And when her dressing room was empty, she shoved a bag of gold into Philippa’s hands and told her to go buy some new clothes. Philippa had only given her a sad look—another thing that made Celaena sick—and left.
It took Celaena an hour to gently, carefully pack up Nehemia’s clothes and jewelry, and she tried not to dwell too long on the memories that accompanied each item. Or the lotus-blossom smell that clung to everything.
When she had sealed all the trunks, she went to Nehemia’s desk, which was still littered with papers and books as if the princess had only stepped outside for a moment. As she reached for the first paper, her eyes fell upon the arc of scars around her right hand—the teeth marks of the ridderak.
The papers were covered with scribblings in Eyllwe and—and Wyrdmarks.
Countless Wyrdmarks, some in long lines, some forming symbols like the ones Nehemia had traced underneath Celaena’s bed all those months ago. How had the king’s spies not taken these? Or had he not even bothered to have her rooms searched? She started stacking them into a pile. Perhaps she could still learn some things about the marks, even if Nehemia were—
Dead, she made herself think. Nehemia is dead.
Celaena looked at the scars on her hand again and was about to turn from the desk when she spotted a familiar-looking book half tucked beneath some papers.
It was the book from Davis’s office.
This copy was older, more damaged, but it was the same book. And written on the inside cover was a sentence in Wyrdmarks—such basic marks that even Celaena could understand them.
Do not trust—
The final symbol, though, was a mystery. It looked like a wyvern—the Royal Seal. Of course she shouldn’t trust the King of Adarlan.
She flipped through the book, scanning it for any information. Nothing.
And then she turned to the back cover. And there, Nehemia had written—
It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.
It was scribbled in the common tongue, then in Eyllwe, then in some other languages that Celaena didn’t recognize. Different translations—as if Nehemia had wondered whether the riddle held any meaning in another tongue. The same book, the same riddle, the same writing in the back.
An idle lord’s nonsense, Nehemia had said.
But Nehemia … Nehemia and Archer led the group to which Davis had belonged. Nehemia had known Davis; known him and lied about it, lied about the riddle, and—
Nehemia had promised. Promised that there would be no more secrets between them.
Promised and lied. Promised and deceived her.
She fought down a scream as she tore through every other piece of paper on the desk, in the room. Nothing.
What else had Nehemia lied about?
It is only with the eye …
Celaena touched her necklace. Nehemia had known about the tomb. If she had been feeding information to this group, and had encouraged Celaena to look into the eye carved into the wall … then Nehemia had been looking, too. But after the duel, she’d returned the Eye of Elena to Celaena; if Nehemia had needed it, she would have kept it. And Archer hadn’t mentioned knowing anything about this.
Unless this wasn’t the eye the riddle referenced.
Because …
“By the Wyrd,” Celaena breathed, and rushed out of the room.
Mort hissed when she appeared at the door to the tomb. “Plan on desecrating any other sacred objects tonight?”
Carrying a satchel full of papers and books that she’d grabbed from her rooms, Celaena merely patted his head as she walked by. His bronze teeth clanked against each other as he sought to bite her.
The tomb was filled with moonlight bright enough to see by. And there, directly across the tomb from the eye in the wall, was another eye, golden and gleaming.
Damaris. It was Damaris, the Sword of Truth. Gavin could see nothing but what was right—
It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.
“Am I so blind?” Celaena dumped her leather satchel on the floor, the books and papers spilling across the stones.
“It appears so!” Mort sang. The eye-shaped pommel was the exact size …
Celaena lifted the sword from its stand and unsheathed it. The Wyrdmarks on the blade seemed to ripple. She rushed back to the wall.
“In case you didn’t realize,” called Mort, “you’re supposed to hold the eye against the hole in the wall and look through it.”
“I know that,” snapped Celaena.
And so, not daring to breathe the entire time, Celaena lifted the pommel to the hole until both eyes were evenly aligned. She stood on her toes and peered in—and groaned.
It was a poem.
A lengthy poem.
Celaena fished out the parchment and charcoal she’d stashed in her pocket and copied down the words, darting to and from the wall as she read, memorized, double-checked, and then recorded. It was only when she had finished the last stanza that she read it aloud.
By the Valg, three were made
,
Of the Gate-Stone of the Wyrd:
Obsidian the gods forbade
And stone they greatly feared
.
In grief, he hid one in the crown
Of her he loved so well
,
To keep with her where she lay down
Inside the starry cell
.
The second one was hidden
In a mountain made of fire
,
Where all men were forbidden
Despite their great desires
.
Where the third lies
Will never be told
By voice or tongue
Or sum of gold
.
Celaena shook her head. More nonsense. And the rhyme with “Wyrd” and “feared” was off. Not to mention the break in the rhyme scheme in the final lines.
“Since you clearly knew that the sword could be used to read the riddle,” she said to Mort, “then why don’t you save me some trouble and tell me what the hell this one’s about?”
Mort sniffed. “It sounds to me like it’s a riddle giving the location of three very powerful items.”
She read through the poem again. “But three what? Sounds like the second thing is hidden in—in a volcano? And the first and third ones …” She gritted her teeth. “‘Gate-Stone of the Wyrd’ … What is this a riddle for? And why is it here?”
“Isn’t that the question of the millennia!” Mort crowed as Celaena walked back to the papers and books she’d scattered at the other end of the tomb. “You’d better clean up the mess you brought down here, or I’ll ask the gods to send some wicked beastie after you.”
“Already happened; Cain beat you to it months ago.” She replaced Damaris in its stand. “Too bad the ridderak didn’t take you off the door when he burst through.” A thought hit her, and she stared at the wall in front of her—where she’d once fallen to avoid being ripped apart. “Who was it that moved the carcass of the ridderak?”
“Princess Nehemia, of course.”
Celaena twisted to look toward the doorway. “Nehemia?”