The Assassin and the Desert (Throne of Glass 0.3)(2)

A narrow mosaic of green and blue glass tiles wove through the floor toward the dais, echoing the little rivers on the lower level. Atop the dais, seated among cushions and potted palms, was a white-robed man.

The Mute Master. She had expected him to be ancient, but he seemed to be around fifty. She kept her chin held high as they approached him, following the tile path in the floor. She couldn’t tell if the Master’s skin had always been that tan or if it was from the sun. He smiled slightly—he’d probably been handsome in his youth. Sweat oozed down Celaena’s spine. Though the Master had no visible weapons, the two servants fanning him with palm leaves were armed to the teeth. Her escort stopped a safe distance from the Master and bowed.

Celaena did the same, and when she raised herself, she removed the hood from over her hair. She was sure it was a mess, and disgustingly greasy after two weeks in the desert with no water to bathe in, but she wasn’t here to impress him with her beauty.

The Mute Master looked her up and down, and then nodded. Her escort nudged her with an elbow, and Celaena cleared her dry throat as she stepped forward.

She knew the Mute Master wouldn’t say anything; his self-imposed silence was well-known. It was incumbent upon her to make the introduction. Arobynn had told her exactly what to say—ordered her was more like it. There would be no disguises, no masks, no fake names. Since she had shown such disregard for Arobynn’s best interests, he no longer had any inclination to protect hers. She’d debated for weeks how she might find a way to protect her identity—to keep these strangers from knowing who she was—but Arobynn’s orders had been simple: she had one month to win the Mute Master’s respect. And if she didn’t return home with his letter of approval—a letter about Celaena Sardothien—she’d better find a new city to live in. Possibly a new continent.

“Thank you for granting me an audience, Master of the Silent Assassins,” she said, silently cursing the stiffness of her words.

She put a hand over her heart and dropped to both knees. “I am Celaena Sardothien, protégée of Arobynn Hamel, King of the Northern Assassins.” Adding “Northern” seemed appropriate; she didn’t think the Mute Master would be much pleased to learn that Arobynn called himself King of all the Assassins. But whether or not it surprised him, his face revealed nothing, though she sensed some of the people in the shadows shifting on their feet.

“My master sent me here to beseech you to train me,” she said, chafing at the words. Train her! She lowered her head so the Master wouldn’t see the ire on her face. “I am yours.” She tilted her palms face up in a gesture of supplication.

Nothing.

Warmth worse than the heat of the desert singed her cheeks. She kept her head down, her arms still upheld. Cloth rustled, then near-silent steps echoed through the chamber. At last, two bare, brown feet stopped before her.

A dry finger tilted her chin up, and Celaena found herself staring into the sea-green eyes of the Master. She didn’t dare move. With one movement, the Master could snap her neck. This was a test—a test of trust, she realized.

She willed herself into stillness, focusing on the details of his face to avoid thinking about how vulnerable she was. Sweat beaded along the border of his dark hair, which was cropped close to his head. It was impossible to tell what kingdom he hailed from; his hazelnut skin suggested Eyllwe. But his elegant, almond-shaped eyes suggested one of the countries in the distant southern continent. Regardless, how had he wound up here?

She braced herself as his long fingers pushed back the loose strands of her braided hair, revealing the yellowing bruises still lingering around her eyes and cheeks, and the narrow arc of the scab along her cheekbone. Had Arobynn sent word that she would be coming? Had he told him the circumstances under which she’d been packed off? The Master didn’t seem at all surprised by her arrival.

But the Master’s eyes narrowed, his lips forming a tight line as he looked at the remnants of the bruises on the other side of her face. She was lucky that Arobynn was skilled enough to keep his blows from permanently marring her face. A twinge of guilt went through her as she wondered if Sam had healed as well. In the three days following her beating, she hadn’t seen him around the Keep. She’d blacked out before Arobynn could deal with her companion. And since that night, even during her trip out here, everything had been a haze of rage and sorrow and bone-deep weariness, as if she were dreaming while awake.

She calmed her thundering heart just as the Master released her face and stepped back. He motioned with a hand for her to rise, which she did, to the relief of her aching knees.

The Master gave her a crooked smile. She would have echoed the expression—but an instant later he snapped his fingers, triggering four men to charge at her.

Chapter Two

They didn’t have weapons, but their intent was clear enough. The first man, clad in the loose, layered clothing that everyone here wore, reached her and she dodged the sweeping blow aimed at her face. His arm shot past her, and she grabbed it by the wrist and bicep, locking and twisting his arm so he grunted with pain. She whirled him around, careening him into the second attacker hard enough that the two men went tumbling to the ground.

Celaena leapt back, landing where her escort had been standing only seconds before, careful to avoid crashing into the Master. This was another test—a test to see at what level she might begin her training. And if she was worthy.