A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses)

by Sarah J. Maas

  “It has something to do with the Trove,” Gwyn said, those teal eyes noticing too much.

  Nesta didn’t reply, and that was answer enough. Emerie knew the basics—as much as Gwyn had been told—and frowned. But she kept her voice whisper-soft. “So you really didn’t sleep with him?”

  Nesta did another curl, torso rising to her knees. “I didn’t say that.”

  Emerie let out a hmmm.

  Nesta’s cheeks flushed. Emerie and Gwyn swapped glances. And it was Gwyn who said, “Was it good?”

  Nesta did another curl, and Cassian barked from across the ring, “Emerie! Gwyn! If you can do those curls as well as you run your mouths, you’d be done by now.”

  Emerie and Gwyn grinned fiendishly. “Sorry!” they shouted, and launched into motion.

  Nesta grew still as Cassian’s gaze met hers. The space between them went taut, the sounds of the exercising priestesses fading into nothing, the sky an azure blur above, the wind a distant caress on her cheeks—

  “You too, Archeron,” he ordered, pointing to where Emerie and Gwyn now exercised, apparently doing their best not to laugh. “Do another fifteen.” Nesta threw a scowl at all of them and began her curls again. That was why she’d been avoiding eye contact with him.

  Cassian’s attention slid elsewhere, but with each curl upward, Nesta found herself reining in the urge to gaze his way. She lost count three times. Bastard.

  Between curls, Gwyn said, “You know, Nesta, if you’re having trouble concentrating …”

  “Oh, please,” Nesta muttered.

  Gwyn let out a breathy laugh. “I mean it. I learned about a new Valkyrie technique last night. It’s called Mind-Stilling.”

  Nesta managed to ask, body screeching with the effort of the curls, “What is it?”

  “They used it to steady their minds and emotions. Some of them did it three or four times a day. But it’s basically the act of sitting and letting your mind go quiet. It might help with your … concentration.”

  Emerie snickered, but Nesta paused, ignoring Gwyn’s implication. “Such a thing is possible? To train the mind?”

  Gwyn halted her exercising, too. Her teasing smile turned contemplative. “Well, yes. It requires constant practice, but there’s a whole chapter in this book I summarized for Merrill about how they did it. It involved deep breathing and becoming aware of one’s body, then learning to let go. They used it to remain calm in the face of their fears, to settle themselves after a hard battle, and to fight whatever inner demons they possessed.”

  “Illyrian warriors do no such thing,” Emerie murmured. “Their heads are full of rage and battle. It’s only gotten worse since the last war. Now that they’re rebuilding their ranks.”

  “The Valkyries found heightened emotions distracting in the face of an opponent,” Gwyn said. “They trained their minds to be weapons as sharp as any blade. To be able to keep their composure, to know how to access that place of calm in the midst of battle, made them unshakable opponents.”

  Nesta’s heart pounded with every word. Quieting her mind … “Can you get a scribe to make copies of the chapter?”

  Gwyn grinned. “I already did.”

  Cassian barked, “Do you three want to gossip or train?”

  Nesta threw him a scathing look. “Don’t tell him of this,” she warned them. “It’s our secret.” And wouldn’t Cassian be surprised when she became the unflappable one?

  Emerie and Gwyn nodded their agreement as Cassian sauntered over. Every muscle, every bit of blood and bone in Nesta’s body went on alert. She’d returned to the House this morning, winnowed in by a too-neutral Rhys. Cassian had been nowhere in sight.

  She’d had all of thirty minutes to eat breakfast and change into her spare leathers, since the ones she’d worn in the bog were still soaked. The pair she’d donned were bigger—not baggy, but just slightly larger. She hadn’t noticed how tight her usual set was until she slid into the far more comfortable ones. Hadn’t noticed how much muscle she’d packed onto her thighs and arms this month until she realized her movements had been restricted by the old pair.

  Cassian paused before them, hands on his hips. “Is there something more interesting today than your training?”

  He knew. The bastard knew they’d been discussing him. The spark in his eye, the half grin, told her.

  Emerie’s lips quivered with the effort to keep from smiling. “Not at all.”

  Gwyn’s attention bounced between Nesta and Cassian.

  Cassian said to the priestess, “Yes?”

  Gwyn shook her head too quickly to be innocent and began her abdominal curls again, sweat gleaming on her freckled face. Emerie joined her, the two of them working so diligently that it was laughable. Nesta peered up at Cassian. “What?”

  His eyes danced with wicked amusement. “Did you finish your set?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the push-ups?”

  “Yes.”

  He stepped closer, and she couldn’t help but think of how he’d approached last night, the way those hands had grasped her hips as he’d pounded into her from behind. Something must have shown on her face, because he said in a low voice, “You’ve certainly been productive, Nes.”

  She swallowed, and knew the two females beside her were eating up every word. But she lifted her chin. “When do we get to do something of use? When do we start on archery or swords?”

  “You think you’re ready to handle a sword?”

  Emerie let out a fizzing noise, but kept working.

  Nesta refused to smile, to blush, and said without breaking Cassian’s stare, “Only you can tell me that.”

  His nostrils flared. “Get up.”

  Cassian had told himself two dozen times since walking out of that bedroom that the sex had been a mistake. But watching Nesta challenge him, the innuendo like a sizzling flame, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

  Something to do with her only wanting sex, something to do with the sex being the best damn sex he’d ever had, and how it had left him in veritable pieces.

  Nesta blinked. “What?”

  He nodded toward the center of the pit. “You heard me. You think you’re ready to handle a sword, then prove it.”

  Her friends were clearly aware of what they’d done last night. Emerie couldn’t even hide her laughing, and Gwyn kept sneaking looks at them.

  He barked at the two females, “Finish your exercises now or do double.”

  They stopped their gawking.

  Nesta was still staring up at him, sweat and exertion filling that beautiful face of hers with color. A bead of perspiration slid down her temple, and he had to clench his fists to keep from leaning in to lick it away. She asked, “We’re going to learn swords?”

  He aimed for the rack across the ring and she followed. “We’re going to start with wooden practice swords. Over my rotting corpse am I putting actual steel into the hands of novices.”

  She snickered, and he stiffened. He tossed over a shoulder, “If you’re too childish to talk of blades without giggling, then you’re not ready for swordplay.”

  She scowled. But Cassian said, “These are weapons of death.” He let his voice lift so all the females could hear him, though he spoke only to her. “They need to be treated with a healthy dose of respect. I didn’t even touch a real sword for the first seven years.”

  “Seven years?” Gwyn demanded behind them.

  He reached the rack and drew out a long blade, a near-replica of the Illyrian one down his back. “You think children should be swinging around a real sword?”

  “No,” Gwyn sputtered. “I just meant—do you plan for us to practice with wooden swords for seven years?”

  “If you three keep giggling, then yes.”

  Nesta said to Gwyn and Emerie, “Don’t let him bully you.”

  Cassian snorted. “Dangerous words for a female about to go head-to-head with me.”

  She rolled her eyes, but hesitated when he extended the practice
sword to her hilt-first. “It’s heavy,” she observed as she took its full weight.

  “The real sword weighs more.”

  Nesta glanced to his shoulder, where the hilt of his blade peeked over. “Really?”

  “Yes.” He nodded to her hands. “Double-handed grip on the hilt. Don’t choke up too close to the shaft.”

  Emerie began coughing, and Nesta’s mouth twitched, but she held it—fought it. Even Cassian had to tamp down a laugh before he cleared his throat.

  But Nesta did as he bade.

  “Feet where I showed you,” he said, well aware of every eye on them. From the way Nesta’s face turned grave, Cassian knew she was aware, too. That this moment, with these priestesses watching, was pivotal, somehow.

  Vital.

  Nesta met Cassian’s stare. And every thought of sex, of how good it had felt, eddied from her head as she lifted the blade before her.

  It was like a key sliding into a lock at last.

  It was a wooden sword, and yet it wasn’t. It was a part of practice, and yet it wasn’t.

  Cassian walked her through eight different cuts and blocks. Each was an individual move, he’d explained, and like the punches, they could be combined. The most difficult thing was to remember to lead with the hilt of the sword—and to use her entire body, not just her arms.

  “Block one,” he ordered, and she lifted the sword perpendicular to her body, raising upward against an invisible enemy. “Slice three.” She rotated the blade, reminding herself to lead with the stupid hilt, and slashed downward at an angle. “Thrust one.” Another pivot and she lunged forward, slamming the blade through the breastplate of an imaginary enemy.

  Everyone had stopped to watch.

  “Block three,” Cassian commanded. Nesta switched to a one-handed grip, her left hand coming up to her chest, where he’d told her to hold it. That would be her shield hand, he’d said, and learning to keep it tucked close would be key to her survival. “Slice two.” She dragged the sword in a straight line upward, splitting that enemy from groin to sternum. “Block two.” She pivoted on one foot, dragging the sword from that enemy’s chest to intercept another invisible blow.

  None of her movements possessed any semblance of his elegance or power. They were stilted and it took her a second to remember each of the steps, but she told herself that would take more than thirty minutes of instruction. Cassian had reminded her of that often enough.

  “Good.” He crossed his arms. “Block one, slice three, thrust two.”

  She did so. The movements flowed faster, surer. Her breath clicked into sync with her body with each thrust.

  “Good, Nesta. Again.”

  She could see the muddy battlefield, and hear the screams of friend and foe alike. Each movement was a fight for survival, for victory.

  “Again.”

  She could see the King of Hybern, and the Cauldron, and the Ravens—see the kelpie and Tomas and all those people who had sneered at the Archerons’ poverty and desperation, the friends who had walked away with smiles on their faces.

  Her arm was a distant ache, secondary to that building song in her blood.

  It felt good. It felt so, so good.

  Cassian threw out different combinations, and she obeyed, let them flow through her.

  Every hated enemy, every moment she’d been powerless against them simmered to the surface. And with each movement of the sword, each breath, a thought formed. It echoed with every inhale, every thrust and block.

  Never again.

  Never again would she be weak.

  Never again would she be at someone’s mercy.

  Never again would she fail.

  Never again, never again, never again.

  Cassian’s voice stopped, and then the world paused, and all that existed was him, his fierce smile, as if he knew what song roared in her blood, as if he alone understood that the blade was an instrument to channel this raging fire in her.

  The other females were utterly silent. Their hesitation and shock shimmered in the air.

  Slowly, Nesta broke her stare from Cassian and looked to Emerie and Gwyn, already moving across the ring. Cassian had the wooden swords ready by the time they arrived.

  No fear shone in their eyes. As if they, too, saw what Cassian did. As if they, too, heard those words within Nesta’s head.

  Never again.

  CHAPTER

  39

  The fire inside her didn’t stop.

  Nesta could barely get through her work in the library that afternoon thanks to that fire, that bouncing energy. By the time the clock chimed six, she bade Clotho farewell and went straight to the outside stairwell.

  Down and down, around and around and around.

  Step to step to step.

  She didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

  As if she had been freed from a cage she hadn’t realized she’d been held in.

  Every step downward, she heard the words. Never again.

  She had escaped the kelpie by pure luck. But she had been terrified. As terrified as when she’d been hauled into the depths of the Cauldron, as terrified as she’d been with Tomas. At least with Tomas, she had fought. With the kelpie, she had barely done anything until the Mask had spared her.

  She had become so afraid. So meek and trembling. It was unacceptable. Unacceptable that she had let herself balk and cower and curl inward.

  Down and down, around and around and around.

  Step to step to step.

  Never again. Never, ever again.

  Nesta reached the six thousandth step and began the ascent.

  The first of the autumnal rains arrived the next day, and Cassian half-expected the priestesses not to show up for practice, but they were already waiting in the cold and wet when he entered the training ring. None bothered to use magic to keep dry.

  As if they wanted the grit, the extra effort.

  In the center of the group stood Nesta, her eyes already focused.

  Cassian’s blood heated, unable to keep his desire contained at the sight of that fierceness in her face, the eagerness to learn more, push harder.

  He hadn’t sought her out last night, deciding to sleep at the river house rather than risk temptation. The sex had been that good—and he knew if he didn’t put up some semblance of a barrier, it’d consume him entirely. She’d consume him entirely.

  Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn stood together, and—there were three new priestesses today.

  “Ladies,” he said by way of greeting, surveying the eleven soaked females waiting like troops to be commanded on a battlefield. Roslin had removed her hood, revealing a head of deep red hair and pale skin over delicate features. Her eyes were the color of caramel, and if she was afraid to be revealing her face at last, she did not let on. Cassian surveyed the rest of the lineup, and—well, that was new. Gwyn was in Illyrian leathers. Nesta’s old ones, from the scent of them.

  Cassian observed them, all clear-eyed and eager. “I think we need another tutor.”

  The next morning, though the females were hesitant around a newcomer, Azriel kept so aloof and quiet that they quickly relaxed around him. Az had readily agreed to squeeze in the lessons before heading out to keep an eye on Briallyn.

  Cassian continued to train Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn. The rain didn’t let up, and they were all soaked, but the exertion kept the bite of the cold away.

  “So this can really down a male in one move?” Gwyn asked Cassian as he stood before Nesta. They’d taken a break from the swords to stretch their hands, but rather than sit idle and have their bodies go stiff with inactivity, he’d shown them a few techniques to get out of a pinch.

  Gwyn had been distracted today—one eye on the other side of the ring. Cassian could only assume she was watching his brother, who had given Gwyn a small smile of greeting upon arrival. Gwyn hadn’t returned it. Cassian cursed himself for a fool. He should have asked her if she’d be comfortable with Azriel here. Perhaps he should have asked all the priestesses about includin
g another male, but especially Gwyn—whom Azriel had found that day in Sangravah.

  She’d said nothing about it during the lesson. Only glanced every now and then toward Az, who remained dutifully focused on his charges. Cassian couldn’t read the expression on her face.

  He concentrated on the females in front of him. “This move will knock anyone unconscious if you hit the right spot.” Cassian took Nesta’s hand, placing it on his neck. Her fingers were so small against his, and freezing cold. He might have run his thumb over the back of her hand before he positioned her fingers. “You want to go for this pressure point. Hit it hard enough, you’ll make them drop like a stone.”

  Nesta’s fingers tightened, and he grabbed her hand. But she smirked, as if knowing she’d caught him. He squeezed her chilled fingers. “I know you were thinking of it.”

  “I’d never do such a thing,” she said mildly, her eyes dancing.

  Cassian winked, and Nesta slid her hand from his neck. “All right,” he said. “Back to swords. Who wants to show me the eight points again?”

  Despite changing their clothes, Nesta and Gwyn remained chilled to the bone an hour after their lesson had finished. Nestled in a warm, comfortable nook in a rarely visited part of the library, Nesta sipped at her peppermint tea, letting its warmth soak through her body as she read through the chapter Gwyn had copied. She’d given one to Emerie before their friend had left, getting a promise from the Illyrian that she’d practice tonight and they’d compare notes tomorrow.

  “So it’s really that easy?” Nesta asked, setting down the papers on the worn couch cushion.

  Gwyn, seated on the opposite end of the couch, stretched her feet toward the fire, robes rustling. “It certainly seems easy, but according to everything I’ve read, it’s not.”

  “This says you just sit somewhere comfortable and quiet, close your eyes, breathe a whole lot, and let your mind go.”

  “I’m telling you: it took the Valkyries months to learn the basics, and mastering it required doing these exercises multiple times a day. But let’s try it. It says at the end of this chapter that if we’re doing this for the first time, we might grow sleepy—or even fall asleep during it—but learning to fight the urge to sleep is for further down the road.”