Queen Of Glass

Book 2 Chapter 1

"I don't believe that I caught your name, my lovely lady..."

"I didn't throw it."
"Who are you?"
"It doesn't matter."
The man laughed drunkenly, beginning to unbutton his shirt. "And why is that?"
She looked around the room of the man's townhouse, listening for anyone that might still be awake. No one had seen them enter the viceroy's home together—and no one would see her leave it.
"Because you're going to be dead either way," she said with a twisted smile.
For a split second, the man's eyes went wide with initial shock, but then fear turned to amusement, and he let out a loud chuckle. "You're quite a hell-cat aren't you? I like that in a woman." He took a step towards her, his brain muddled with the drug that she had slipped into his drink.
He hadn't been hard to spot at the dinner party that she had snuck into, pretending to be one of the anonymous heiresses of Renaril. She had charmed him with her beauty and grace, just as she had practiced many times before, and he hadn't even glanced at the drugged drink that she handed him under the pretense of a cocktail. The party had been so crowded that no one had noticed her leading him out, ordering his chauffeur to bring them to his home.
For her first mission, this was going wonderfully well. Arobynn had been right about everything. He had taught her all the he knew, but a lot of it had been theoretical teaching. Arobynn Hamel had never taught or known of a female assassin, so in many ways, she was an experiment. Apparently, females could be more effective assassins than males —especially in a world where females were only supposed to reproduce, keep house, and cook.
Her nerves were slightly on edge, but Arobynn had said that it was natural for her to feel nervous. She subtly shifted her left arm to make sure that the slender dagger was still strapped and hidden beneath her long, billowing sleeves. Just a minute or two more...
"I don't often take young ladies home, but you were so lovely that I couldn't resist..." the ambassador was saying, his speech slurred. He stumbled, but regained his composure, approaching her once more.
She stared at his face with cold eyes, a flash of hatred surging through her. The King of Adarlan had elected this man to be viceroy of Trasien. He'd govern over Trasien as a puppet of the king, warping the country, her country, into the corrupted world that Adarlan had become. Pampered, court-trained bastard.
He was within a foot of her now, his eyes repulsively shining with lust. Her right hand drifted towards her left arm.
What right did he have to rule over Trasien? What right did the King of Adarlan have to rule over Trasien? She imagined the viceroy sitting on the throne of Trasien, befouling it with...
Don't think about that. Arobynn said not to think about that anymore...
The man was so blinded by his lust and drugged mind that he didn't even notice the change in her emotions and composure. This was it. This was the moment that Arobynn had told her to wait for. All that she had to do was draw the dagger and slit his throat.
Just bite down on it, damn it. Swallow it and get it over with. You've killed other things before—what difference does it make if this time it's a human?
The viceroy reached out a hand to touch her face, panting slightly, his breath reeking of alcohol. She took a quick look around his room, taking in all of the finery and riches that had been bestowed upon him by his king. This pig-faced slob was going to govern her country...

As his hand brushed against her cheek, she drew her concealed dagger so swiftly that it seemed to appear in her hand out of thin air. With a strong flick of her wrist, she slashed her weapon across his exposed throat. She looked into his eyes during that brief moment, basking in the horror and disbelief that she saw there.
"Son of a bitch," she hissed through her teeth as he fell to the ground, clasping his throat as his life's blood spilled out between his fingers and onto the richly colored carpet. Moving away from him, she watched the man die, loathing and disgust coating her face.
She waited a minute to make sure he was really dead, and then looked down at her white-gloved hands. There was a mild amount of blood speckled and spread over them. She took her dagger and, squatting down, wiped it clean on the man's fancy jacket, smearing blood on the finery.
Adarlan's assassin rose to her feet.
With a final look at the would-be viceroy of Trasien, she walked from his room and out of his house, concealing herself with shadows and darkness. No one noticed her.
It wasn't until the morning that the servants found their master lying dead on his floor, his throat slit and his eyes frozen wide with fear. The news spread like wildfire. Suspects were few.
The coachman said that the viceroy had gone home with an unknown woman—a noble probably—but he didn't know her name. Those who had been at the party had seen the mysterious beauty that had charmed the viceroy of Trasien, but no one knew if they had left together or not. No one knew her name. None of them had ever seen her before.
The search for the maiden went on for days, but no one could find her. Eventually, they all forgot about her, but they subconsciously always kept a wary eye open for any strangers at elite parties and functions. A few months later, news came of another assassination—in the city of Anielle. This time, Adarlan's minister of war was dead. There were no suspects.
The assassinations continued. No one knew if the assassin was hired or if they were doing it of their own free will. The rulers and politicians of the country didn't know whom to trust—the security in which they have lived in was now steadily eroding.
Months, then years passed. An endless line of politicians and aristocrats found themselves six feet under. The killings became creative, almost a form of art in a twisted sort of way. No one knew where or when the phantom assassin would strike again—panic was growing with each assassination.
A name emerged from the chaos—Sardothien. It was the name left lingering at every crime scene in some form or another. Despite their efforts, authorities could find nothing on the past or identity of the person bearing the surname of Sardothien. They didn't even know the sex of the assassin, but most assumed that it was a man. A rare few suspected that the maiden who had been the last person to be seen with the viceroy of Trasien was linked with the countless assassinations, but it was such an absurd idea that they never spoke of it.
For years, authorities searched, but they couldn't find the assassin—no one could. They didn't know where to begin looking. Those that hired Adarlan's assassin only hired her through midnight meetings and messengers, arranged by such a tangled web of communication that it would be impossible to trace it back to a single source.
Adarlan's assassin hunted where she saw fit, taking jobs that pleased her, but never turning down a well-paying one. The political field of Adarlan was dangerous and full of thorns. There were always people looking for someone to trim the hedges.
The more countries Adarlan conquered, the more jobs there were for the assassin. Soon, Adarlan's assassin had the highest price on her head than any other criminal in history. But none of the creatures of the underworld were willing to give her up. They all feared her and her companions too much to risk such a thing for a great sum of money.
And so the assassin went on assassinating, lurking in the shadows, playing in the dark, watching the world slowly descend into Hell.
A select few knew who she really was—who she was beyond the name of Celaena Sardothien. They knew why she woke from her dreams screaming. They understood the dreams that hunted her in the depths of her conscious, and