House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City)

by Sarah J. Maas

  But the Prime halted upon seeing where she planned to bring him. Drew her to the stairs. And began the ascent, step by painful step.

  Proud bastard.

  The Fae left their black cars, stalking onto the carpet. The Autumn King emerged, an onyx crown upon his red hair, the ancient stone like a piece of night even in the light of morning.

  Hunt didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before. Bryce looked more like her father than Ruhn did. Granted, plenty of the Fae had that coloring, but the coldness on the Autumn King’s face … He’d seen Bryce make that expression countless times.

  The Autumn King, not some prick lordling, had been the one to go with her to the Oracle that day. The one to kick a thirteen-year-old to the curb.

  Hunt’s fingers curled at his sides. He couldn’t blame Ember Quinlan for running the moment she’d seen the monster beneath the surface. Felt its cold violence.

  And realized she was carrying its child. A potential heir to the throne—one that might complicate things for his pure-blooded, Chosen One son. No wonder the Autumn King had hunted them down so ruthlessly.

  Ruhn, a step behind his father, was a shock to the senses. In his princely raiment, the Starsword at his side, he could have very well been one of the first Starborn with that coloring of his. Might have been one of the first through the Northern Rift, so long ago.

  They passed Hunt, and the king didn’t so much as glance his way. But Ruhn did.

  Ruhn looked to the shackles on Hunt’s wrists, the 45th’s triarii around him. And subtly shook his head. To any observer, it was in disgust, in reprimand. But Hunt saw the message.

  I’m sorry.

  Hunt kept his face unmoved, neutral. Ruhn moved on, the circlet of gilded birch leaves atop his head glinting.

  And then the atrium seemed to inhale. To pause.

  The angels did not arrive in cars. No, they dropped from the skies.

  Forty-nine angels in the Asterian Guard, in full white-and-gold regalia, marched into the lobby, spears in their gloved hands and white wings shining. Each had been bred, hand-selected, for this life of service. Only the whitest, purest of wings would do. Not one speck of color on them.

  Hunt had always thought they were swaggering assholes.

  They took up spots along the carpet, standing at attention, wings high and spears pointing at the glass ceiling, their snowy capes draping to the floor. The white plumes of horsehair on their golden helmets gleamed as if freshly brushed, and the visors remained down.

  They’d been sent from Pangera as a reminder to all of them, the Governors included, that the ones who held their leashes still monitored everything.

  Micah and Sandriel arrived next, side by side. Each in their Governor’s armor.

  The Vanir sank to a knee before them. Yet the Asterian Guard—who would bow only for their six masters—remained standing, their spears like twin walls of thorns that the Governors paraded between.

  No one dared speak. No one dared breathe as the two Archangels passed by.

  They were all fucking worms at their feet.

  Sandriel’s smile seared Hunt as she breezed past. Almost as badly as Micah’s utter disappointment and weariness.

  Micah had picked his method of torture well, Hunt would give him that. There was no way Sandriel would let him die quickly. The torment when he returned to Pangera would last decades. No chance of a new death-bargain or a buyout.

  And if he so much as stepped out of line, she’d know where to strike first. Who to strike.

  The Governors swept up the stairs, their wings nearly touching. Why the two of them hadn’t become a mated pair was beyond Hunt. Micah was decent enough that he likely found Sandriel as abhorrent as everyone else did. But it was still a wonder the Asteri hadn’t ordered the bloodlines merged. It wouldn’t have been unusual. Sandriel and Shahar had been the result of such a union.

  Though perhaps the fact that Sandriel had likely killed her own parents to seize power for her and her sister had made the Asteri put a halt to the practice.

  Only when the Governors reached the conference room did those assembled in the lobby move, first the angels peeling off for the stairs, the rest of the assembly falling into line behind them.

  Hunt was kept wedged between two of the 45th’s triarii—the Helhound and the Hawk, who both sneered at him—and took in as many details as he could when they entered the meeting room.

  It was cavernous, with rings of tables flowing down to a central floor and round table where the leaders would sit.

  The Pit of Hel. That’s what it was. It was a wonder none of its princes stood there.

  The Prime of Wolves, the Autumn King, the two Governors, the River Queen’s fair daughter, Queen Hypaxia, and Jesiba all took seats at that central table. Their seconds—Sabine, Ruhn, Tharion, an older-looking witch—all claimed spots in the ring of tables around them. No one else from the House of Flame and Shadow had come with Jesiba, not even a vampyr. The ranks fell into place beyond that, each ring of tables growing larger and larger, seven in total. The Asterian Guard lined the uppermost level, standing against the wall, two at each of the room’s three exits.

  The seven levels of Hel indeed.

  Vidscreens were interspersed throughout the room, two hanging from the ceiling itself, and computers lined the tables, presumably for references. Fury Axtar, to his surprise, took up a spot in the third circle, leaning back in her chair. No one else accompanied her.

  Hunt was led to a spot against the wall, nestled between two Asterian Guards who ignored him completely. Thank fuck the angle blocked his view of Pollux and the rest of Sandriel’s triarii.

  Hunt braced himself as the vidscreens flicked on. The room went quiet at what appeared.

  He knew those crystal halls, torches of firstlight dancing on the carved quartz pillars rising toward the arched ceiling stories above. Knew the seven crystal thrones arranged in a curve on the golden dais, the one empty throne at its far end. Knew the twinkling city beyond them, the hills rolling away into the dimming light, the Tiber a dark band wending between them.

  Everyone rose from their seats as the Asteri came into view. And everyone knelt.

  Even from nearly six thousand miles away, Hunt could have sworn their power rippled into the conference room. Could have sworn it sucked out the warmth, the air, the life.

  The first time he’d been before them, he’d thought he’d never experienced anything worse. Shahar’s blood had still coated his armor, his throat had still been ravaged from screaming during the battle, and yet he had never encountered anything so horrific. So unearthly. As if his entire existence were but a mayfly, his power but a wisp of breeze in the face of their hurricane. As if he’d been hurled into deep space.

  They each held the power of a sacred star, each could level this planet to dust, yet there was no light in their cold eyes.

  Through lowered lashes, Hunt marked who else dared to lift their eyes from the gray carpet as the six Asteri surveyed them: Tharion and Ruhn. Declan Emmet. And Queen Hypaxia.

  No others. Not even Fury or Jesiba.

  Ruhn met Hunt’s stare. And a quiet male voice said in his head, Bold move.

  Hunt held in his shock. He’d known there were occasional telepaths out there among the Fae, especially the ones who dwelled in Avallen. But he’d never had a conversation with one. Certainly not inside his head. Neat trick.

  A gift from my mother’s kin—one I’ve kept quiet.

  And you trust me with this secret?

  Ruhn was silent for a moment. I can’t be seen talking to you. If you need anything, let me know. I’ll do what I can for you.

  Another shock, as physical as his lightning zapping through him. Why would you help me?

  Because you would have done everything in your power to keep Bryce from trading herself to Sandriel. I could see it on your face. Ruhn hesitated, then added, a shade uncertainly, And because I don’t think you’re quite as much of an asshole now.

  The corner of Hunt’s mo
uth lifted. Likewise.

  Is that a compliment? Another pause. How are you holding up, Athalar?

  Fine. How is she?

  Back at work, according to the eyes I have on her.

  Good. He didn’t think he could endure any more talk of Bryce without completely falling apart, so he said, Did you know that medwitch was Queen Hypaxia?

  No. I fucking didn’t.

  Ruhn might have gone on, but the Asteri began to speak. As one, like they always did. Telepaths in their own regard. “You have converged to discuss matters pertaining to your region. We grant you our leave.” They looked to Hypaxia.

  Impressively, the witch didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as tremble as the six Asteri looked upon her, the world watching with them, and said, “We formally recognize you as the heir of the late Queen Hecuba Enador, and with her passing, now anoint you Queen of the Valbaran Witches.”

  Hypaxia bowed her head, her face grave. Jesiba’s face revealed nothing. Not even a hint of sorrow or anger for the heritage she’d walked away from. So Hunt dared a look at Ruhn, who was frowning.

  The Asteri again surveyed the room, none more haughtily than Rigelus, the Bright Hand. That slim teenage boy’s body was a mockery of the monstrous power within. As one the Asteri continued, “You may begin. May the blessings of the gods and all the stars in the heavens shine upon you.”

  Heads bowed further, in thanks for merely being allowed to exist in their presence.

  “It is our hope that you discuss a way to end this inane war. Governor Sandriel will prove a valuable witness to its destruction.” A slow, horrible scan through the room followed. And Hunt knew their eyes were upon him as they said, “And there are others here who may also provide their testimony.”

  There was only one testimony to provide: that the humans were wasteful and foolish, and the war was their fault, their fault, their fault, and must be ended. Must be avoided here at all costs. There was to be no sympathy for the human rebellion, no hearing of the humans’ plight. There was only the Vanir side, the good side, and no other.

  Hunt held Rigelus’s dead stare on the central screen. A zap of icy wind through his body courtesy of Sandriel warned him to avert his eyes. He did not. He could have sworn the Head of the Asteri smiled. Hunt’s blood turned to ice, not just from Sandriel’s wind, and he lowered his eyes.

  This empire had been built to last for eternity. In more than fifteen thousand years, it had not broken. This war would not be the thing that ended it.

  The Asteri said together, “Farewell.” Another small smile from all of them—the worst being Rigelus’s, still directed at Hunt. The screens went dark.

  Everyone in the room, the two Governors included, blew out a breath. Someone puked, by the sound and reek from the far corner. Sure enough, a leopard shifter bolted through the doors, a hand over his mouth.

  Micah leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the wood table before him. For a moment, no one spoke. As if they all needed to reel themselves back in. Even Sandriel.

  Then Micah straightened, his wings rustling, and declared in a deep, clear voice, “I hereby commence this Valbaran Summit. All hail the Asteri and the stars they possess.”

  The room echoed the words, albeit half-heartedly. As if everyone remembered that even in this land across the sea from Pangera, so far from the muddy battlefields and the shining crystal palace in a city of seven hills, even here, there was no escaping.

  74

  Bryce tried not to dwell on the fact that Hunt and the world knew what and who she really was. At least the press hadn’t caught wind of it, for whatever small mercy that was.

  As if being a bastard princess meant anything. As if it said anything about her as a person. The shock on Hunt’s face was precisely why she hadn’t told him.

  She’d torn up Jesiba’s check, and with it the centuries of debts.

  None of it mattered now anyway. Hunt was gone.

  She knew he was alive. She’d seen the news footage of the Summit’s opening procession. Hunt had looked just as he had before everything went to shit. Another small mercy.

  She’d barely noticed the others arriving: Jesiba, Tharion, her sire, her brother … No, she’d just kept her eyes on that spot in the crowd, those gray wings that had now regrown.

  Pathetic. She was utterly pathetic.

  She would have done it. Would have gladly traded places with Hunt, even knowing what Sandriel would do to her. What Pollux would do to her.

  Maybe it made her an idiot, as Ruhn said. Naïve.

  Maybe she was lucky to have walked out of the Comitium lobby still breathing.

  Maybe being attacked by that kristallos was payment for her fuckups.

  She’d spent the past few days looking through the laws to see if there was anything to be done for Hunt. There wasn’t. She’d done the only two things that might have granted him his freedom: offered to buy him, and offered herself in his stead.

  She didn’t believe Hunt’s bullshit last words to her. She would have said the same had she been in his place. Would have been as nasty as she could, if it would have gotten him to safety.

  Bryce sat at the front desk in the showroom, staring at the blank computer screen. The city had been quiet these past two days. As if everyone’s attention was on the Summit, even though only a few of Crescent City’s leaders and citizens had gone.

  She’d watched the news recaps only to catch another glimpse of Hunt—without any luck.

  She slept in his room every night. Had put on one of his T-shirts and crawled between the sheets that smelled of him and pretended he was lying in the dark beside her.

  An envelope with the Comitium listed as its return address had arrived at the gallery three days ago. Her heart had thundered as she’d ripped it open, wondering if he’d been able to get a message out—

  The white opal had fallen to the desk. Isaiah had written a reserved note, as if aware that every piece of mail was read:

  Naomi found this on the barge. Thought you might want it back.

  Then he’d added, as if on second thought, He’s sorry.

  She’d slid the stone into her desk drawer.

  Sighing, Bryce opened it now, peering at the milky gem. She ran her finger over its cool surface.

  “Athie looks miserable,” Lehabah observed, floating by Bryce’s head. She pointed to the tablet, where Bryce had paused her third replay of the opening procession on Hunt’s face. “So do you, BB.”

  “Thank you.”

  At her feet, Syrinx stretched out, yawning. His curved claws glinted.

  “So what do we do now?”

  Bryce’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Lehabah wrapped her arms around herself, floating in midair. “We just go back to normal?”

  “Yes.”

  Her flickering eyes met Bryce’s. “What is normal, anyway?”

  “Seems boring to me.”

  Lehabah smiled slightly, turning a soft rose color.

  Bryce offered one in return. “You’re a good friend, Lele. A really good friend.” She sighed again, setting the sprite’s flame guttering. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been such a good one to you at times.”

  Lehabah waved a hand, going scarlet. “We’ll get through this, BB.” She perched on Bryce’s shoulder, her warmth seeping into skin Bryce hadn’t realized was so cold. “You, me, and Syrie. Together, we’ll get through this.”

  Bryce held up a finger, letting Lehabah take it in both of her tiny, shimmering hands. “Deal.”

  75

  Ruhn had anticipated that the Summit would be intense, vicious, flat-out dangerous—each moment spent wondering whether someone’s throat would be ripped out. Just as it was at every one he’d attended.

  This time, his only enemy seemed to be boredom.

  It had taken Sandriel all of two hours to tell them that the Asteri had ordered more troops to the front from every House. There was no point in arguing. It wasn’t going to change. The order had come from the Asteri.


  Talk turned to the new trade proposals. And then circled and circled and circled, even Micah getting caught in the semantics of who did what and got what and on and on until Ruhn was wondering if the Asteri had come up with this meeting as some form of torture.

  He wondered how many of the Asterian Guard were sleeping behind their masks. He’d caught a few of the lesser members of the various delegations nodding off. But Athalar was alert—every minute, the assassin seemed to be listening. Watching.

  Maybe that was what the Governors wanted: all of them so bored and desperate to end this meeting that they eventually agreed to terms that weren’t to their advantage.

  There were a few holdouts, still. Ruhn’s father being one, along with the mer and the witches.

  One witch in particular.

  Queen Hypaxia spoke little, but he noticed that she, too, listened to every word being bandied about, her rich brown eyes full of wary intelligence despite her youth.

  It had been a shock to see her the first day—that familiar face in this setting, with her crown and royal robes. To know he’d been talking to his would-be betrothed for weeks now with no fucking idea.

  He’d managed to slip between two of her coven members as they filed into the dining hall the first day, and, like an asshole, demanded, “Why didn’t you say anything? About who you really are?”

  Hypaxia held her lunch tray with a grace better suited to holding a scepter. “You didn’t ask.”

  “What the Hel were you doing in that shop?”

  Her dark eyes shuttered. “My sources told me that evil was stirring in the city. I came to see for myself—discreetly.” It was why she’d been at the scene of the temple guard’s murder, he realized. And there the night Athalar and Bryce had been attacked in the park. “I also came to see what it was like to be … ordinary. Before this.” She waved with a hand toward her crown.

  “Do you know what my father expects of you? And me?”