“Then Verin would have seen whatever it was long before he got to this spot.”

“So why get near it?” she asked, more to herself than anything. “What if it wasn’t an animal, but a person? And what if that person disabled Verin long enough for them to summon this creature?” She pointed to Verin’s legs. “Those are clean cuts around his ankles. His tendons were snapped by a knife, to keep him from running.” She moved next to the body, taking care not to disturb the Wyrdmarks etched into the ground as she lifted Verin’s rigid, cold hand. “Look at his fingernails.” She swallowed hard. “The tips are cracked and shattered.” She used her own nail to scrape out the dirt beneath his nails, and smeared it across her palm. “See?” She held out her hand out for Chaol to observe. “Dust and bits of stone.” She pulled aside Verin’s arm, revealing faint lines in the stone beneath. “Fingernail marks. He was desperate to get away—to drag himself by his fingertips, if necessary. He was alive the entire time that thing sharpened its claws on the stone while its master watched.”

“So what does that mean?”

She smiled grimly at him. “It means that you’re in a lot of trouble.”

And, as Chaol’s face paled, Celaena realized with a jolt that perhaps the Champions’ killer and Elena’s mysterious evil force might be one and the same.

•

Seated at the dining table, Celaena flipped through the book.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. She scanned page after page for any sign of the two Wyrdmarks that had been drawn beside Verin’s body. There had to be a connection.

She stopped as a map of Erilea appeared. Maps had always interested her; there was something bewitching in knowing one’s precise location in relation to others on the earth. She gently traced a finger along the eastern coast. She began in the south—at Banjali, the Eyllwe capital, then went up, curving and snaking, all the way to Rifthold. Her finger then traveled through Meah, then north and inland to Orynth, then back, back to the sea, to the Sorian Coast, and finally to the very tip of the continent and the North Sea beyond.

She stared at Orynth, that city of light and learning, the pearl of Erilea and capital of Terrasen. Her birthplace. Celaena slammed shut the book.

Glancing around her room, the assassin let out a long sigh. When she managed to sleep, her dreams were haunted by ancient battles, by swords with eyes, by Wyrdmarks that swirled around her head and blinded her with their bright colors. She could see the gleaming armor of Fae and mortal warriors, hear the clash of shields and the snarl of vicious beasts, and smell blood and rotting corpses all around her. Carnage trailed in her wake. Adarlan’s Assassin shuddered.

“Oh, good. I hoped you’d still be awake,” the Crown Prince said, and Celaena jumped from her seat to find Dorian approaching. He looked tired and a bit ruffled.

She opened her mouth, then shook her head. “What are you doing here? It’s almost midnight, and I’ve got a Test tomorrow.” She couldn’t deny having him here was a bit of a relief—the murderer only seemed to attack Champions when they were alone.

“Have you moved from literature to history?” He surveyed the books on the table. “A Brief History of Modern Erilea,” he read. “Symbols and Power. Eyllwe Culture and Customs.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I read what I like.”

He slid into the seat beside her, his leg brushing hers. “Is there a connection between all of these?”

“No.” It wasn’t quite a lie—though she had hoped for all of them to contain something about Wyrdmarks, or what they meant beside a corpse. “I assume you heard about Verin’s death.”

“Of course,” he said, a dark expression crossing his handsome face. She was all too aware of how close his leg was, but she couldn’t bring herself to shift away.

“And you’re not at all concerned that so many Champions have been brutally murdered at the hands of someone’s feral beast?”

Dorian leaned in, his eyes fixed on hers. “All of those murders occurred in dark, isolated hallways. You’re never without guards—and your chambers are well-watched.”

“I’m not concerned for myself,” she said sharply, pulling back a bit. Which wasn’t entirely true. “I just think it reflects poorly on your esteemed father to have all of this going on.”

“When was the last time you bothered to care for the reputation of my ‘esteemed’ father?”

“Since I became his son’s Champion. So perhaps you ought to devote some additional resources to solving these murders, before I win this absurd competition just because I’m the last one left alive.”

“Any more demands?” he asked, still close enough for her lips to graze his if she dared.

“I’ll let you know if I think of any.” Their eyes locked. A slow smile spread across her face. What sort of a man was the Crown Prince? Though she didn’t want to admit it, it was nice to have someone around, even if he was a Havilliard.

She pushed claw marks and brainless corpses from her thoughts. “Why are you so disheveled? Has Kaltain been clawing at you?”

“Kaltain? Thankfully, not recently. But what a miserable day it was! The pups are mutts, and—” He put his head in his hands.

“Pups?”

“One of my bitches gave birth to a litter of mongrels. Before, they were too young to tell. But now . . . Well, I’d hoped for purebreds.”

“Are we speaking of dogs or of women?”

“Which would you prefer?” He gave her an impish grin.

“Oh, hush up,” she hissed, and he chuckled.

“Why, might I ask, are you so disheveled?” His smile faltered. “Chaol told me he took you to see the body; I hope it wasn’t too harrowing.”

“Not at all. It’s just that I haven’t slept well.”

“Me, neither,” he admitted. He straightened. “Will you play the pianoforte for me?” Celaena tapped her foot on the floor, wondering how he had moved on to such a different subject.

“Of course not.”

“You played beautifully.”

“If I had known someone was spying on me, I wouldn’t have played at all.”

“Why is playing so personal for you?” He leaned back in his chair.

“I can’t hear or play music without— Never mind.”

“No, tell me what you were going to say.”

“Nothing interesting,” she said, stacking the books.

“Does it stir up memories?”

She eyed him, searching for any sign of mockery. “Sometimes.”

“Memories of your parents?” He reached to help her stack the remaining books.

Celaena stood suddenly. “Don’t ask such stupid questions.”

“I’m sorry if I pried.”

She didn’t respond. The door in her mind that she kept locked at all times had been cracked open by the question, and now she tried frantically to close it. Seeing his face, seeing him so near to her . . . The door shut and she turned the key.

“It’s just,” he said, oblivious to the battle that had just occurred, “it’s just that I don’t know anything about you.”