Throne of Glass

Dorian watched in wide-eyed terror as Celaena thrashed on the ground, waving away things they couldn’t see. What was happening? Had there been something in that wine? But there was also something abnormal about the way Cain just stood there, smiling. Was there … was there actually something there that they couldn’t see?

She screamed. It was the most horrible noise he’d ever heard. “Stop it, now,” he said to Chaol as his friend rose from his spot near the ring. But Chaol only gaped at the flailing assassin, his face pale as death.

She kicked and punched at nothing as Cain squatted over her and hit her in the mouth. Blood flowed freely. It wouldn’t stop until his father said something or Cain knocked her truly unconscious. Or worse. He had to remind himself that any interference—even trying to say that her wine had been drugged—might result in her disqualification.

She crawled away from Cain, her blood and saliva pooling onto the ground.

Someone stepped beside Dorian, and from her intake of breath, he knew it was Nehemia. She said something in Eyllwe, and walked to the very edge of the ring. Tucked close to the folds of her cloak, nearly concealed there, her fingers were rapidly moving—tracing symbols in the air.

Cain stalked to where Celaena panted, her face white and red. She eased herself into a kneeling position and stared without seeing at the ring, at everyone, at something beyond them, perhaps.

She was waiting for him. Waiting for him to—

Kill her.

Kneeling on the ground, Celaena gasped for breath, unable to find her way out of the hallucination and back into reality. Here, the dead surrounded her, waiting. The shadow-thing that was Cain stood nearby, watching, his burning eyes his only distinguishing feature. Darkness rippled around Cain like shreds of clothing in the wind.

She would die soon.

Light and darkness. Life and death. Where do I fit in?

The thought sent a jolt through her so strong that her hands fumbled for anything to use against him. Not like this. She’d find a way—she could find a way to survive. I will not be afraid. She’d whispered that every morning in Endovier; but what good were those words now?

A demon came at her, and a scream—not of terror or of despair, but rather a plea—burst from her throat. A call for help.

The demon flapped back, as if her scream had startled it. Cain motioned it forward again.

But then something extraordinary happened.

Doors, doors, doors all burst open. Doors of wood, doors of iron, doors of air and magic.

And from another world, Elena swept down, cloaked in golden light. The ancient queen’s hair glittered like a shooting star as she plummeted into Erilea.

Cain chuckled as he stepped toward the panting assassin and raised his sword, aiming at the assassin’s chest.

Elena exploded through the ranks of the dead, scattering them.

Cain’s sword came down.

A gust of wind slammed into Cain so hard he was sent sprawling to the ground, his sword flying across the veranda. But, locked in that dark, horrible world, Celaena only saw the ancient queen barrel into Cain, knocking him down, before the dead charged. Yet they were too late.

Golden light erupted around her, shielding her from them, making the dead step back.

Wind mightier than anything the onlookers had witnessed still roared through the veranda. They shielded their faces as the wind howled.

The demons bellowed and surged again. But a sword rang, and a demon fell. Black blood dripped from the blade, and the lips of Queen Elena were set in a feral snarl as she lifted her sword. It was a challenge; a dare to them to try to pass, to tempt her rage.

Through fading eyes, Celaena saw a crown of stars glittering atop Elena’s head, her silver armor shining like a beacon in the blackness. The demons shrieked, and Elena stretched out a hand, golden light bursting from her palm, forming a wall between them and the dead as she rushed to Celaena’s side and cupped her face in her hands.

“I cannot protect you,” whispered the queen, her skin glowing. Her face was different, too—sharper, more beautiful. Her Fae heritage. “I cannot give you my strength.” She traced her fingers across Celaena’s brow. “But I can remove this poison from your body.”

Beyond them, Cain struggled to his feet. Wind slammed into him from all directions, keeping him trapped in place.

From the far end of the veranda, a gust of wind sent the head of the staff rolling in her direction. It clattered to a stop, still a few tantalizing feet away.

Elena put a hand on Celaena’s forehead. “Take it,” said the queen. Celaena strained to reach the remnant of the staff, her vision flashing between the sunny veranda and the endless dark. Her shoulder shifted slightly, and she stifled her scream of pain. At last, she felt the smooth carved wood—but also the pain from her aching fingers.

“Once the poison is gone, you will not see me. You will not see the demons,” said the queen, sketching marks on Celaena’s brow.

Cain looked to the king as he retrieved his sword. The king nodded.

Elena held Celaena’s face in her hands. “Do not be afraid.” Beyond the golden wall of light, the dead shrieked and moaned Celaena’s name. But then Cain—bearing the shadowy, dark thing that dwelled inside of him—stepped through the wall as if it were nothing, shattering it completely.

“Petty tricks, Your Majesty,” Cain said to Elena. “Just petty tricks.”

Elena was on her feet in an instant, blocking Cain’s path to Celaena. Shadows rippled along the edges of his form, and his ember-like eyes flared. Cain’s attention was on Celaena as he said, “You were brought here—all of you were. All the players in the unfinished game. My friends,” he gestured to the dead, “have told me so.”

“Be gone,” Elena barked, forming a symbol with her fingers. A bright blue light burst from her hands.

Cain howled as it bit into him, the light slashing his shadow-body into ribbons. Then it was gone, leaving the swirling crowd of the dead and damned, and Elena still before them. They charged, but she blasted them back with that golden shield, panting through her gritted teeth. Elena then dropped to her knees and grabbed Celaena by the shoulders.

“The poison is almost gone,” Elena said. The world grew less dark; Celaena could see cracks of sunlight.

Celaena nodded, pain replacing panic. She could feel the coldness of winter, feel her aching leg and the warm stickiness of her own blood all over her body. Why was Elena here, and what was Nehemia doing at the edge of the circle, her hands moving about so strangely?

“Stand,” Elena said. She was becoming translucent. Her hands drifted from Celaena’s cheeks, and a white light filled the sky. The poison left Celaena’s body.

Cain, once again a man of flesh and blood, walked over to the sprawled assassin.

Pain, pain, pain. Pain from her leg, from her head, from her shoulder and arm and ribs …

“Stand,” Elena whispered again, and was gone. The world appeared.

Cain was close, not a trace of shadow around him. Celaena lifted the jagged remnant of the staff in her hand. Her gaze cleared.

And so, struggling and shaking, Celaena stood.