Feyre said hopefully, “Maybe the Made dagger we gave him will grant him immunity from the Crown. If he’s carrying the dagger, if they haven’t unarmed him, it might shield him against another Made object.”
“But we don’t know that,” Rhys countered. “And he’ll still be in Briallyn’s clutches. She might be able to sense the dagger herself—and it might respond to her.”
Az added darkly, “And there are plenty of other methods to get him to talk.”
Amren cut in, “You need to go now.” She turned to Feyre and Rhys. “We will return to Velaris and have a nice, long talk about this bargain of yours.”
Cassian didn’t bother to read Feyre’s and Rhys’s expressions as he gazed toward the small window, the wilderness beyond. As if he could see Nesta there.
He summoned his armor, the intricate scales and plates clamping with reassuring familiarity over his body. “I trained Nesta well. Trained them all well,” he said, his throat working. He added into the silence as Az tapped his Siphons and his own armor appeared, “If anyone can survive the Blood Rite, it’s them.”
If they could find each other.
Nesta broke into a flat-out sprint toward the tree with the knife, the male launching into movement only a heartbeat afterward.
He tripped over the scattered bodies, but Nesta kept her knees up. A mirror of every footwork exercise they’d done with the ladder on the ground, as if those bodies were the rope rungs to avoid. Muscle memory kicked in; she barely glanced at the tangle of limbs as she aimed for the tree. But the male had found his footing and closed in fast.
Someone had to have planted the weapon, either under the cover of darkness last night or weeks ago. The Blood Rite was savage enough without true weapons—only the weapons they made—but with actual steel thrown in …
The male had a good six inches and a hundred pounds on her. In physical combat, he’d possess every advantage. But if she could get that knife—
Nesta broke free of the bodies, legs flying as she ran the last few feet to the tree trunk with her hand outstretched. She brushed the knife’s handle—
The male barreled into her with all the force of a full-grown Illyrian warrior.
The breath whooshed out of her at the impact as they went down—and over the hill’s edge on the other side of the tree.
They tumbled toward the streambed a hundred feet below, flipping as they careened down the side of the hill. Rocks and leaves cracked and scratched against her, wings snapped above and below her, her hair lashed her face as her hands grappled—
Nesta slammed into the streambed so hard her spine groaned, the male landing atop her, sending every remaining scrap of breath exploding from her lungs.
His wings twitched. But he did not move.
Nesta opened her eyes to find herself staring into his unseeing gaze. To find her hand clenching the dagger she’d buried in his throat soaked in warm blood.
Grunting, Nesta rolled him off. Left the dagger sticking out of his throat, blood still leaking from the wound. The knife had pierced all the way through to the nape of his neck.
Nesta spat a mouthful of blood onto the dry stones. Her nightgown was covered in blood and dirt, her skin raw and stinging. But she was alive. And the male was not.
Nesta allowed herself to inhale slowly through her nose for a count of six. She held the breath, then slowly loosed it. Did the breathing exercise twice more. Assessed the state of her body, from her pounding head to her torn feet. Breathed again.
When her mind had stilled, Nesta pulled the knife from the male’s throat. Then stripped off his clothes, item by item, including his boots. She dressed herself with cold efficiency, shucking off the bloody nightgown and dropping it onto the male’s face in a mockery of a funeral shroud, then tucked the knife into the belt she cinched as tight as it would go. The clothes hung off her, and the too-big boots might be a liability, but it was better than the nightgown.
And then she went to find her friends.
CHAPTER
65
Nesta scaled the other side of the valley to find the land beyond empty of warriors. Behind her, across the small ravine, the others still slept. No sign of Emerie or Gwyn amongst them. No sign of where they might be, either.
Cassian had told her while lying in bed one night, sweaty and spent, that there were three dumping grounds for the Rite—one in the north, one in the west, and one in the south. Her friends had to be in the others, either together or one in each. They’d be terrified when they awoke.
Gwyn—
Nesta refused to consider it as she hurried through the pines, putting distance between herself and the sleeping warriors before she found a towering tree. She climbed, sap quickly coating her fingers, and when she cleared the canopy …
Ramiel might as well have been across an ocean. It loomed straight ahead, with two mountains and a sea of forest and the gods knew what else between her and its barren slopes. It looked identical to Feyre’s painting. She peered at the sun, then at the trunk below her, searching for moss. There—just below her left foot.
Ramiel was east. So she’d been dumped in the west, and the others …
She had to pick either north or south. Or would she be better off heading for the mountain and hoping she found them along the way?
She scoured her memory for any advice Cassian might have offhandedly given her. Cassian … Maybe he was already on his way to save her.
The bubble of hope in her chest ruptured. He couldn’t rescue her. He’d informed her himself about the laws forbidding such a thing. He’d be executed, and so would she. Even Rhysand or Feyre couldn’t stop it.
Cassian wasn’t coming to save her. No one was coming to save her, or Emerie, or Gwyn.
Nesta flexed her fingers, working some movement back into them after sitting still for so long. She swore softly at the blood that dribbled from the few small cuts on her hands.
They should have healed by now. But the magic that bound the Rite also suppressed any healing magic within a faerie’s blood, apparently. Including her own.
Any wounds could be fatal. Would heal at a human, mortal pace. Nesta allowed herself to take another few slow, steadying breaths. She could do this. Would do this.
She’d save her friends. And herself.
Shouting echoed from far behind her. The others were waking. Cursing, Nesta hurried down the tree, bark and pine needles sticking to her sap-crusted hands. She had to pick a direction, and be running by the time she hit the bottom.
The shouting behind her became accented by screams.
She glanced back, making sure no one was gaining on her. And as she did, she caught a flash of light from the woven bracelet on her left wrist. From the little silver charm in the middle, glinting in the light.
No—it was glowing.
Nesta brushed a fingertip over the charm. It buzzed against her skin. Dread sluiced through her—a pricking at her nape, as if a soft voice whispered, Hurry.
Nesta twisted to better see it against the sun, but the light within the charm vanished. Nesta pivoted northward. The charm shone again.
Brows rising, she angled her arm to the east: nothing. South: only a faint glow. No sense of urgency, of pure panic. But north … The charm blazed, and again that dread filled her.
Nesta sucked in a breath, remembering that night in the House when they’d made the bracelets. Remembering her wish for them: the courage to go out into the world when we are ready, but to always be able to find our way back to each other. No matter what.
She’d Made the charms. Into beacons. And whichever of her friends lay to the south wasn’t in nearly as much danger as the one to the north.
The land that way was uphill. A small blessing. The other warriors would likely choose the fastest and easiest way to Ramiel and avoid a route that involved climbing.
But how could the charms work here? The Rite banned magic, both from a wielder and from any objects. Unless the power surrounding the Rite didn’t stifle Made ite
ms. Fae spells had to be carefully worded—perhaps whoever had woven this spell for the Illyrians had never considered the possibility of a Made item winding up in the Rite.
Her own power lay dormant, though. She strained inward, reaching for it, but only emptiness met her.
Her throat tightened. She was herself a Made thing—and yet she was a person, too. The magic recognized her as a person and not a thing.
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to be shown that distinction. She inhaled the pine and distant promise of snow. Alive. Even in this hellscape, she was alive.
And she’d make sure her friends were, too.
Exhaling slowly, mastering her breath, Nesta lowered her arm and began moving.
Her too-big boots hit the ground, her toes shifting within them.
By the time Nesta straightened, checking the knife at her side, she was already heading north.
It occurred to Nesta after ten minutes of running uphill, the glimmering charm still urging her along, her feet in those infernal boots slipping this way and that, that she needed water. And food. And would need shelter before sunset. And would have to decide whether to risk a fire, or possibly die from cold just to avoid being found.
The clothes she’d swiped off the male weren’t thick enough to help her survive the night. And if the gray sky was any indication, snow or rain might be imminent.
But no warriors were on her tail. At least she had that. Unless they were as stealthy as Cassian and Azriel.
The thought had her checking her frantic pace, silencing her steps. Tucking the bracelet and glowing charm into her sleeve to hide its gleam in the dimness. Trying to leave scant evidence of her passing as she scaled a particularly steep hill and surveyed the terrain beyond.
More trees and rocks and—
Nesta dropped to the ground as an arrow whizzed past. A fucking arrow—
The knife hadn’t been a fluke. Someone had dumped weapons in the Blood Rite. Nesta scanned the terrain behind her for the arrow. There—stuck in the base of a tree.
She slid back down the hill until she reached it, pried it free, and tucked it into her belt. Then climbed the hill again, keeping low, as she peered over the crest once more.
And came face-to-face with a razor-sharp arrowhead.
“Get up,” the warrior growled.
With every league Cassian flew around the queens’ once-shared castle, Cassian cursed Eris for being stupid enough to get captured. Now this was Briallyn’s stronghold, he supposed. Patches of snow still crusted the hilly, open land, though the first buds and sprouts of spring poked through. He kept high enough that breathing was difficult, so high that he’d appear no more than a very large bird to any human on the ground. But with his Fae eyesight, he could clearly make out what crossed the land.
He saw nothing of Eris, though. No red hair, no lick of fire, no hint of his soldiers. Azriel, circling in the opposite direction, signaled that he hadn’t seen anything, either.
It was an effort to stay focused. To keep flying, circling like vultures, when his mind drifted to the northwest. To the Illyrian Mountains and the Blood Rite and Nesta.
Had she survived the initial surge? The warriors would be waking by now.
Fucking Eris. How could he have been reckless enough to let those soldiers get close?
Cassian again scanned the terrain below, fighting to keep his breathing steady in the thin air. He’d find Eris swiftly. Kick his ass, if he had time.
And what then? He couldn’t do anything to help Nesta. But at least he could be closer to the Rite. Should the worst happen …
He shut down the thought. Nesta would survive. Gwyn and Emerie would survive.
He’d allow no other alternative.
CHAPTER
66
The Illyrian warrior was smaller than the one Nesta had killed, but this male had gotten his hands on a bow and arrow.
“Give me your weapons,” he ordered, eyes darting over her, noting the blood coating her face, crusting her chin and neck.
Nesta didn’t move. Didn’t so much as lower her chin.
“Give me your fucking weapons,” the male warned, voice sharpening.
“Where did you come from?” she demanded, as if he didn’t have an arrow pointed at her face. And then, before he had time to answer, “Was another female there?”
The male blinked—and it was the only confirmation Nesta needed before she handed over the arrow. Slowly, slowly reached for the knife. “Did you kill her, too?” Her voice had dropped to pure ice.
“The crippled bitch? I left her to the others.” He grinned. “You’re better prey anyway.”
Emerie. She couldn’t be far off, if this male had already seen her. Nesta pulled the knife free.
The male kept the arrow pointed. “Drop it and back up ten paces.”
Emerie was alive. And nearby. And in danger.
And this motherfucker wouldn’t stop Nesta from saving her.
Nesta bowed her head, shoulders slumping in what she hoped the male believed was a show of resignation. Indeed, he smiled.
He didn’t stand a chance.
Nesta lowered the knife. And flicked her wrist, fingers splaying as she let it soar toward the male.
Right into his groin.
He screamed, and she charged as his hand loosed on the bow. She slammed into him and the weapon, the string slapping her face hard enough to draw tears, but they crashed down, and he was shrieking—
No one would stand between her and her friends.
Her mind slid to a place of cold and calm. She grabbed the bow, flung it away. As the male writhed on the ground, trying to wrench out the knife piercing his balls, she leaped upon it, shoving it in harder. His scream sent birds scattering from the pines.
Nesta twisted the blade free, leaving him lying there. She grabbed the two arrows but didn’t bother freeing the quiver pinned beneath his back. She retrieved the Illyrian bow, snatched her knife, and ran in the direction from which he’d come.
His howls followed her for miles.
A river announced its presence well before Nesta reached it. So did the warriors on its near bank, tentatively speaking with each other—feeling each other out, she guessed—as they filled what seemed to be canteens. Like someone had left those, too.
No sign of Emerie.
She kept behind a tree, downwind, and listened.
Not a whisper about Emerie or another female. Just tense rule-making about the alliances they were forming, how to reach Ramiel, who had left the weapons and canteens for them …
She was about to hunt for an easy spot to cross the river, away from the males, when she heard, “Pity that bitch escaped. She’d have made for good entertainment on the cold nights.”
Everything in Nesta’s body went still. Emerie had made it to this river. Alive.
Another said, drinking from the rushing water, “She’s probably washed halfway down the mountain. If she isn’t dead from the rapids, the beasts will get her before dawn.”
Emerie must have jumped into the river to get away from these males.
Nesta ran her fingers across the bow slung over her shoulder. The arrows in her belt hung like weights. She should kill them for this. Fire these two arrows into two of them and kill them for hurting her friend—
But if Emerie had survived …
She pushed off the tree. Slipped to the next. And the next. Followed the river, her steps barely more than the whisper of water over stone.
Through the pines, down the hills. The rapids increased, the rocks rising like black spears. A waterfall roared ahead. If Emerie had gone over it …
The rapids hurtled over the edge, to the bottom a hundred feet below. No surviving that.
Nesta’s throat dried out.
And dried out further as she beheld what lay across the river, caught on a fallen tree jutting from the rocky bank directly before the plunge to the falls.
Emerie.
Nesta rushed to the edge of the water, but
snatched her foot back from its icy fingers. Emerie appeared unconscious, but Nesta didn’t dare risk shouting her name. A glance at the sky revealed the sun at its midafternoon point, but it offered no heat, no salvation.
How long had Emerie been in the frigid water?
“Think,” Nesta murmured. “Think, think.”
Each minute in the water risked killing Emerie. She lay too far away to discern any injuries, but she didn’t stir against the branch. Only her twitching wings showed any sign of life.
Nesta peeled off her clothes. Wished she’d taken the nightgown to tie her knife and two arrows around her leg, rather than leave them on the shore, but she had no choice. She took the Illyrian bow, though, strapping it across her chest, the string digging into her bare skin.
Naked, she eyed the distance between the falls, the rapids, the rocks, and Emerie.
“Rock to rock,” she told herself. Braced for the cold.
And leaped into the water.
Nesta gasped and sputtered at the icy shock, hands shaking so hard she feared she’d lose her grip on the slick rocks and be hurtled over the falls. But she kept going. Aiming for Emerie. Closer and closer, until finally she swam frantically between the last rock and the riverbank—and Emerie draped over the half-submerged tree beyond it.
Shaking, teeth chattering, Nesta dragged Emerie free of the branches and farther up the bank, then crouched over her.
Emerie’s face was battered, her arm bleeding from a gash in her biceps. But she breathed.
Nesta reined in her sob of relief and gently shook her friend. “Emerie, wake up.”
The female didn’t so much as moan in pain. Nesta searched through Emerie’s dark hair, and her fingers came away bloody.
She had to get her across the river. Find shelter. Make a fire and get them warm. The bow she’d carried wasn’t enough to protect them. Not nearly.
“All right, Emerie.” Nesta’s teeth chattered so hard her face ached. “Sorry about this.”
She gripped her friend’s nightgown and ripped it down the middle, baring Emerie’s thin, toned body to the elements. Nesta peeled off the nightgown and twisted it into a long rope, then unshouldered the bow.
A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses) Page 60