His father stared right at him—through him. “If Eyllwe rises up in retaliation, if we find ourselves facing a war, then Anielle will need a strong heir.”

“If you’ve groomed Terrin to be your heir, then I’m sure he’ll do just fine.”

“Terrin is a scholar, not a warrior. He was born that way. If Eyllwe rebels, there is a good chance that the wild men in the Fangs will rise up, too. Anielle will be the first place they sack. They’ve been dreaming of revenge for too long.”

Chaol wondered just how much this was grating on his father’s pride, and part of him truly wanted to make him suffer for it.

But he’d had enough of suffering, and enough of hatred. And he hardly had any fight left in him now that Celaena had made it clear she’d sooner eat hot coals than look at him with affection in her eyes. Now that Celeana was—gone. So he just said, “My position is here. My life is here.”

“Your people need you. They will need you. Would you be so selfish as to turn your back on them?”

“The way my father turned his back on me?”

His father smiled again, a cruel, cold thing. “You disgraced your family when you gave up your title. You disgraced me. But you have made yourself useful these years—made the Crown Prince rely upon you. And when Dorian is king, he’ll reward you for it, won’t he? He could make Anielle a duchy and bless you with lands large enough to rival Perrington’s territory around Morath.”

“What is it that you really want, Father? To protect your people, or to use my friendship with Dorian to your gain?”

“Would you throw me in the dungeons if I said both? I hear you like to do that to the people who dare provoke you these days.” And then there was that gleam in his eyes that told Chaol just how much his father already knew. “Perhaps if you do, your woman and I can exchange notes about the conditions.”

“If you want me back in Anielle, you’re not doing a very good job of convincing me.”

“Do I need to convince you? You failed to protect the princess, and that has created the possibility of war. The assassin who was warming your bed now wants nothing more than to spill your innards on the ground. What’s left for you here, except more shame?”

Chaol slammed his hands on the table, rattling the dishes. “Enough.”

He didn’t want his father knowing anything about Celaena, or about the remaining fragments of his heart. He wouldn’t let his servants change the sheets on his bed because they still smelled like her, because he went to sleep dreaming that she was still lying beside him.

“I have worked for ten years to be in this position, and it’ll take far more than a few taunts from you to get me back to Anielle. And if you think Terrin is weak, then send him to me for training. Maybe here he’ll learn how real men act.”

Chaol shoved his chair away from the table, rattling the dishes again, and stormed to the door. Five minutes. He’d lasted less than five minutes.

He paused in the doorway and looked back at his father. The man was smiling faintly at him, still taking him in, still assessing how useful he would be. “You talk to her—you so much as look in her direction,” Chaol warned, “and, father or not, I’ll make you wish you’d never set foot in this castle.”

And though he didn’t wait to hear what his father had to say, Chaol left with the sinking feeling that he’d somehow just stepped right into his father’s snare.

Chapter 37

There was no one else to carry out this task, not with Eyllwe soldiers and ambassadors still on their way to retrieve Nehemia’s body from where it lay interred in the royal plot. As Celaena opened the door to the room that had smelled of blood and pain, she saw that someone had cleaned away all traces of gore. The mattress was gone, and Celaena paused in the doorway as she surveyed the skeleton of the bed frame. Perhaps it would be best to leave Nehemia’s belongings to the people who came to bring her back to Eyllwe.

But would they be friends of hers? The thought of strangers touching Nehemia’s belongings, packing them away like any other objects, made her wild with grief and rage.

Almost as wild as she’d been earlier today, when she’d walked into her own dressing room and ripped every gown off its hanger, pulled out every pair of shoes, every tunic, every ribbon and cloak and thrown them into the hallway.

She’d burned the dresses that reminded her most of Nehemia, the dresses she’d worn at their lessons, at their meals, and on their walks around the castle. It was only when Philippa came in to scold her about the smoke that Celaena had relented, allowing her to take whatever clothing survived and donate it. But it had been too late to stop Celaena from burning the dress she’d worn the night of Chaol’s birthday. That gown had burned first.

And when her dressing room was empty, she shoved a bag of gold into Philippa’s hands and told her to go buy some new clothes. Philippa had only given her a sad look—another thing that made Celaena sick—and left.

It took Celaena an hour to gently, carefully pack up Nehemia’s clothes and jewelry, and she tried not to dwell too long on the memories that accompanied each item. Or the lotus-blossom smell that clung to everything.

When she had sealed all the trunks, she went to Nehemia’s desk, which was still littered with papers and books as if the princess had only stepped outside for a moment. As she reached for the first paper, her eyes fell upon the arc of scars around her right hand—the teeth marks of the ridderak.

The papers were covered with scribblings in Eyllwe and—and Wyrdmarks.

Countless Wyrdmarks, some in long lines, some forming symbols like the ones Nehemia had traced underneath Celaena’s bed all those months ago. How had the king’s spies not taken these? Or had he not even bothered to have her rooms searched? She started stacking them into a pile. Perhaps she could still learn some things about the marks, even if Nehemia were—

Dead, she made herself think. Nehemia is dead.

Celaena looked at the scars on her hand again and was about to turn from the desk when she spotted a familiar-looking book half tucked beneath some papers.

It was the book from Davis’s office.

This copy was older, more damaged, but it was the same book. And written on the inside cover was a sentence in Wyrdmarks—such basic marks that even Celaena could understand them.

Do not trust—

The final symbol, though, was a mystery. It looked like a wyvern—the Royal Seal. Of course she shouldn’t trust the King of Adarlan.

She flipped through the book, scanning it for any information. Nothing.

And then she turned to the back cover. And there, Nehemia had written—

It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.

It was scribbled in the common tongue, then in Eyllwe, then in some other languages that Celaena didn’t recognize. Different translations—as if Nehemia had wondered whether the riddle held any meaning in another tongue. The same book, the same riddle, the same writing in the back.

An idle lord’s nonsense, Nehemia had said.

But Nehemia … Nehemia and Archer led the group to which Davis had belonged. Nehemia had known Davis; known him and lied about it, lied about the riddle, and—

Nehemia had promised. Promised that there would be no more secrets between them.

Promised and lied. Promised and deceived her.

She fought down a scream as she tore through every other piece of paper on the desk, in the room. Nothing.

What else had Nehemia lied about?

It is only with the eye …

Celaena touched her necklace. Nehemia had known about the tomb. If she had been feeding information to this group, and had encouraged Celaena to look into the eye carved into the wall … then Nehemia had been looking, too. But after the duel, she’d returned the Eye of Elena to Celaena; if Nehemia had needed it, she would have kept it. And Archer hadn’t mentioned knowing anything about this.

Unless this wasn’t the eye the riddle referenced.

Because …

“By the Wyrd,” Celaena breathed, and rushed out of the room.

Mort hissed when she appeared at the door to the tomb. “Plan on desecrating any other sacred objects tonight?”

Carrying a satchel full of papers and books that she’d grabbed from her rooms, Celaena merely patted his head as she walked by. His bronze teeth clanked against each other as he sought to bite her.

The tomb was filled with moonlight bright enough to see by. And there, directly across the tomb from the eye in the wall, was another eye, golden and gleaming.

Damaris. It was Damaris, the Sword of Truth. Gavin could see nothing but what was right—

It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.

“Am I so blind?” Celaena dumped her leather satchel on the floor, the books and papers spilling across the stones.

“It appears so!” Mort sang. The eye-shaped pommel was the exact size …

Celaena lifted the sword from its stand and unsheathed it. The Wyrdmarks on the blade seemed to ripple. She rushed back to the wall.

“In case you didn’t realize,” called Mort, “you’re supposed to hold the eye against the hole in the wall and look through it.”

“I know that,” snapped Celaena.

And so, not daring to breathe the entire time, Celaena lifted the pommel to the hole until both eyes were evenly aligned. She stood on her toes and peered in—and groaned.

It was a poem.

A lengthy poem.

Celaena fished out the parchment and charcoal she’d stashed in her pocket and copied down the words, darting to and from the wall as she read, memorized, double-checked, and then recorded. It was only when she had finished the last stanza that she read it aloud.

By the Valg, three were made,

Of the Gate-Stone of the Wyrd:

Obsidian the gods forbade

And stone they greatly feared.

In grief, he hid one in the crown

Of her he loved so well,

To keep with her where she lay down

Inside the starry cell.

The second one was hidden

In a mountain made of fire,

Where all men were forbidden

Despite their great desires.

Where the third lies

Will never be told

By voice or tongue

Or sum of gold.

Celaena shook her head. More nonsense. And the rhyme with “Wyrd” and “feared” was off. Not to mention the break in the rhyme scheme in the final lines.

“Since you clearly knew that the sword could be used to read the riddle,” she said to Mort, “then why don’t you save me some trouble and tell me what the hell this one’s about?”

Mort sniffed. “It sounds to me like it’s a riddle giving the location of three very powerful items.”

She read through the poem again. “But three what? Sounds like the second thing is hidden in—in a volcano? And the first and third ones …” She gritted her teeth. “‘Gate-Stone of the Wyrd’ … What is this a riddle for? And why is it here?”

“Isn’t that the question of the millennia!” Mort crowed as Celaena walked back to the papers and books she’d scattered at the other end of the tomb. “You’d better clean up the mess you brought down here, or I’ll ask the gods to send some wicked beastie after you.”