Celaena took a too-short breath, and then made the request that she’d been contemplating for some time now. “Could you—could you teach me how to read them?”

“Oho!” cackled Mort from the hall. “Are you sure you’re not too dim to understand?”

Celaena ignored him. She hadn’t told Nehemia about Elena’s latest demand to uncover the king’s source of power, because she knew what Nehemia’s response would be: listen to the dead queen. But the Wyrdmarks seemed so connected to everything, somehow—even to that eye riddle and this stupid trick wall. And perhaps if she learned how to use them, then she could unlock the iron door in the library and find some answers beyond it. “Maybe … maybe just the basics?”

Nehemia smiled. “The basics are the hardest part.”

Usefulness aside, it was a forgotten secret language, a system for accessing a strange power. Who wouldn’t want to learn about it? “Morning lessons instead of our walk, then?”

Nehemia beamed, and Celaena felt a twinge of guilt for not telling her about the catacombs as the princess said, “Of course.”

When they left, Nehemia spent a few minutes studying Mort—mostly asking him questions about his creation spell, which he claimed to have forgotten, then claimed was too private, then claimed she had no business hearing.

After Nehemia’s near-infinite patience wore thin, they cursed Mort soundly and stormed back upstairs, where Fleetfoot was anxiously waiting in the bedroom. The dog refused to set foot in the secret passage—probably because of some foul stench left over from Cain and his creature. Even Nehemia hadn’t been able to coax her downstairs with them.

Once the door was closed and hidden, Celaena leaned against her desk. The eye in the tomb hadn’t been the solution to the riddle. Now she wondered if Nehemia might have a better sense of what it was about.

“I found a book on Wyrdmarks in Davis’s office,” she told Nehemia. “I can’t tell if it’s a riddle or a proverb, but someone wrote this on the inside back cover: It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.”

Nehemia frowned. “Sounds like an idle lord’s nonsense to me.”

“But do you think it’s just coincidence that he was a part of this movement against the king and had a book on Wyrdmarks? What if this is some sort of riddle about them?”

Nehemia snorted. “What if Davis wasn’t even in this group? Perhaps Archer had his information wrong. I bet that book had been there for years—and I bet Davis didn’t even know it existed. Or maybe he saw it in a bookshop and bought it to look daring.”

But maybe he didn’t—and maybe Archer was on to something. She would question him when she saw him next. Celaena fiddled with the chain of her amulet—then went rod-straight. The Eye. “Do you think it could be this Eye?”

“No,” Nehemia said. “It wouldn’t be that easy.”

“But—” Celaena pushed off the desk.

“Trust me,” Nehemia said. “It’s a coincidence—just like that eye in the wall. ‘The eye’ could refer to anything—anything at all. Having eyes plastered all over things used to be quite popular centuries ago as a ward against evil. You’ll drive yourself mad, Elentiya. I can do some research on the subject, but it might take a while before I find anything.”

Celaena’s face warmed. Fine; maybe she was wrong. She didn’t want to believe Nehemia, didn’t want to think that the riddle could be that impossible to solve, but … the princess knew far more about ancient lore than she did. So Celaena sat down at her breakfast table again. Her porridge had gone cold, but she ate it anyway. “Thank you,” she said in between mouthfuls as Nehemia sat down again, too. “For not exploding on me.”

Nehemia laughed. “Elentiya, I’m honestly surprised you told me.”

An opening and closing door, then footsteps, then Philippa knocked and bustled in, carrying a letter for Celaena. “Good morning, beautiful ladies,” she clucked, making Nehemia grin. “A letter for our most esteemed Champion.”

Celaena beamed at Philippa and took it, and her smile grew as she read the contents once the servant left. “It’s from Archer,” she told Nehemia. “He’s given me some names of people who might be involved in this movement—people associated with Davis.” She was a little shocked he’d risk putting it all in a letter. Perhaps she needed to teach him a thing or two about code-writing.

Nehemia had stopped smiling, though. “What sort of man just hands out this information like it’s nothing more than morning gossip?”

“A man who wants his freedom and has had enough of serving pigs.” Celaena folded the letter and stood. If the men on this list were anything like Davis, then perhaps handing them over to the king and using them as leverage wouldn’t be so horrible after all. “I should get dressed; I need to go into the city.” She was halfway to her dressing room when she turned. “We’ll have our first lesson over breakfast tomorrow?”

Nehemia nodded, digging into her food again.

It took her all day to hunt down the men—to learn where they lived, whom they spoke to, how well-guarded they were. None of it yielded anything useful.

She was tired and cranky and hungry when she trudged back to the castle at sundown, and her mood only took a turn for the worse when she arrived at her rooms and found a note from Chaol. The king had commanded her to be on guard duty yet again for the royal ball that night.

Chapter 17

Chaol knew Celaena was in a foul mood without even having to speak to her. Actually, he hadn’t dared speak to her since before the ball had started, other than to position her outside on the patio, hidden in the shadows of a pillar. A few hours in the winter night would cool her down.

From his spot inside, tucked into an alcove near a servants’ entrance, he could keep an eye on the glittering ball in front of him, as well as the assassin standing watch just outside the towering balcony doors. Not that he didn’t trust her—but having Celaena in one of these moods always set him on edge, too.

She was currently leaning against the pillar, arms crossed—not hiding in the shadows as he’d told her to. He could see the tendrils of her breath curling in the night air, and the moonlight glinting off the hilt of one of the daggers she wore at her side.

The ballroom had been decorated in hues of white and glacier blue, with swaths of silk floating from the ceiling and ornate glass baubles hanging between. It was something out of a winter dream, and it was in honor of Hollin, of all people. A few hours of entertainment and a small fortune spent for a boy who was currently sulking on his little glass throne, shoveling sweets down his throat as his mother smiled at him.

He’d never tell Dorian, but Chaol dreaded the day when Hollin would grow into a man. A spoiled child was easy enough to deal with, but a spoiled, cruel leader would be another matter entirely. He hoped that between him and Dorian, they could check whatever corruption was already rotting away in Hollin’s heart—once Dorian ascended to the throne.

The heir was on the dance floor, fulfilling his obligation to court and crown by dancing with whatever ladies demanded his attention. Which, not surprisingly, was almost all of them. Dorian played his role well and smiled throughout the waltzes, a graceful and competent partner, never once complaining or turning any lady away. The dance finished, Dorian bowed to his partner, and before he could take one step, another courtier was curtsying in front of him. If Chaol had been in Dorian’s shoes, he would have winced, but the prince just grinned, took the lady’s hand, and swept her around the floor.