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had improved Chaol’s standing among the other guards and lesser nobles.
    If Dorian worked up the nerve, he’d ask his father what he’d been thinking when he appointed Roland to the council. Meah was a small yet prosperous coastal city in Adarlan, but it held no real political power. It didn’t even have a standing army, save for the city’s sentries. Roland was his father’s cousin’s son; perhaps the king felt that they needed more Havilliard blood in the council room. Still—Roland was untried, and had always seemed more interested in girls than politics.
    “Where did your father’s Champion come from?” Roland asked, drawing Dorian’s attention back to the present.
    Dorian turned toward the castle, heading for a different entrance than the one Chaol and Celaena had used. He still remembered the way they’d looked when he’d walked in on them embracing in her rooms after the duel, two months ago.
    “Lillian’s story is hers to tell,” Dorian lied. He just didn’t feel like explaining the competition to his cousin. It was bad enough that his father had ordered him to take Roland on a walk this morning. The only bright spot had been seeing Celaena so obviously contemplate ways to bury the young lord.
    “Is she for your father’s personal use, or do the other councilmen also employ her?”
    “You’ve been here for less than a day, and you already have enemies to dispatch, cousin?”
    “We’re Havilliards, cousin. We’ll always have enemies that need dispatching.”
    Dorian frowned. It was true, though. “Her contract is exclusively with my father. But if you feel threatened, then I can have Captain Westfall assign a—”
    “Oh, of course not. I was merely curious.”
    Roland was a pain in the ass, and too aware of the effect his looks and his Havilliard name had on women, but he was harmless. Wasn’t he?
    Dorian didn’t know the answer—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

    Her salary as King’s Champion was considerable, and Celaena spent every last copper of it. Shoes, hats, tunics, dresses, jewelry, weapons, baubles for her hair, and books. Books and books and books. So many books that Philippa had to bring up another bookcase for her room.
    When Celaena returned to her rooms that afternoon, lugging hat boxes, colorful bags full of perfume and sweets, and brown paper parcels with the books she absolutely
had
to read immediately, she nearly dropped it all at the sight of Dorian Havilliard sitting in her foyer.
    “Gods above,” he said, taking in all of her purchases.
    He didn’t know the half of it. This was just what she could carry. More had been ordered, and more would be delivered soon.
    “Well,” he said as she dumped the bags on the table, nearly toppling into a heap of tissue paper and ribbons, “at least you’re not wearing that dreadful black today.”
    She shot him a glare over her shoulder as she straightened. Today she was wearing a lilac and ivory gown—a little bright for the end of winter, but worn in the hope that spring would soon come. Plus, dressing nicely guaranteed her the best service in whatever stores she visited. To her surprise, many of the shopkeepers remembered her from years ago—and had bought her lie about a long journey to the southern continent.
    “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” She untied her white fur cloak—another gift to herself—and tossed it onto one of the chairs around the foyer table. “Didn’t I already see you this morning in the garden?”
    Dorian remained seated, that familiar, boyish grin on his face. “Aren’t friends allowed to visit each other more than once a day?”
    She stared down at him. Being friends with Dorian wasn’t something she was certain she could actually
do
. Not when he would always have that gleam in his sapphire eyes—and not when he was the son of the man who gripped her fate in his hands. But in the two months since she’d ended whatever had been between them, she’d often found herself