Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2)

Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) Page 21

Dorian stared at Roland, whose rapier looked like it had hardly ever been used. The guard took one look at Dorian’s face, bowed, and found someplace else to be. Dorian watched his cousin, the black ring on Roland’s finger. “I don’t think you want to dance with me today, cousin.”

“Ah,” Roland said, frowning. “About yesterday … I’m sorry for that. Had I known the labor camps were such a sensitive matter for you, I never would have broached the subject or worked with Councilor Mullison. I called off the vote after you left. Mullison was furious.”

Dorian raised his brows. “Oh?”

Roland shrugged. “You were right. I don’t know anything about what it’s like in those camps. I only took up the cause because Perrington suggested that I work with Mullison, who stood to gain a lot from the expansion because of his ties to the iron industry.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

Roland gave him a winning smile. “We are family, after all.”

Family. Dorian had never really considered himself to be in an actual family. And certainly not now. If anyone found out about what had happened in that hallway yesterday, about the magic he might have, his father would kill him. He had a second son, after all. Families weren’t exactly supposed to think like that, were they?

Dorian had gone looking for Nehemia last night out of desperation, but in the light of morning, he was grateful he hadn’t seen her. If the princess had that sort of information about him, she could use it to her advantage—blackmail him all she wanted.

And Roland … Dorian began walking away. “Why don’t you save your maneuvering for someone who cares?”

Roland kept pace beside him. “Ah, but who else is more worthy than my own cousin? What greater challenge than winning you over to my schemes?” Dorian shot him a warning glare and found the young man grinning. “If only you’d seen the chaos that erupted after you left,” Roland went on. “As long as I live, I’ll never forget the look on your father’s face when you growled at them all.” Roland laughed, and, despite himself, Dorian found a smile tugging on his lips. “I thought the old bastard would combust right there.”

Dorian shook his head. “He’s hanged men for calling him such names, you know.”

“Yes, but when you’re as handsome as I am, dear cousin, you’d be surprised by how much more you can get away with.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but considered his cousin for a few moments. Roland might be close with Perrington and his father, but … perhaps he’d just been pulled into Perrington’s schemes and needed someone to steer him right. And if his father and the other councilmen thought that they could use Roland to win support for their dark dealings, well, then it was time for Dorian to play the game, too. He could turn his father’s pawn against him. Between the two of them, surely they could sway enough of the council to oppose more unsavory proposals.

“You really called off the vote?”

Roland waved a hand. “I think you’re right that we’re pushing our luck with the other kingdoms. If we want to keep control, we need to find a balance. Shoving them into slavery won’t help; it might just turn more people toward rebellion.”

Dorian nodded slowly, and paused. “I have somewhere to be,” he lied, sheathing his sword, “but perhaps I’ll see you in the hall for dinner.”

Roland gave him an easy smile. “I’ll try to muster up a few lovely ladies to keep us company.”

Dorian waited until Roland was around the corner before heading outside, where the chaos of the courtyard sucked him up. The carnival his mother had commissioned for Hollin—her belated Yulemas present to him—had finally arrived.

It was not a massive carnival; only a few black tents, a dozen cage wagons, and five covered wagons had been set up in the open courtyard. The whole thing felt rather somber, despite the fiddler sawing away and the merry shouts of the workers scrambling to finish setting up the tents in time to surprise Hollin that evening.

People hardly looked Dorian’s way as he meandered through the throng. Then again, he was dressed in sweaty, old clothes and had his cloak wrapped tightly around him. Only the guards—highly trained and aware of everything—noticed him, but they understood his need for anonymity without being told.

A stunningly beautiful woman walked out of one of the tents—blond, slender, tall, and dressed in fine riding clothes. A mountain-sized man also emerged, carrying long poles of iron that Dorian doubted most men could even lift.

Dorian passed by one of the large covered wagons, pausing at the words written in white paint on its side:

THE CARNIVAL OF MIRRORS!

SEE ILLUSIONS AND REALITY COLLIDE!

He frowned. Had his mother even put a moment’s consideration into the gift, into how it might appear, the message it would send? Carnivals, with their illusions and tricks, always pushed the limit of outright treason. Dorian snorted. Perhaps he belonged in one of these cages.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Dorian whirled to find Chaol smiling at him. “I thought I’d find you here.” He wasn’t surprised in the least that Chaol had recognized him.

Dorian was about to smile back when he noticed who was with the captain. Celaena was standing at one of the covered cages, listening through the black velvet curtains to whatever was inside. “What are you two doing here so early? The unveiling’s not until nightfall.” Nearby, the gargantuan man began hammering foot-long spikes into the frozen earth.

“She wanted a walk, and—” Chaol suddenly gave a violent curse. Dorian didn’t particularly want to, but he followed after Chaol as he stalked to Celaena and yanked her arm away from the black curtain. “You’ll lose your hand like that,” the captain warned her, and she glared at him.

Then she gave Dorian a close-lipped smile that felt more like a wince. He hadn’t lied to her last night about wanting to see Nehemia. But he’d also found himself wanting to see her—until she appeared with that ridiculous half-eaten cake, which she clearly had plans to devour in private.

He couldn’t begin to imagine how she’d look at him if she found out he might—might, he kept telling himself—have some trace of magic within him.

Nearby, the beautiful blond woman perched on a stool and began playing the lute. He knew that the men—and guards—starting to flock to her weren’t just there for the lovely music.

Chaol shifted on his feet, and Dorian realized that they’d been standing there silently, not saying anything. Celaena crossed her arms. “Did you find Nehemia last night?”

He had a feeling she already knew the answer, but he said, “No. I went back to my room after I saw you.”

Chaol looked at Celaena, who merely shrugged. What did that mean?

“So,” Celaena said, surveying the carnival, “do we really have to wait for your brother before we can see what’s inside all these cages? Looks like the performers are already starting.”

And they were. All sorts of jugglers and sword-swallowers and fire-breathers milled about, while tumblers balanced on impossible things: chair backs, poles, a bed of nails.

“I think this is just practice,” Dorian said, and he hoped he was right, because if Hollin learned that anyone had started without his approval … Dorian would make sure he was far away from the castle when that tantrum occurred.

“Hmm,” Celaena said, and walked deeper into the teeming carnival.

Chaol was watching the prince warily. There were questions in Chaol’s eyes—questions that Dorian had no intention of answering—so he strode after Celaena, because leaving the carnival would feel too much like drawing a line. They made their way to the last and largest wagon in the rough semicircle of tents and cages.

“Welcome! Welcome!” shouted an old woman, bent and gnarled with age, from a podium at the foot of its stairs. A crown of stars adorned her silver hair, and though her tanned face was saggy and speckled, there was a spark in her brown eyes.

“Look into my mirrors and see the future! Let me examine your palm so I might tell you myself!” The old woman pointed with a knotted cane at Celaena. “Care to have your fortune told, girl?” Dorian blinked—then blinked again at the sight of the woman’s teeth. They were razor-sharp, like a fish’s, and made of metal. Of—of iron.

Celaena pulled her green cloak tightly around her, but remained staring at the crone.

Dorian had heard the legends of the fallen Witch Kingdom, where bloodthirsty witches had overthrown the peaceful Crochan Dynasty and then ripped apart the kingdom stone by stone. Five hundred years later, songs were still sung of the deadly wars that had left the Iron-teeth Clans the only ones standing on a killing field, dead Crochan queens all around them. But the last Crochan queen had cast a spell to ensure that as long as Ironteeth banners flew, no bit of soil would yield life to them.

“Come into my wagon, dear heart,” the old woman crooned at Celaena, “and let old Baba Yellowlegs take a look into your future.” Sure enough, peeking out from beneath her brown robe were saffron-colored ankles.

Celaena’s face had drained of color, and Chaol went to her side and took her elbow. Despite the way the protective gesture made Dorian’s gut twist, he was glad Chaol had done it. But this was all just a sham—that woman had probably put on a fake set of iron teeth and sheer yellow stockings, and called herself Baba Yellowlegs to make carnival patrons hand over good coin.

“You’re a witch,” Celaena said, her voice strangled. She didn’t think it was a sham, apparently. No, her face was still white as death. Gods—was she actually scared?

Baba Yellowlegs laughed, a crow’s cackle, and bowed. “The lastborn witch in the Witch Kingdom.” To Dorian’s shock, Celaena took a step back, closer to Chaol now, a hand going to the necklace she always wore. “Care to have your fortune read now?”

“No,” Celaena said, almost leaning into Chaol.

“Then get out of my way and let me go about my business! I’ve never seen such a cheap crowd!” Baba Yellowlegs snarled, and lifted her head to look over them. “Fortunes! Fortunes!”

Chaol took a step toward her, a hand on his sword. “Don’t be so rude to your customers.”

The crone smiled, her teeth glinting in the afternoon light as she sniffed at him. “And what would a man who smells of the Silver Lake do to an innocent old witch like me?”

A chill went down Dorian’s spine, and it was Celaena’s turn to grab on to Chaol’s arm as she tried to pull him away. But Chaol refused to move. “I don’t know what sort of sham you’re running, old woman, but you’d best mind your tongue before you lose it.”

Baba Yellowlegs licked her razor-sharp teeth. “Come and get it,” she purred.

Challenge flashed in Chaol’s eyes, but Celaena was still so pale that Dorian took her by the arm, leading her away. “Let’s go,” he said, and the old woman shifted her eyes to him. If she could indeed tell things about them, then the last place he wanted to be was here. “Chaol, let’s go.”

The witch was grinning at him as she used a long, metallic nail to pick out something from her teeth. “Hide from fate all you like,” Baba Yellowlegs said as they turned away. “But it shall soon find you!”

“You’re shaking.”

“No, I’m not,” Celaena hissed, batting Chaol’s hand from her arm. It was bad enough that Dorian was there, but for Chaol to witness her coming face-to-face with Baba Yellowlegs …

She knew the stories—legends that had given her brutal nightmares as a child, a firsthand account that a former friend had once told her. Given how that friend had foully betrayed and nearly killed her, Celaena had hoped that the horrific stories about the Ironteeth witches were just more lies. But seeing that woman …