Shadows that had long since been burned away by that relentless Wendlyn sun.Ĭelaena swigged from the jug of wine-or tried to. Or whatever she’d thought sounded official and useful before she’d realized that she’d rather sprawl in the shadows. Just where she’d stashed it hours before, when she’d climbed onto the roof of the massive indoor market to survey the perimeter of the castle walls two blocks away. Tucked beneath one of the heavy red tiles to keep cool. Below, the market street was a brilliant loom of color and sound, full of braying donkeys, merchants waving their wares, clothes both foreign and familiar, and the clacking of wheels against pale cobblestones. Birds circled above, keeping well away from the white-tailed hawk that had been perched atop a nearby chimney all morning, waiting to snatch up its next meal. The world tilted and went blindingly bright as she hoisted herself onto her elbows. She reached for the terra-cotta tiles sloping behind her, groping for the clay jug of wine she’d hauled onto the roof that morning. Especially since the day when she decided that she didn’t particularly care about anything at all. The sour red wine from the vineyards lining the rolling hills around the walled capital-a taste she’d initially spat out but now very, very much enjoyed. She’d resorted to swiping teggya and wine off vendors’ carts since her money ran out, not long after she’d taken one look at the heavily fortified limestone castle, at the elite guards, at the cobalt banners flapping so proudly in the dry, hot wind and decided not to kill her assigned targets. Mostly because it was all she’d been able to afford when she landed in Wendlyn two weeks ago and made her way to the capital city, Varese, just as she’d been ordered by his Grand Imperial Majesty and Master of the Earth, the King of Adarlan. If she never ate another bite of teggya again, it would be too soon. Sick of the crunchy, oniony taste of it that even mouthfuls of water couldn’t wash away. Or maybe it felt that way because Celaena Sardothien had been lounging on the lip of the terra-cotta roof since midmorning, an arm flung over her eyes, slowly baking in the sun like the loaves of flatbread the city’s poorest citizens left on their windowsills because they couldn’t afford brick ovens.Īnd gods, she was sick of flatbread-teggya, they called it. Gods, it was boiling in this useless excuse for a kingdom.
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