Darkness and water. In the moments it took for her to adjust to the dim streetlight leaking in through the grate high, high above, water gushed against her legs. It was up to her lap in an instant.
She cursed violently and wriggled hard against the ropes. But as the ropes cut into her arms, she remembered: the built-in blades. It was a testament to the inventor’s skill that Philip hadn’t found them, even though he must have searched her. Yet the bindings were almost too tight for her to release them …
She twisted her wrists, fighting for any shred of space to flick her hand. The water pooled around her waist. They must have built the sewer dam at the other end of the city; it would take a few minutes before it completely flooded this part.
The rope wouldn’t budge, but she flicked her wrist, doing as the master tinkerer had told her, again and again. Then, at last, the whine and splash of the blade as it shot out. Pain danced down the side of her hand, and she swore. She’d cut herself on the damn thing. Thankfully, it didn’t feel deep.
Immediately she started on the ropes, her arms aching while she twisted them as far as she could to angle against the bindings. They should have used iron shackles.
There was a sudden release of tension around her middle, and she almost fell face-first into the swirling black water as the rope gave. Two heartbeats later, the rest of the ropes were off, though she cringed as she plunged her hands into the filthy water to cut her feet from the chair legs.
When she stood, the water was at her thighs. And cold. Icy, icy cold. She felt things sliding against her as she splashed for the landing, struggling to keep upright in the fierce current. Rats were being swept past by the dozen, their squeals of terror barely audible over the roar of the water. By the time she reached the stone steps, the water was already pooling there, too. She tried the iron handle. It was locked. She tried to plunge one of her blades in alongside the threshold, but it bounced back. The door was sealed so tightly that nothing was getting through.
She was trapped.
Celaena looked down the length of the sewer. Rain was still pouring in from above, but the streetlights were bright enough that she could see the curved walls. There had to be some ladder to the street—there had to be.
She couldn’t see any—not near her. And the grates were so high up that she’d have to wait until the sewer filled entirely before trying her luck. But the current was so strong that she’d probably be swept away.
“Think,” she whispered. “Think, think.”
Water rose higher on the landing, lapping now at her ankles.
She kept her breathing calm. Panicking would accomplish nothing. “Think.” She scanned the sewer.
There might be a ladder, but it would be farther down. That meant braving the water—and the dark.
On her left, the water rose endlessly, rushing in from the other half of the city. She looked to her right. Even if there wasn’t a grate, she might make it to the Avery.
It was a very, very big “might.”
But it was better than waiting here to die.
Celaena sheathed her blades and plunged into the smelly, oily water. Her throat closed up, but she willed herself to keep from vomiting. She was not swimming through the entire capital’s refuse. She was not swimming through rat-infested waters. She was not going to die.
The current was faster than she expected, and she pulled against it. Grates passed overhead, ever nearer, but still too distant. And then there, on the right! Midway up the wall, several feet above the water line, was a small tunnel opening. It was made for a solitary worker. Rainwater leaked out over the lip of the tunnel—somewhere, it had to lead to the street.
She swam hard for the wall, fighting to keep the current from sweeping her past the tunnel. She hit the wall and clung to it, easing down the side. The tunnel was high up enough that she had to reach, her fingers aching as they dug into the stone. But she had a grip, and even though pain lanced through her nails, she hauled herself into the narrow passage.
It was so small inside that she had to lie flat on her belly. And it was full of mud and the gods knew what else, but there—far ahead—was a shaft of lamplight. An upward tunnel that led to the street. Behind her, the sewer continued flooding, the roaring waters near deafening. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be trapped.
With the ceiling so low, she had to keep her head down, her face nearly in the putrid mud as she stretched out her arms and pulled. Inch by inch, she dragged herself through the tunnel, staring at the light ahead.
Then the water reached the level of the tunnel. Within moments, it swept past her feet, past her legs, then her abdomen, and then her face. She crawled faster, not needing light to tell how bloody her hands were. Each bit of grit inside the cuts was like fire. Go, she thought to herself with each thrust and pull of her arms, each kick of her feet. Go, go, go. The word was the only thing that kept her from screaming. Because once she started screaming … that was when she’d concede to death.
The water in the passage was a few inches deep by the time she hit the upward tunnel, and she nearly sobbed at the sight of the ladder. It was probably fifteen feet to the surface. Through the circular holes in the large grate she spied a hovering streetlamp. She forgot the pain in her hands as she climbed the rusted ladder, willing it not to break. Water filled the tunnel bottom, swirling with debris.
She was quickly at the top, and even allowed herself a little smile as she pushed against the round grate.
But it didn’t budge.
She balanced her feet on the rickety ladder and pushed with both hands. It still didn’t move. She angled her body on the upper rung so that her back and shoulders braced against the grate and threw herself into it. Nothing. Not a groan, not a hint of metal giving way. It had to be rusted shut. She pounded against it until she felt something crack in her hand. Her vision flashed with pain, black-and-white sparks dancing, and she made sure the bone wasn’t broken before pounding again. Nothing. Nothing.
The water was close now, its muddy froth so near that she could reach down and touch it.
She threw herself into the grate one last time. It didn’t move.
If people were off the streets until the mandatory flooding was over … Rainwater poured into her mouth, her eyes, her nose. She banged against the metal, praying for anyone to hear her over the roar of the rain, for anyone to see the muddy, bloodied fingers straining upward from an ordinary city grate. The water hit her boots. She shoved her fingers through the grate holes and began screaming.
She screamed until her lungs burned, screamed for help, for anyone to hear. And then—
“Celaena?”
It was a shout, and it was close, and Celaena sobbed when she heard Sam’s voice, nearly muffled by the rain and roaring waters beneath her. He said he’d come by after helping with Lysandra’s party—he must have been on his way to or from Doneval’s house. She wriggled her fingers through the grate hole, pounding with her other hand against the grate. “HERE! In the sewer!”
She could feel the rumble of steps, and then … “Holy gods.” Sam’s face swam into view through the grate. “I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes,” he said. “Hold on.” His callused fingers latched onto the holes. She saw them go white with strain, saw his face turn red, then … He swore.
The water had reached her calves. “Get me the hell out of here.”
“Shove with me,” he breathed, and as he pulled, she pushed. The grate wouldn’t move. They tried again, and again. The water hit her knees. By whatever luck, the grate was far enough away from Doneval’s house that the guards couldn’t hear them.
“Get as high as you can,” he barked. She already was, but she didn’t say anything. She caught the flash of a knife and heard the scrape of a blade against the grate. He was trying to loosen the metal by using the blade as a lever. “Push on the other side.”
She pushed. Dark water lapped at her thighs.
The knife snapped in two.
Sam swore violently and began yanking on the grate cover again. “Come on,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Come on.”
The water was around her waist now, and over her chest a moment after that. Rain continued streaming in through the grate, blinding her senses. “Sam,” she said.
“I’m trying!”
“Sam,” she repeated.
“No,” he spat, hearing her tone. “No!”
He began screaming for help then. Celaena pressed her face to one of the holes in the grate. Help wasn’t going to come—not fast enough.
She’d never given much thought to how she’d die, but drowning somehow felt fitting. It was a river in her native country of Terrasen that had almost claimed her life nine years ago—and now it seemed that whatever bargain she’d struck with the gods that night was finally over. The water would have her, one way or another, no matter how long it took.
“Please,” Sam begged as he beat and yanked on the grate, then tried to wedge another dagger under the lid. “Please don’t.”
She knew he wasn’t speaking to her.
The water hit her neck.
“Please,” Sam moaned, his fingers now touching hers. She’d have one last breath. Her last words.
“Take my body home to Terrasen, Sam,” she whispered. And with a gasping breath, she went under.
CHAPTER
8
“Breathe!” someone was roaring as they pounded on her chest. “Breathe!”
And just like that, her body seized, and water rushed out of her. She vomited onto the cobblestones, coughing so hard she convulsed.
“Oh, gods,” Sam moaned. Through her streaming eyes, she found him kneeling beside her, his head hung between his shoulders as he braced his palms on his knees. Behind him, two women were exchanging relieved, yet confused, expressions. One of them held a crowbar. Beside her lay the grate cover, and around them spilled water from the sewer.
She vomited again.
She took three baths in a row and ate food only with the intention of vomiting it up to clear out any trace of the vile liquid inside her. She plunged her torn, aching hands into a vat of hard liquor, biting down her scream but savoring the disinfectant burning through whatever had been in that water. Once that proved calming to her repulsion, she ordered her bathtub filled with the same liquor and submerged herself in it, too.
She’d never feel clean again. Even after her fourth bath—which had been immediately after her liquor bath—she felt like grime coated every part of her. Arobynn had cooed and fussed, but she’d ordered him out. She ordered everyone out. She’d take another two baths in the morning, she promised herself as she climbed into bed.
There was a knock on her door, and she almost barked at the person to go away, but Sam’s head popped in. The clock read past twelve, but his eyes were still alert. “You’re awake,” he said, slipping inside without so much as a nod of permission from her. Not that he needed it. He’d saved her life. She was in his eternal debt.
On the way home, he’d told her that after Lysandra’s Bidding rehearsal, he’d gone to Doneval’s house to see if she needed any help. But when he got there, the house was quiet—except for the guards who kept sniggering about something that had happened. He’d been searching the surrounding streets for any sign of her when he heard her screaming.
She looked at him from where she lay in bed. “What do you want?” Not the most gracious words to someone who had saved her life. But, hell, she was supposed to be better than him. How could she say she was the best when she’d needed Sam to rescue her? The thought made her want to hit him.
He just smiled slightly. “I wanted to see if you were finally done with all the washing. There’s no hot water left.”
She frowned. “Don’t expect me to apologize for that.”
“Do I ever expect you to apologize for anything?”
In the candlelight, the lovely panes of his face seemed velvet-smooth and inviting. “You could have let me die,” she mused. “I’m surprised you weren’t dancing with glee over the grate.”
He let out a low laugh that traveled along her limbs, warming her. “No one deserves that sort of death, Celaena. Not even you. And besides, I thought we were beyond that.”
She swallowed hard, but was unable to break his gaze. “Thank you for saving me.”
His brows rose. She’d said it once on their way back, but it had been a quick, breathless string of words. This time, it was different. Though her fingers ached—especially her broken nails—she reached for his hand. “And … And I’m sorry.” She made herself look at him, even as his features crossed into incredulity. “I’m sorry for involving you in what happened in Skull’s Bay. And for what Arobynn did to you because of it.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he somehow understood some great puzzle. He examined their linked hands, and she quickly let go.
The silence was suddenly too charged, his face too beautiful in the light. She lifted her chin and found him looking at the scar along her neck. The narrow ridge would fade—someday. “Her name was Ansel,” she said, her throat tightening. “She was my friend.” Sam slowly sat on the bed. And then the whole story came out.
Sam only asked questions when he needed clarification. The clock chimed one by the time she finished telling him about the final arrow she’d fired at Ansel, and how, even with her heart breaking, she’d given her friend an extra minute before releasing what would have been a killing shot. When she stopped speaking, Sam’s eyes were bright with sorrow and wonder.
“So, that was my summer,” she said with a shrug. “A grand adventure for Celaena Sardothien, isn’t it?”
But he merely reached out and ran his fingers down the scar on her neck, as if he could somehow erase the wound. “I’m sorry,” he said. And she knew he meant it.
“So am I,” she murmured. She shifted, suddenly aware of how little her nightgown concealed. As if he’d noticed, too, his hand dropped from her neck and he cleared his throat. “Well,” she said, “I suppose our mission just got a little more complicated.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
She shook off the blush his touch had brought to her face and gave him a slow, wicked smile. Philip had no idea who he’d tried to dispatch, or of the world of pain that was headed his way. You didn’t try to drown Adarlan’s Assassin in a sewer and get away with it. Not in a thousand lifetimes. “Because,” she said, “my list of people to kill is now one person longer.”
CHAPTER
9
She slept until noon, took the two baths she’d promised herself, and then went to Arobynn’s study. He was nursing a cup of tea as she opened the door.
“I’m surprised to see you out of the bathtub,” he said.
Telling Sam the story about her month in the Red Desert had reminded her of why she’d wanted so badly to come home this summer, and of what she had accomplished. She had no reason now to tiptoe around Arobynn—not after what he’d done, and what she’d been through. So Celaena merely smiled at the King of the Assassins as she held open the door for the servants outside. They carried in a heavy trunk. Then another. And another.
“Do I dare ask?” Arobynn massaged his temples.
The servants hurried out, and Celaena shut the door behind them. Without a word, she opened the lids of the trunks. Gold shone in the noontime sun.
She turned to Arobynn, clinging to the memory of what it had felt like to sit on the roof after the party. His face was unreadable.
“I think this covers my debt,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “And then some.”
Arobynn remained seated.
She swallowed, suddenly feeling sick. Why had she thought this was a good idea?
“I want to keep working with you,” she said carefully. He’d looked at her like this before—on the night he’d beaten her. “But you don’t own me anymore.”
His silver eyes flicked to the trunks, then to her. In a moment of silence that lasted forever, she stood still as he took her in. Then he smiled, a bit ruefully. “Can you blame me for hoping that this day would never come?”
She almost sagged with relief. “I mean it: I want to keep working with you.”
She knew in that moment that she couldn’t tell him about the apartment and that she was moving out—not right now. Small steps. Today, the debt. Perhaps in a few weeks, she could mention that she was leaving. Perhaps he wouldn’t even care that she was getting her own home.
“And I’ll always be happy to work with you” he said, but remained seated. He took a sip from his tea. “Do I want to know where that money came from?”
She became aware of the scar on her neck as she said, “The Mute Master. Payment for saving his life.”
Arobynn picked up the morning paper. “Well, allow me to extend my congratulations.” He looked at her over the top of the paper. “You’re now a free woman.”
She tried not to smile. Perhaps she wasn’t free in the entire sense of the word, but at least he wouldn’t be able to wield the debt against her anymore. That would suffice for now.
“Good luck with Doneval tomorrow night,” he added. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“As long as you don’t charge me for it.”
He didn’t return her smile, and set down the paper. “I would never do that to you.” Something like hurt flickered in his eyes.
Fighting her sudden desire to apologize, she left his study without another word.
The walk back to her bedroom was long. She’d expected to crow with glee when she gave him the money, expected to strut around the Keep. But seeing the way he’d looked at her made all that gold feel … cheap.
A glorious start to her new future.