Rising Flames | Throne of Glass

17

'Your Majesty, I have a new preposition for you.'

Knelt in the glass chamber, Chaol nervously waited for the King's reply, gritting his teeth and pushing down on his apprehension.

The King stilled his tapping fingers on the arm of his glass throne. 'Yes?'

'In regard to recent events, I suggest we leave Celaena Sardothien.'

The King sat upright, and Chaol tried to master his thundering heart. The King stared at Chaol for a long moment, before grunting, 'Rise, and continue.'

'Nesryn Faliq is a city guard, born in Balruhn, currently residing in Rifthold. Her archery skills are said to be outstanding.'

'Nesryn Faliq,' the King mused. After a moment, he sneered, 'Firing arrows won't win the competition; however,' he seemed to consider Chaol's words, 'I shall decide later. I want you to arrange a meeting with this Nesryn Faliq. I would like to see if her skill can back up your claim.'

Chaol bowed low. 'Thank you, Your Majesty.'

~

'You lost the assassin.'

'I can't cancel the competition now. It's too late for that.'

'Bastard. We needed Sardothien.'

'What are we going to do now?'

'Now? We still need a king's blade. Let Cain play with the champions. We'll use him instead. And the only thing we can do now is to wait for Sardothien to show her face somewhere. My best guess is that she had gone to Wendlyn.'

'Maeve.'

'Precisely. So I wouldn't bother wasting time trying to retrieve the assassin.'

'Mm.'

'You know, I've been hearing many rumours of growing rebel organisations. Perhaps we should start putting them down.'

~

Chaol Westfall had always been on friendly terms with Nesryn. He only hoped she wouldn't bite his head off for what he was about to ask of her right now.

He lifted a fist and rapped once, twice on her door. The smell of fresh bakery products wafted by as a slender, olive-skinned woman opened the door. Her face was framed with black shoulder-length hair - and her midnight eyes stared at him with a hint of hostility. 'What do you want?' she snapped.

'To see you, of course,' he said with a cheerful smile. 'Why else?'

She sighed through her nose. 'Come in.'

In the sitting room, Nesryn took a seat on one of the comfy-looking, worn couches while Chaol paced up and down the length of the room. 'So,' she said. 'What do you really mean to talk about?'

He didn't beat around the bush. 'You may have heard that the King is hosting a competition to name a Champion - in other words, his blade. There will be others, likely men, competing for the title. If you win, you will serve His Majesty for six years - and then gain your freedom.'

'Freedom?' Nesryn scoffed. She waved a hand at her home. 'What do you call this?'

'Nesryn,' he said, 'please listen.'

She studied him with keen eyes before finally jerking her head - a sign for him to continue.

'Every competitor will have a sponsor. The Crown Prince, Dorian Havilliard, is looking for a Champion.'

'So you're saying-'

'Celaena Sardothien was to be Dorian's Champion.'

'But she was rescued - and no one knows where she is now,' Nesryn said. 'Surely someone has seen her by now? Someone so infamous?'