“I’m drained; I don’t have anything left to close this gate …” Celaena winced, then lifted her eyes to Dorian’s. “But you do.”

From the corner of her eye, Celaena saw Chaol whirl to face Dorian. She staggered to her feet. Fleetfoot had again put herself between Celaena and the portal, snarling softly. “Help me,” she whispered to the prince, some semblance of energy returning.

Dorian didn’t look at Chaol. He stepped forward. “What must I do?”

“I need your blood. The rest I can do. At least, I hope I can.” Chaol started to object, and Celaena gave him a faint, bitter smile. “Don’t worry. Only a cut on the arm.”

Sheathing his sword, Dorian rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and drew a dagger. Blood welled from the cut, quick and bright.

Chaol growled, “How did you learn to open a portal?”

“I found a book,” she said. It was the truth. “I wanted to speak to Nehemia.”

Silence fell—pitying, horrifying silence.

But then she added, “I—I think I accidentally changed a symbol.” She pointed to the Wyrdmark she’d smeared, the one that had rearranged itself. “It went to the wrong place. But this might close the door—if we’re lucky.”

What she didn’t tell them was that there was a good chance it wouldn’t work. But because there were no other books in her rooms, and because Archer had taken The Walking Dead with him, all she had left was that sealing spell she’d used on the door in the library. And there was no way—no way in hell—she was going to abandon this open portal, or leave one of them to guard it. The portal would eventually close on its own, but she didn’t know when. More of those things could creep through at any time. So she’d try this, because it was her only option. She’d figure out something else if it didn’t work.

It will work, she told herself.

Dorian put a warm, reassuring hand on her back as she dipped her fingers into his blood. She hadn’t realized how freezing her hands were until the heat of his blood warmed her fingertips. One by one, she drew the sealing marks over the green-glowing symbols. Dorian never let go of her—only stepped even closer when she swayed. Chaol said nothing.

Her knees buckled, but she finished covering the symbols with Dorian’s blood. A lingering roar echoed through the damned world as the final symbol flared, the mists and rock and ravine fading into black, then into familiar stone.

Celaena kept her breathing steady, throwing all her focus into that. If she could keep breathing, she wouldn’t fall apart.

Dorian lowered his arm and loosed a sigh, finally letting go of her.

“Let’s go,” Chaol ordered, scooping up Fleetfoot, who whined in pain and gave him a warning growl.

“I think we all need a drink,” Dorian said quietly. “And an explanation.”

But Celaena looked down the hall, to the stairwell where Archer had fled. Had it only been minutes ago? It had felt like a lifetime.

But if it had only been minutes … Her breathing stumbled. She had discovered only one way out of the castle, and she was certain that was where Archer had gone. After what he’d done to Nehemia, after taking the book and abandoning them to that creature … Exhaustion was replaced by familiar anger—anger that burned through everything, just as Archer had destroyed what she loved.

Chaol stepped into her path. “Don’t you even think—”

Panting, she sheathed Damaris. “He’s mine.”

Before Chaol could grab her, she hurtled down the stairs.

Chapter 51

Though Celaena’s Fae senses were extinguished, she could swear she still smelled Archer’s cologne as she moved toward the sewer tunnel, still smelled the blood on him.

He had destroyed everything. He’d had Nehemia assassinated, had manipulated them both, had used Nehemia’s death to drive a wedge between her and Chaol, all in the name of power and revenge …

She would take him apart. Slowly.

I know what you are, he’d said. She didn’t know what Arobynn had told him about her heritage, but Archer had no idea what sort of darkness lurked inside her, or what sort of monster she was willing to become in order to make things right.

Ahead of her, she could hear muffled curses and banging against metal. By the time she reached the sewer tunnel, she knew what had happened. The grate had slid shut, and none of Archer’s attempts to open it had worked. Perhaps the gods did listen sometimes. Celaena smiled, drawing both of her daggers.

She walked through the archway, but the passage was empty on either side of the small river. She stepped farther onto the walkway, peering into the water, wondering if he’d tried to swim deep enough to go under the grate.

She sensed him a heartbeat before he attacked from behind.

She met his sword with both her daggers raised over her head, darting back to give herself enough time to assess. Archer had trained with the assassins—and from the way he wielded his blade, coming after her again and again, she knew he’d kept up those lessons.

She was exhausted. Archer was at full strength, and his blows made her arms quake.

He swiped for her throat, but she ducked, slicing for his side. Swift as lightning, he leapt to avoid her gutting him.

“I killed her for our sake,” Archer panted as she scanned for any weakness, any opening. “She would have ruined us. And now that you can open portals without the keys, think of what we could do. Think, Celaena. Her death was a worthy sacrifice to keep her from destroying the cause. We must rise up against the king.”

She lunged, feinting left, but he caught the attack. She growled, “I would rather live in his shadow than in a world where men like you rule. And when I’m done with you, I’m going to find all your friends and return the favor.”

“They don’t know anything. They don’t know what I know,” he said, dancing past all her attacks with maddening ease. “Nehemia was hiding something else about you. She didn’t want you involved, and I thought it was just because she didn’t want to share you with us. But now I wonder why, exactly. What more did she know?”

Celaena laughed softly. “You’re a fool if you think I’ll help you.”

“Oh, once my men start working on you, you’ll soon change your mind. Rourke Farran was a client of mine—before he was killed, that is. You remember Farran, don’t you? He had a special love for pain. He told me that torturing Sam Cortland was the most fun he ever had.”

She could hardly see through the bloodlust that seized her in that moment, hardly remember her own name.

Archer feinted toward the river to get her to return to the wall—where she would impale herself on his blade. But Celaena knew that move, too—knew it because she herself had taught it to him all those years ago. So as he struck, she ducked past his guard and rammed the pommel of her dagger up into his jaw.

He dropped like a stone, sword clattering, and she was upon him before he’d finished falling, her dagger at his throat.

“Please,” he whispered hoarsely.

She pushed the edge of the blade into his skin, wondering how she could make this last without killing him too quickly.

“Please,” he begged, chest heaving. “I’m doing it for our freedom. Our freedom. We’re on the same side in the end.”