded a corner, not ten stacks from the alcove, and came to a halt.
Nehemia, seated at a small desk, stared at her with wide eyes.
Celaena put a hand on her racing heart. “Damn,” she said. “You gave me a fright!”
Nehemia smiled, but not very well. Celaena cocked her head as she approached the table. “What are you doing here?” Nehemia demanded in Eyllwe.
“I couldn’t sleep.” She shifted her eyes to the princess’s book. That wasn’t the book they used during their lessons. No, it was a thick, aging book, crammed with dense lines of text. “What are you reading?”
Nehemia slammed the book shut and stood. “Nothing.”
Celaena observed her face; her lips were pursed, and the princess lifted her chin. “I thought you couldn’t read at that level yet.”
Nehemia tucked the book into the crook of her arm. “Then you’re like every ignorant fool in this castle, Lillian,” she said with perfect pronunciation in the common tongue. Not giving her a chance to reply, the princess strode away.
Celaena watched her go. It didn’t make sense. Nehemia couldn’t read books that advanced, not when she still stumbled through lines of text. And Nehemia never spoke with that kind of flawless accent, and—
In the shadows behind the desk, a piece of paper had fallen between the wood and the stone wall. Easing it out, Celaena unfolded the crumpled paper.
She whirled around, to the direction where Nehemia had disappeared. Her throat constricting, Celaena tucked the piece of paper into her pocket and hurried back toward the great room, the Wyrdmark drawn on the paper burning a hole in her clothing.
Celaena rushed down a staircase, then strode along a hallway lined with books.
No, Nehemia couldn’t have played her like that—Nehemia wouldn’t have lied day after day about how little she knew. Nehemia had been the one to tell her that the etchings in the garden were Wyrdmarks. She knew what they were—she’d warned her to stay away from the Wyrdmarks, again and again. Because Nehemia was her friend—because Nehemia had wept when her people had been murdered, because she’d come to her for comfort.
But Nehemia came from a conquered kingdom. And the King of Adarlan had ripped the crown off her father’s head and stripped his title from him. And the people of Eyllwe were being kidnapped in the night and sold into slavery, right along with the rebels that rumor claimed Nehemia supported so fiercely. And five hundred Eyllwe citizens had just been butchered.
Celaena’s eyes stung as she spotted the guards loitering in armchairs in the great room.
Nehemia had every reason to deceive them, to plot against them. To tear apart this stupid competition and send everyone into a tizzy. Who better to target than the criminals living here? No one would miss them, but the fear would seep into the castle.
But why would Nehemia plot against her?
Chapter 36
Days passed without seeing Nehemia, and Celaena kept her mouth shut about the incident to Chaol or Dorian or anyone who visited her chambers. She couldn’t confront Nehemia—not without more concrete proof, not without ruining everything. So she spent her spare time researching the Wyrdmarks, desperate for a way to decipher them, to find those symbols, to learn what it all meant, and how it connected to the killer and the killer’s beast. Amidst her worrying, another Test passed without incident or embarrassment—though she couldn’t say the same for the soldier who’d been sent home—and she kept up her intense training with Chaol and the other Champions. There were five of them left now. The final Test was three days away, and the duel two days after that.
Celaena awoke on Yulemas morning and relished the silence.
There was something inherently peaceful about the day, despite the darkness of her encounter with Nehemia. For the moment, the whole castle had quieted to hear the falling snow. Frost laced each windowpane, a fire already crackled in the fireplace, and shadows of snowflakes drifted across the floor. It was as peaceful and lovely a winter morning as she could imagine. She wouldn’t ruin it with thoughts of Nehemia, or of the duel, or of the ball she wasn’t allowed to attend tonight. No, it was Yulemas morning, and she would be happy.
It didn’t feel like a holiday to celebrate the darkness that gave birth to the spring light, nor did it feel like a holiday to celebrate the birth of the Goddess’s firstborn son. It was simply a day when people were more courteous, looked twice at a beggar in the street, remembered that love was a living thing. Celaena smiled and rolled over. But something got in her way. It was crinkly and harsh against her face, and had the distinct odor of—
“Candy!” A large paper bag sat on a pillow, and she found that it was filled with all sorts of confectionary goodies. There was no note, not even a name scribbled on the bag. With a shrug and glowing eyes, Celaena pulled out a handful of sweets. Oh, how she adored candy!
Celaena issued a jolly laugh and crammed some of the candy into her mouth. One by one, she chewed through the assortment, and she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply as she tasted all of the flavors and textures.
When she finally stopped chewing, her jaw ached. She emptied the contents of the bag onto the bed, ignoring the dunes of sugar that poured out with it, and surveyed the land of goodness before her.
All of her favorites were there: chocolate-covered gummies, chocolate almond bark, berry-shaped chews, gem–shaped hard sugar, peanut brittle, plain brittle, sugarlace, frosted red licorice, and, most importantly, chocolate. She popped a hazelnut truffle into her mouth.
“Someone,” she said in between chews, “is very good to me.”
She paused to examine the bag again. Who had sent it? Maybe Dorian. Certainly not Nehemia or Chaol. Nor the Frost Faeries that delivered presents to good children. They’d stopped coming to her when she’d first drawn blood from another human being. Maybe Nox. He liked her well enough.
“Miss Celaena!” Philippa exclaimed from the doorway, gaping.
“Happy Yulemas, Philippa!” she said. “Care for a candy?”
Philippa stormed toward Celaena. “Happy Yulemas indeed! Look at this bed! Look at this mess!” Celaena winced.
“Your teeth are red!” Philippa cried. She reached for the hand mirror that Celaena kept by her bed and held it for the assassin to see.
Sure enough, her teeth were tinged with crimson. She ran her tongue over her teeth, then tried to brush away the stains with a finger. They remained. “Damn those sugar suckers!”
“Yes,” Philippa snapped. “And that’s chocolate all over your mouth. Even my grandson doesn’t eat his candy like this!”
Celaena laughed. “You have a grandson?”
“Yes, and he can eat his food without getting it on the bed, on his teeth, and on his face!”
Celaena pushed back the covers, sugar spraying into the air. “Have a candy, Philippa.”
“It’s seven in the morning.” Philippa swept the sugar into her cupped palm. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“Sick? Who can get sick from candy?” Celaena made a face and exposed her crimson teeth.
“You look like a demon,” said Philippa. “Just don’t open your mouth and no one will notice.”
“You and I both know that’s not possible.”