A Court of Wings and Ruin

by Sarah J. Maas

  Rhys put a hand on the small of my back before the words even struck their target.

  Nesta snorted. “But it’s not me you should be checking on. I had as little at stake on the other side of the wall as I do here.” Hate rippled over her features—enough hate that I felt sick. Nesta hissed. “She will not leave her room. She will not stop crying. She will not eat, or sleep, or drink.”

  Rhys’s jaw clenched. “I have asked you over and over if you needed—”

  “Why should I allow any of you”—the last word was shot at Cassian with as much venom as a pit viper—“to get near her? It is no one’s business but our own.”

  “Elain’s mate is here,” I said.

  And it was the wrong thing to utter in Nesta’s presence.

  She went white with rage.

  “He is no such thing to her,” she snarled, advancing on me enough that Rhys slid a shield into place between us.

  As if he, too, had glimpsed that mighty power in her eyes that day in Hybern. And did not know how it would manifest.

  “If you bring that male anywhere near her, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Cassian crooned, trailing her at a casual pace as she stopped perhaps five feet from me. He lifted a brow as she whirled on him. “You won’t join me for practice, so you sure as hell aren’t going to hold your own in a fight. You won’t talk about your powers, so you certainly aren’t going to be able to wield them. And you—”

  “Shut your mouth,” she snapped, every inch the conquering empress. “I told you to stay the hell away from me, and if you—”

  “You come between a male and his mate, Nesta Archeron, and you’re going to learn about the consequences the hard way.”

  Nesta’s nostrils flared. Cassian only gave her a crooked grin.

  I cut in, “If Elain is not up for it, then she won’t see him. I won’t force the meeting on her. But he does wish to see her, Nesta. I’ll ask on his behalf, but the decision will be hers.”

  “The male who sold us out to Hybern.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Well, it will certainly be more complicated when Father returns and finds us gone. What do you plan to tell him about all this?”

  “Seeing as he hasn’t sent word from the continent in months, I’ll worry about that later,” I sniped back. And thank the Cauldron for it—that he was off trading in some lucrative territory.

  Nesta only shook her head, turning toward the chair and her book. “I don’t care. Do what you want.”

  A stinging dismissal, if not admission that she still trusted me enough to consider Elain’s needs first. Rhys jerked his chin at Cassian in a silent order to leave, and as I followed them, I said softly, “I’m sorry, Nesta.”

  She didn’t answer as she sat stiffly in her chair, picked up her book, and dutifully ignored us. A blow to the face would have been better.

  When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well.

  I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister.

  The sorrow. And the longing.

  The suite was filled with sunlight.

  Every curtain shoved back as far as it could go, to let in as much sun as possible.

  As if any bit of darkness was abhorrent. As if to chase it away.

  And seated in a small chair before the sunniest of the windows, her back to us, was Elain.

  Where Nesta had been in contented silence before we found her, Elain’s silence was … hollow.

  Empty.

  Her hair was down—not even braided. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen it unbound. She wore a moon-white silk dressing robe.

  She did not look, or speak, or even flinch as we entered.

  Her too-thin arms rested on her chair. That iron engagement ring still encircled her finger.

  Her skin was so pale it looked like fresh snow in the harsh light.

  I realized then that the color of death, of sorrow, was white.

  The lack of color. Of vibrancy.

  I left Cassian and Rhys by the door.

  Nesta’s rage was better than this … shell.

  This void.

  My breath caught as I edged around her chair. Beheld the city view she stared so blankly at.

  Then beheld the hollowed-out cheeks, the bloodless lips, the brown eyes that had once been rich and warm, and now seemed utterly dull. Like grave dirt.

  She didn’t so much as look at me as I said softly, “Elain?”

  I didn’t dare reach for her hand.

  I didn’t dare get too close.

  I had done this. I had brought this upon them—

  “I’m back,” I added a bit limply. Uselessly.

  All she said was, “I want to go home.”

  I closed my eyes, my chest unbearably tight. “I know.”

  “He’ll be looking for me,” she whispered.

  “I know,” I said again. Not Lucien—she wasn’t talking about him at all.

  “We were supposed to be married next week.”

  I put a hand on my chest, as if it’d stop the cracking in there. “I’m sorry.”

  Nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion. “Everyone keeps saying that.” Her thumb brushed the ring on her finger. “But it doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

  I couldn’t get enough air in. I couldn’t—I couldn’t breathe, looking at this broken, carved-out thing my sister had become. What I’d robbed her of, what I’d taken from her—

  Rhys was there, an arm sliding around my waist. “Can we get you anything, Elain?” He spoke with such gentleness I could barely stand it.

  “I want to go home,” she repeated.

  I couldn’t ask her—about Lucien. Not now. Not yet.

  I turned away, fully prepared to bolt and completely fall apart in another room, another section of the House. But Lucien was standing in the doorway.

  And from the devastation on his face, I knew he’d heard every word. Seen and heard and felt the hollowness and despair radiating from her.

  Elain had always been gentle and sweet—and I had considered it a different sort of strength. A better strength. To look at the hardness of the world and choose, over and over, to love, to be kind. She had been always so full of light.

  Perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been.

  And now nothing remained.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Rhysand silently led Lucien to the suite he’d be occupying at the opposite end of the House of Wind. Cassian and I trailed behind, none of us speaking until my mate opened a set of onyx doors to reveal a sunny sitting room carved from more red stone. Beyond the wall of windows, the city flowed far below, the view stretching to the distant jagged mountains and glittering sea.

  Rhys paused in the center of a midnight-blue handwoven rug and gestured to the sealed doors on his left. “Bedroom.” He waved a lazy hand toward the single door on the opposite wall. “Bathing room.”

  Lucien surveyed it all with cool indifference. What he felt about Elain, what he planned to do … I didn’t want to ask.

  “I assume you’ll need clothes,” Rhys went on, nodding toward Lucien’s filthy jacket and pants—which he’d worn for the past week while we scrambled through territories. Indeed, that was … blood splattered in several spots. “Any preferences for attire?”

  That drew Lucien’s attention, the male shifting enough to take in Rhys—to note Cassian and me lurking in the doorway. “Is there a cost?”

  “If you’re trying to say that you have no money, don’t worry—the clothes are complimentary.” Rhys gave him a half smile. “If you’re trying to ask if this is some sort of bribe …” A shrug. “You are a High Lord’s son. It would be bad manners not to house and clothe you in your time of need.”

  Lucien bristled.

  Stop baiting him, I shot down the bond.

  But it’s so fun, ca
me the purred reply.

  Something had rattled him. Rattled Rhys enough that taunting Lucien was an easy way to take the edge off. I stepped closer, Cassian remaining behind me as I told Lucien, “We’ll be back for dinner in a few hours. Rest a while—bathe. If you need anything, pull that rope by the door.”

  Lucien stiffened—not at what I’d said, I realized, but at the tone. A hostess. But he asked, “What of—Elain?”

  Your call, Rhys offered.

  “I need to think about it,” I answered plainly. “Until I figure out what to do with her, with Nesta, stay out of their way.” I added perhaps too tightly, “This house is warded against winnowing, both from outside and within. There’s one way out—the stairs to the city. It, too, is warded—and guarded. Please don’t do anything stupid.”

  “So am I a prisoner?”

  I could feel the response simmering in Rhys, but I shook my head. “No. But understand while you may be her mate, Elain is my sister. I’ll do what I must to protect her from further harm.”

  “I would never hurt her.”

  A bleak sort of honesty in his words.

  I simply nodded, loosening a breath, and met Rhysand’s stare in silent urging.

  My mate gave no indication of my wordless plea as he said, “You are free to wander where you wish, into the city itself if you feel like braving the stairs, but there are two conditions: you are not to take either sister, and you are not to enter their floor. If you require a book from the library, you will ask the servants. If you wish to speak to Elain or Nesta, you will also ask the servants, who will ask us. If you disregard those rules, I’ll lock you in a room with Amren.”

  Then Rhys turned away, hands sliding into his pockets as he offered his hooked elbow to me. I looped my arm through his, but said to Lucien, “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

  We were almost to the door, Cassian already in the hall, when Lucien said to me, “Thank you.”

  I didn’t dare ask him for what.

  We flew right to Amren’s loft, more than a few people waving as we soared over the rooftops of Velaris. My smile wasn’t faked when I waved back to them—my people. Rhys only held me a bit tighter while I did so, his own smile as bright as the sun on the Sidra.

  Mor and Azriel were already waiting inside Amren’s apartment, seated like scolded children on the threadbare divan against the wall while the dark-haired female flipped through the pages of books sprawled around her on the floor.

  Mor gave me a grateful, relieved look as we entered, Azriel’s own face revealing nothing while he stood, keeping a careful, too-casual distance from her side. But it was Amren who said from the floor, “You should kill Beron and his sons and set up the handsome one as High Lord of Autumn, self-imposed exile or no. It will make life easier.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” Rhys said, striding toward her while I remained with the others. If they were hanging back … Amren had to be in some mood.

  I blew out a breath. “Who else thinks it’s a terrible idea to leave the three of them up at the House of Wind?”

  Cassian raised his hand as Rhys and Mor chuckled. The High Lord’s general said, “I give him an hour before he tries to see her.”

  “Thirty minutes,” Mor countered, sitting back down on the divan and crossing her legs.

  I cringed. “I guarantee Nesta is now guarding Elain. I think she might honestly kill him if he so much as tries to touch her.”

  “Not without training she won’t,” Cassian grumbled, tucking in his wings as he claimed the seat beside Mor that Azriel had vacated. The shadowsinger didn’t so much as look at it. No, Azriel just walked to the wall beside Cassian and leaned against the wood paneling.

  But Rhys and the others remained quiet enough that I knew to proceed carefully as I asked Cassian, “Nesta spoke as if you’ve been up at the House … often. You’ve offered to train her?”

  Cassian’s hazel eyes shuttered as he crossed a booted ankle over another, stretching his muscled legs before him. “I go up there every other day. It’s good exercise for my wings.” Those wings shifted in emphasis. Not a scratch marred them.

  “And?”

  “And what you saw in the library is a pleasanter version of the conversation we always have.”

  Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times.

  “I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

  His Siphons flickered in answer.

  Rhys said casually, “I’m sure the king will thoroughly enjoy the experience.”

  Cassian glowered. “I mean it.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt that you do.” Rhys’s violet eyes were dazzling in the dimness of the loft. “But before you lose yourself in plans for revenge, do remember that we have a war to plan first.”

  “Asshole.”

  A corner of my mate’s mouth tugged upward. And—Rhys was goading him, working Cassian into a temper to keep that brittle edge of guilt from consuming him. The others letting him take on the task, likely having done it several times themselves these weeks. “I am most definitely that,” Rhys said, “but the fact still remains that revenge is secondary to winning this war.”

  Cassian opened his mouth as if he’d keep arguing, but Rhys peered at the books scattered on the lush carpet. “Nothing?” he asked Amren.

  “I don’t know why you sent those two buffoons”—a narrowed glance toward Mor and Azriel—“to monitor me.” So this was where Azriel had gone—right to the loft. To no doubt spare Mor from enduring Amren Duty alone. But Amren’s tone … cranky, yes, but perhaps a bit of a front, too. To banish that too-fragile gleam in Cassian’s eyes.

  “We’re not monitoring you,” Mor said, tapping her foot on the carpet. “We’re monitoring the Book.”

  And as she said it … I felt it. Heard it.

  Amren had placed the Book of Breathings on her nightstand.

  A glass of old blood atop it.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. The latter won out as the Book murmured, Hello, sweet-faced liar. Hello, princess with—

  “Oh, be quiet,” Amren hissed toward the Book, who—shut up. “Odious thing,” she muttered, and went back to the tome before her.

  Rhys gave me a wry smile. “Since the two halves of the Book were joined back together, it has been … known to speak every now and then.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Utter nonsense,” Amren spat, scowling at the Book. “It just likes to hear itself talk. Like most of the people cramping up my apartment.”

  Cassian smirked. “Did someone forget to feed Amren again?”

  She pointed a warning finger at him without so much as looking up. “Is there a reason, Rhysand, why you dragged your yapping pack into my home?”

  Her home was little more than a giant, converted attic, but none of us dared argue as Mor, Cassian, and Azriel finally came closer, forming a small circle around Amren’s sprawl in the center of the room.

  Rhys said to me, “The information you got from Dagdan and Brannagh confirms what we’ve been gathering ourselves while you were gone. Especially Hybern’s potential allies in other territories—on the continent.”

  “Vultures,” Mor muttered, and Cassian looked inclined to agree.

  But Rhys—Rhys had indeed been spying, while Azriel had been—

  Rhys snorted. “I can stay hidden, mate.”

  I glared at him, but Azriel cut in. “Having Hybern’s movements confirmed by you, Feyre, is what we needed.”

  “Why?”

  Cassian crossed his arms. “We barely stand a chance of surviving Hybern’s armies on our own. If arm
ies from Vallahan, Montesere, and Rask join them …” He drew a line across his tan throat.

  Mor elbowed him in the ribs. Cassian nudged her right back as Azriel shook his head at both of them, shadows coiling around the tips of his wings.

  “Are those three territories … that powerful?” Perhaps it was a foolish question, showing how little I knew of the faerie lands on the continent—

  “Yes,” Azriel said, no judgment in his hazel eyes. “Vallahan has the numbers, Montesere has the money, and Rask … it is large enough to have both.”

  “And we have no potential allies amongst the other overseas territories?”

  Rhys pulled at a stray thread on the cuff of his black jacket. “Not ones that would sail here to help.”

  My stomach turned. “What of Miryam and Drakon?” He’d once refused to consider, but— “You fought for Miryam and Drakon centuries ago,” I said to Rhys. He’d done a great deal more than that, if Jurian was to be believed. “Perhaps it’s time to call in that debt.”

  But Rhys shook his head. “We tried. Azriel went to Cretea.” The island where Miryam, Drakon, and their unified human and Fae peoples had secretly lived for the past five centuries.

  “It was abandoned,” Azriel said. “In ruin. With no trace of what happened or where they went.”

  “You think Hybern—”

  “There was no sign of Hybern, or of any harm,” Mor cut in, her face taut. They had been her friends, too—during the War. Miryam, and Drakon, and the human queens who had gotten the Treaty signed. And it was worry—true, deep worry—that guttered in her brown eyes. In all their eyes.

  “Then do you think they heard about Hybern and ran?” I asked. Drakon had a winged legion, Rhys had once told me. If there was any chance of finding them—

  “The Drakon and Miryam I knew wouldn’t have run—not from this,” Rhys said.

  Mor leaned forward, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders. “But with Jurian now a player in this conflict … Miryam and Drakon, whether they like it or not, have always been tied to him. I don’t blame them for running, if he truly hunts them.”