The Assassin and the Desert Read Free Page A

wouldn’t know. I’ve been here for five years, and he’s still refused to train me personally. Not that I care. I’d say I’m pretty damn good with or without his expertise.”
    Well,
that
was certainly odd. How had she gone so long without working with the Master? Though, many of Arobynn’s assassins never received private lessons with him, either. “Where are you from, originally?” Celaena asked.
    â€œThe Flatlands.” The Flatlands . . . Where in hell were the Flatlands? Ansel answered for her. “Along the coast of the Western Wastes—formerly known as the Witch Kingdom.”
    The Wastes were certainly familiar. But she’d never heard of the Flatlands.
    â€œMy father,” Ansel went on, “is Lord of Briarcliff. He sent me here for training, so I might ‘make myself useful.’ But I don’t think five hundred years would be enough to teach me that.”
    Despite herself, Celaena chuckled. She stole another glance at Ansel’s armor. “Don’t you get hot in all that armor?”
    â€œOf course,” Ansel said, tossing her shoulder-length hair. “But you have to admit it’s rather striking. And very well suited for strutting about a fortress full of assassins. How else am I to distinguish myself?”
    â€œWhere did you get it from?” Not that she might want some for herself; she had no use for armor like that.
    â€œOh, I had it made for me.” So—Ansel had money, then. Plenty of it, if she could throw it away on armor. “But the sword”—Ansel patted the wolf-shaped hilt at her side—“belongs to my father. His gift to me when I left. I figured I’d have the armor match it—wolves are a family symbol.”
    They entered an open walkway, the heat of the midafternoon sun slamming into them with full force. Yet Ansel’s face remained jovial, and if the armor did indeed make her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. Ansel looked her up and down. “How many people have you killed?”
    Celaena almost choked, but kept her chin high. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”
    Ansel chuckled. “I suppose it’d be easy enough to find out; you must leave
some
indication if you’re so notorious.” Actually, it was Arobynn who usually saw to it that word got out through the proper channels. She left very little behind once her job was finished. Leaving a sign felt somewhat . . . cheap. “I’d want
everyone
to know that I’d done it,” Ansel added.
    Well, Celaena
did
want everyone to know that she was the best, but something about the way Ansel said it seemed different from her own reasoning.
    â€œSo, which of you looks worse?” Ansel asked suddenly. “You, or the person who gave those to you?” Celaena knew that she meant the fading bruises and cuts on her face.
    Her stomach tightened. It was getting to be a familiar feeling.
    â€œMe,” Celaena said quietly.
    She didn’t know why she admitted it. Bravado might have been the better option. But she was tired, and suddenly so heavy with the weight of that memory.
    â€œDid your master do that to you?” Ansel asked. This time, Celaena kept quiet, and Ansel didn’t push her.
    At the other end of the walkway, they took a spiral stone staircase down into an empty courtyard where benches and little tables stood in the shade of the towering date trees. Someone had left a book lying atop one of the wooden tables, and as they passed by, Celaena glimpsed the cover. The title was in a scrawling, strange script that she didn’t recognize.
    If she’d been alone, she might have paused to flip through the book, just to see words printed in a language so different from anything she knew, but Ansel continued on toward a pair of carved wooden doors.
    â€œThe baths. It’s one of the places here where silence is actually enforced, so try to keep quiet.