The last of the king’s councilmen sat down at the table. Celaena cocked her head as Nehemia emerged to stand along the sidelines of the large white circle. The princess met her stare and lifted her chin in encouragement. She wore a spectacular outfit: close-fitting pants, a layered tunic studded with whorls of iron, and knee-high boots; she carried her wooden staff, which stretched as high as her head. To honor her, Celaena realized, her eyes stinging. One fellow warrior acknowledging the other.

Everyone grew silent as the king rose. Her insides turned to stone, and she felt clumsy and thick, but also light and weak as a newborn.

Chaol nudged her with an elbow, motioning for her to stand before the table. She focused on her feet as she moved, and wouldn’t look at the king’s face. Thankfully, Renault and Grave flanked her. If Cain had been standing beside her, she might have snapped his neck just to end it there. There were so many people watching her . . .

She stood not ten feet from the King of Adarlan. Freedom or death lay at this table. Her past and future were seated on a glass throne.

Her gaze shifted to Nehemia, whose fierce and graceful eyes warmed the marrow of her bones and steadied her arms.

The King of Adarlan spoke. Knowing that seeing his face would only weaken the strength she’d found in Nehemia’s eyes, she looked not at him, but at the throne behind him. She wondered if Kaltain’s presence meant that Duke Perrington had told her who Celaena truly was.

“You were taken from your miserable lives so you might prove yourself worthy of becoming a sacred warrior to the Crown. After months of training, the moment has come to decide who my Champion shall be. You will face each other in a duel. You can win only by trapping your opponent in a position of sure death. And no further,” he added with a sharp glance in her direction. “Cain and Councilman Garnel’s Champion will go first. Then my son’s Champion will face Councilman Mullison’s Champion.”

Of course, the king would know Cain’s name. He might as well have just declared the brute his Champion. “The winners will face each other in a final duel. Whoever wins will be crowned King’s Champion. Is that clear?”

They nodded. For a heartbeat, she saw the king with stark clarity. He was just a man—a man with too much power. And in that one heartbeat, she didn’t fear him. I will not be afraid, she vowed, wrapping the familiar words around her heart. “Then let the duels commence on my command,” the king said.

Taking that as a sign that she could clear out of the ring, Celaena stalked to where Chaol stood and took up a place beside him.

Cain and Renault bowed to the king, then to each other, and drew their swords. She ran an eye down Renault’s body as he took his stance. She’d seen him square off against Cain before; he’d never won, but he always managed to hold out longer than she would have thought possible. Perhaps he’d win.

But Cain lifted his sword. He had the better weapon. And he had half a foot on Renault.

“Begin,” the king said. Metal flashed. They struck each other and danced back. Renault, refusing to take up the defensive, swept forward again, landing a few strong blows on Cain’s blade. She forced her shoulders to relax, forced herself to breathe down the cold air.

“Do you think it was just poor luck,” she murmured to Chaol, “that I’m the one going second?”

He kept his attention on the duel. “I think you’ll be allowed proper time to rest.” He jerked his chin at the dueling men. “Cain sometimes forgets to guard his right side. Look there.” Celaena watched as Cain struck, twisting his body so his right side was wide open. “Renault doesn’t even notice.” Cain grunted and pressed Renault’s blade, forcing the mercenary to take a step back. “He just missed his chance.”

The wind roared around them. “Keep your wits about you,” Chaol said, still watching the duel. Renault was retreating, each swing of Cain’s blade taking him closer and closer to the line of chalk that had been drawn on the ground. One step outside of that ring and he’d be disqualified. “He’ll try to provoke you. Don’t get angry. Focus only on his blade, and that unprotected side of his.”

“I know,” she said, and shifted her gaze back to the duel just in time to see Renault cry out and stumble back. Blood sprayed from his nose, and he hit the ground hard. Cain, his fist smeared with Renault’s blood, only smiled as he pointed the blade at Renault’s heart. The mercenary’s bloody face went white, and he bared his teeth as he stared up at his conqueror.

She looked at the clock tower. He hadn’t lasted three minutes.

There was polite clapping, and Celaena noticed that Lord Garnel’s face was set with fury. She could only guess how much money he’d just lost.

“A valiant effort,” said the king. Cain bowed and didn’t offer Renault a hand to help him rise before he stalked toward the opposite end of the veranda. With more dignity than Celaena had expected, Renault got to his feet and bowed to the king, mumbling his thanks. Clutching his nose, the mercenary slunk away. What had he stood to lose—and where would he return to now?

Across the ring, Grave smiled at her as he wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. She bit down on her grimace at the sight of his teeth. Of course, she’d have to duel the grotesque one. At least Renault had been clean looking.

“We will begin in a moment,” the king said. “Prepare your weapons.” With that, he turned to Perrington and began speaking too quietly for anyone else to hear in the blustering wind.

Celaena turned to Chaol. But instead of handing her the plain-as-porridge sword she usually wielded in practice, he drew his own blade. The eagle-shaped pommel glinted in the midday sun. “Here,” he said.

She blinked at the blade, and slowly raised her face to look at him. She found the rolling earthen hills of the north in his eyes. It was a sense of loyalty to his country that went beyond the man seated at the table. Far inside of her, she found a golden chain that bound them together.

“Take it,” he said.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She lifted a hand to grab the blade, but someone touched her elbow.

“If I may,” Nehemia said in Eyllwe, “I’d like to offer this to you instead.” The princess held out her beautifully carved iron-tipped staff. Celaena glanced between Chaol’s sword and her friend’s weapon. The sword, obviously, was the wiser choice—and for Chaol to offer his own weapon made her feel strangely lightheaded—but the staff . . .

Nehemia leaned in to whisper in Celaena’s ear. “Let it be with an Eyllwe weapon that you take them down.” Her voice hitched. “Let wood from the forests of Eyllwe defeat steel from Adarlan. Let the King’s Champion be someone who understands how the innocents suffer.”

Hadn’t Elena said almost the same thing, all those months ago? Celaena swallowed hard, and Chaol lowered his sword, taking a step back from them. Nehemia didn’t break her stare.

She knew what the princess was asking of her. As the King’s Champion, she might find ways to save countless lives—ways to undermine the king’s authority.

And that, Celaena realized, was what Elena, the king’s own ancestor, might want, too.

Though a bolt of fear went through her at the thought, though standing against the king was the one thing Celaena had thought she’d never be brave enough to do, she couldn’t forget the three scars on her back, or the slaves she’d left in Endovier, or the five hundred butchered Eyllwe rebels.

Celaena took the staff from Nehemia’s hands. The princess gave her a fierce grin.

Chaol, surprisingly enough, didn’t object. He only sheathed his sword and bowed his head to Nehemia as she clapped Celaena on the shoulder before she walked off.

Celaena gave the staff a few experimental sweeps in the space around her. Balanced, solid, strong. The rounded iron tip could knock a man out cold.

She could feel the lingering oil from Nehemia’s hands and smell her friend’s lotus-blossom scent on the engraved wood. Yes, the staff would do just fine. She’d taken down Verin with her bare hands. She could defeat Grave and Cain with this.

She glanced at the king, who was still speaking with Perrington, and found Dorian watching her instead. His sapphire eyes reflected the brilliance of the sky, though they darkened slightly as he flicked them toward Nehemia. Dorian was many things, but he wasn’t stupid; had he realized the symbolism in Nehemia’s offer? She quickly dropped his stare.

She’d worry about that later. Across the ring, Grave began pacing, waiting for the king to return his attention to the duel and give the order to begin.

She loosed a shuddering breath. Here she was, at long last. She gripped the staff in her left hand, taking in the strength of the wood, the strength of her friend. A lot could happen in a few minutes—a lot could change.

She faced Chaol. The wind ripped a few strands of hair from her braid, and she tucked them behind her ears.

“No matter what happens,” she said quietly, “I want to thank you.”

Chaol tilted his head to the side. “For what?”

Her eyes stung, but she blamed it on the fierce wind and blinked away the dampness. “For making my freedom mean something.”

He didn’t say anything; he just took the fingers of her right hand and held them in his, his thumb brushing the ring she wore.

“Let the second duel commence,” the king boomed, waving a hand toward the veranda.

Chaol squeezed her hand, his skin warm in the frigid air. “Give him hell,” he said. Grave entered the ring and drew his sword.

Pulling her hand from Chaol’s, Celaena straightened her spine as she stepped into the ring. She quickly bowed to the king, then to her opponent.

She met Grave’s stare and smiled as she bent her knees, holding the staff in two hands.

You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, little man.

Chapter 48

As she expected, Grave launched himself at her, going straight for the center of the staff in his hope to break it.

But Celaena whirled away. As Grave struck nothing but air, she slammed the butt of the staff into his spine. He staggered, but kept upright, turning on one foot as he charged after her again.

She took the blow this time, angling her staff so he hit the bottom half. His blade wedged in the wood, and she jumped toward him, letting the force of his own blow snap the upper part of the staff straight into his face. He stumbled, but her fist was waiting. As it met with his nose, she savored the rush of pain through her hand and the crunch of his bones beneath her knuckles. She leapt back before he had a chance to strike. Blood gleamed as it trickled from his nose. “Bitch!” he hissed, and swung.

She met his blade, holding the staff with both hands, pushing the wood shaft into his sword, even when it let out a splintering groan.

She shoved him, grunting, and spun. She whacked the back of his head with the top of the staff, and he teetered, but regained his footing. He wiped at his bloody nose, eyes gleaming as he panted. His pockmarked face became feral, and he charged, aiming a direct blow to her heart. Too fast, too wild for him to stop.

She dropped into a crouch. As the blade sailed overhead, she lashed out at his legs. He didn’t even have time to cry out as she swept his feet out from under him, nor did he have time to raise his weapon before she crouched over his chest, the iron-coated tip of the staff at his throat.