Throne of Glass Gönderileri
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"Yıldızları çıngırdatabilirsin" diye fısıldadı. "Cesaretin varsa her şeyi yapabilirsin. Ve içten içe bunu sen de biliyorsun. Seni en çok korkutan da bu."
"Hepimizin yara izleri var, Dorian. Benimkiler sadece birçok kişiden daha görünür durumda."
Oh, how wrong he was! Libraries were full of ideas—perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.
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“You could rattle the stars,” She whispered.
“You could do anything, if you only dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most.”
She snorted onto his chest, but he gently lifted her chin. His eyes were familiar—like something she’d forgotten.
“I knew you’d win the moment I met you,” he whispered, and her heart writhed as she understood what lay before them. “Though I’ll admit that I didn’t quite see this coming. And no matter how frivolous and twisted that competition was, I’m grateful it brought you into my life. As long as I live, I’ll always be thankful for that.”
“Do you intend to make me cry, or are you just foolish?”
Dorian leaned forward and kissed her. It made her jaw hurt.
He was done with politics and intrigue. He loved her, and no empire, no king, and no earthly fear would keep him from her. No, if they tried to take her from him, he’d rip the world apart with his bare hands. And for some reason, that didn’t terrify him.
“No matter what happens,” she said quietly, “I want to thank you.”
Chaol tilted his head to the side. “For what?”
Her eyes stung, but she blamed it on the fierce wind and blinked away the dampness. “For making my freedom mean something.”
He didn’t say anything; he just took the fingers of her right hand and held them in his, his thumb brushing the ring she wore.
“Names are not important. It’s what lies inside of you that matters. I know what you went through in Endovier. But you did not let the mines harden you; you did not let it shame your soul into cruelty.”
The princess traced a mark on her hand, her fingers pressing into Celaena’s skin.
“You bear many names, and so I shall name you as well.” Her hand rose to Celaena’s forehead and she drew an invisible mark.
“I name you Elentiya.” She kissed the assassin’s brow.
“I give you this name to use with honor, to use when other names grow too heavy. I name you Elentiya ‘Spirit That Could Not Be Broken.’ ”
“Your scars are awful,” he said, almost whispering.
She put a hand on a hip and walked to the dressing room door.
“We all bear scars, Dorian. Mine just happen to be more visible than most."
“Have you named her yet?” he asked—casual, calm, collected.
“No,” she said, keeping her face neutral, even though she wanted to scream from the awkwardness. “I can’t think of anything appropriate.”
“What about,” he said, tapping his chin, “Gold … ie?”
“That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you think of something better?”
She picked up one of the dog’s legs and examined the soft paws. She squished the padded foot beneath her thumb.
“Fleetfoot.” It was a perfect name. In fact, it felt as if the name had existed all along, and she’d finally been clairvoyant enough to stumble across it. “Yes, Fleetfoot it is.”
“Does it mean anything?” he asked, and the dog raised her head to look at him.
“It’ll mean something when she outruns all of your purebreds.” Celaena scooped the dog into her arms and kissed her head. She bounced her arms up and down, and Fleetfoot stared up into her eyes with a wrinkled brow. She was absurdly soft and cuddly.
Dorian chuckled. “We’ll see.”
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“Oh, puppy,” she crooned, and petted her. The dog trembled, and she glared at Dorian over her shoulder.
“What did you do, you buffoon?” she hissed. Dorian threw his hands in the air.
“It’s a gift! I almost lost my arm—and more important parts—trying to put that bow on, and then she howled all the way up here!”
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Chaol’s brown eyes shone golden in the midday sun.
“Wasn’t learning to lose gracefully part of your training?”
“No,” she said sourly. “Arobynn told me that second place was just a nice title for the first loser.”
Chaol chuckled at her agitation and pointed his sword at the rack, allowing her to get to her feet. “Pick another—something different. Make it interesting, too. Something that will make me sweat, please.”
“You’ll be sweating when I skin you alive and squish your eyeballs beneath my feet,” she muttered, picking up the rapier.
“That’s the spirit.”
She practically threw the rapier into place, and drew the hunting knives without hesitation.
My dear old friends.
A wicked smile spread across her face.