A Court of Wings and Ruin

by Sarah J. Maas

  “There is a war,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “A terrible war about to break across the land. If I can free you, will you fight for me? For me and my High Lord?”

  The thing—Bryaxis—did not reply.

  I nudged Amren with my elbow.

  She said, her voice as young and old as the creature’s, “We will offer you freedom from this place in exchange for it.”

  A bargain. A simple, powerful magic. As great as any the Book could muster.

  This is my home.

  I considered. “Then what is it you want in exchange?”

  Silence.

  Sunlight. And moonlight. The stars.

  I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t entirely sure that even as High Lady of the Night Court I could promise such things, but Amren stepped on my foot and murmured, “A window. High above.”

  Not a mirror, as the Carver wanted. But a window in the mountain. We’d have to carve far, far up, but—

  “That’s it?”

  Amren stomped on my foot this time.

  Bryaxis whispered in my ear, Will I be able to hunt without restraint on the battlefields? Drink in their fear and dread until I am sated?

  I felt slightly bad for Hybern as I said, “Yes—only Hybern. And only until the war is over.” One way or another.

  A beat of silence. What would you have me do, then?

  I gestured to Amren. “She will explain. She will disable the wards—when we need you.”

  Then I will wait.

  “Then it’s a bargain. You will obey our orders in this war, fight for us until we no longer need you, and in exchange … we shall bring the sun and moon and stars to you. In your home.” Another prisoner who had come to love its cell. Perhaps Bryaxis and the Carver should meet. An ancient death-god and the face of nightmares. The painting, dreadful yet alluring, began to creep roots deep within my mind.

  I kept my shoulders loose, posture as casual as I could summon while the darkness slid around me, winding between me and Amren, and whispered into my ear, It is a bargain.

  I made the hour count. When we all gathered in the town house foyer once more to winnow to the Illyrian camp, I’d changed into my fighting leathers, my new tattoo concealed beneath.

  No one asked where I’d gone. Though Mor looked me over and said, “Where’s Amren?”

  “Still poring over the Book,” I answered just as Rhys winnowed into the town house. Not a lie. Amren would stay here—until we needed her at the battlefields.

  Rhys angled his head. “Looking for what? The wall is gone.”

  “For anything,” I said. “For another way to nullify the Cauldron that doesn’t involve the insides of my head leaking out through my nose.”

  Rhys cringed and opened his mouth to object, but I cut him off. “There must be another way—Amren thinks there must be another way. It doesn’t hurt to look. And have her hunt for any other spell that might stop the king.”

  And when Amren was not doing that … she’d bring down those complex wards containing Bryaxis beneath the library—to be severed only when I called for Bryaxis. Only when the might of Hybern’s army was fully upon us. If I could not get the Ouroboros for the Carver … then Bryaxis was better than nothing.

  I wasn’t entirely certain why I didn’t mention it to the others.

  Rhys’s eyes flickered, no doubt warring with the idea of what role any other route would require of me in regard to the Cauldron, but he nodded.

  I interlaced my fingers with his, and he squeezed once.

  Behind me, Mor took Nesta and Cassian by the hand, readying to winnow them to the camp, while shadows gathered around Azriel, Elain at his side, wide-eyed at the spymaster’s display.

  But we hesitated—all of us. And I allowed myself one last time to drink it in, the furniture and the wood and the sunlight. To listen to the sounds of Velaris, the laughing of children in the streets, the song of the gulls.

  In the silence, I knew my friends were, too.

  Rhys cleared his throat, and nodded to Mor. Then she was gone, Cassian and Nesta with her. Then Azriel, gently taking Elain’s hand in his own, as if afraid his scars would hurt her.

  Alone with Rhys, I savored the buttery sunshine leaking in from the windows of the front door. Breathed in the smell of the bread Nuala and Cerridwen had baked that morning with Elain.

  “The creature in the library,” I murmured. “Its name is Bryaxis.”

  Rhys lifted a brow. “Oh?”

  “I offered it a bargain. To fight for us.”

  Stars danced in those violet eyes. “And what did Bryaxis say?”

  “Only that it wants a window—to see the stars and moon and sun.”

  “You did explain that we need it to slaughter our enemies, didn’t you?”

  I nudged him with a hip. “The library is its home. It only wanted some adjustments made to it.”

  A crooked smile tugged on Rhys’s mouth. “Well, I suppose if I now have to redecorate my own lodgings to match Thesan’s splendor, I might as well add a window for the poor thing.”

  I elbowed him in the ribs that time. He still wore his finery from the meeting. Rhys chuckled. “So our army grows by one. Poor Cassian will never recover when he sees his newest recruit.”

  “With any luck, Hybern won’t, either.”

  “And the Carver?”

  “He can rot down there. I don’t have time for his games. Bryaxis will have to be enough.”

  Rhys glanced at my arm, as if he could see the new, second band beside the first one. He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of my palm.

  Again, we silently looked around the town house, taking in every last detail, the quiet that now lay like a layer of dust upon it.

  Rhys said softly, “I wonder if we’ll see it again.”

  I knew he wasn’t just talking about the house. But I rose up on my toes and kissed his cheek. “We will,” I promised as a dark wind gathered to sweep us to the Illyrian war-camp. I held tightly to him as I added, “We’ll see it all again.”

  And when that night-kissed wind winnowed us away, away into war, away into untold danger … I prayed that my promise held true.

  PART THREE

  HIGH LADY

  CHAPTER

  51

  Even at the height of summer, the Illyrian mountain-camp was damp. Brisk. There were some truly lovely days, Rhys assured me when I scowled as we winnowed in, but cooler weather was better anyway, when an army was involved. Heat made tempers rise. Especially when it was too hot to sleep comfortably. And considering the Illyrians were a testy lot to begin with … It was a blessing that the sky was cloudy and the wind mist-kissed.

  But even the weather wasn’t enough to make the greeting party look pleasant.

  I only recognized one of the muscle-bound Illyrians in full armor waiting for us. Lord Devlon. The sneer was still on his face—though milder compared to the outright contempt contorting the features of a few. Like Azriel and Cassian, they possessed dark hair and eyes of assorted hazel and brown. And like my friends, their skin was rich shades of golden brown, some flecked with bone-white scars of varying severity.

  But unlike my friends, one or two Siphons adorned their hands. The seven Azriel and Cassian wore seemed almost vulgar by comparison.

  But the gathered males only looked at Rhys, as if the two Illyrians flanking him were little more than trees. Mor and I remained on either side of Nesta, who had changed into a dark blue, practical dress and now surveyed the camp, the winged warriors, the sheer size of the host assembled in the camp around us …

  We kept Elain half-hidden behind the wall of our bodies. Considering the backward view of the Illyrians toward females, I’d suggested we remain a step away on this meeting—literally. There were only a few female fighters in the legion … Now was not the time to test the tolerance of the Illyrians. Later—later, if we won this war. If we survived.

  Devlon was speaking, “It’s true, then. The wall came down.”

&n
bsp; “A temporary failure,” Rhys crooned. He was still wearing his fine jacket and pants from the meeting with the High Lords. For whatever reason, he hadn’t chosen to wear the Illyrian leathers. Or the wings.

  It’s because they already know I trained with them, am one of them. They need to remember that I’m also their High Lord. And I have no intention of loosening the leash.

  The words were a silk-covered scrape of nails down my mind.

  Rhys began giving unwavering, cold instructions about the impending push southward. The voice of the High Lord—the voice of a warrior who had fought in the War and had no intention of losing this one. Cassian frequently added his own orders and clarifications.

  Azriel—Azriel just stared them all down. He had not wanted to come to the camp months ago. Disliked being back here. Hated these people, his heritage.

  The other lords kept glancing to the shadowsinger in dread and rage and disgust. He only leveled that lethal gaze back at them.

  On and on they went, until Devlon looked over Rhys’s shoulder—to where we stood.

  A scowl at Mor. A frown at me—wisely subdued. Then he noticed Nesta.

  “What is that,” Devlon asked.

  Nesta merely stared at him, one hand clamping the edges of her gray cloak together at her chest. One of the other camp-lords made some sign against evil.

  “That,” Cassian said too quietly, “is none of your concern.”

  “Is she a witch.”

  I opened my mouth, but Nesta said flatly, “Yes.”

  And I watched as nine full-grown, weathered Illyrian warlords flinched.

  “She may act like one sometimes,” Cassian clarified, “but no—she is High Fae.”

  “She is no more High Fae than we are,” Devlon countered.

  A pause that went on for too long. Even Rhys seemed at a loss for words. Devlon had complained when we’d first met that Amren and I were Other. As if he possessed some sense for such things. Devlon muttered, “Keep her away from the females and children.”

  I clutched Nesta’s free hand in silent warning to remain quiet.

  Mor let out a snort that made the Illyrians stiffen. But she shifted, revealing Elain behind her. Elain was just blinking, wide-eyed, at the camp. The army.

  Devlon let out a grunt at the sight of her. But Elain wrapped her own blue cloak around herself, averting her eyes from all of those towering, muscled warriors, the army camp bustling toward the horizon … She was a rose bloom in a mud field. Filled with galloping horses.

  “Don’t be afraid of them,” Nesta said beneath lowered brows.

  If Elain was a blooming flower in this army camp, then Nesta … she was a freshly forged sword, waiting to draw blood.

  Take them into our war tent, Rhys said silently to me. Devlon honestly might throw a hissy fit if he has to face Nesta for another minute.

  I’d pay good money to see that.

  So would I.

  I hid my smile. “Let’s find something warm to drink,” I said to my sisters, beckoning Mor to join. We aimed for the largest of the tents in the camp, a black banner sewn with a mountain and three silver stars flapping from its apex. Warriors and females laboring around the fires silently monitored us. Nesta stared them all down. Elain kept her focus on the dry, rocky ground.

  The tent’s interior was simple yet luxurious: thick carpets covered the low wooden platform on which the tent had been erected to keep out the damp; braziers of faelights flickered throughout, chairs and a few chaise longues were scattered around, covered in thick furs. A massive desk with several chairs occupied one half of the main space. And behind a curtain in the back … I assumed our bed waited.

  Mor flung herself onto the nearest chaise. “Welcome to an Illyrian war-camp, ladies. Try to keep your awe contained.”

  Nesta drifted toward the desk, the maps atop it. “What is the difference,” she asked none of us in particular, “between a faerie and a witch?”

  “Witches amass power beyond their natural reserve,” Mor answered with sudden seriousness. “They use spells and archaic tools to harness more power to them than the Cauldron allotted—and use it for whatever they desire, good or ill.”

  Elain silently surveyed the tent, head tipping back. Her mass of heavy brown-gold hair shifted with the movement, the faelight dancing among the silken strands. She’d left it half-up, the style arranged to hide her ears should the glamours fail at Graysen’s estate. Tamlin’s hadn’t worked on Nesta—perhaps Graysen and his father would have a similar immunity to such things.

  Elain at last slid into the chair near Mor’s, her dawn-pink dress—finer than the ones she usually wore—crinkling beneath her. “Will—will many of these soldiers die?”

  I cringed, but Nesta said, “Yes.” I could almost see the unspoken words Nesta reined in. Your mate might die sooner than them, though.

  Mor said, “Whenever you’re ready, Elain, I’ll glamour you.”

  “Will it hurt?” Elain asked.

  “It didn’t when Tamlin glamoured your memories,” Nesta said, leaning against the desk.

  Mor still said, “No. It might … tingle. Just act as you would as a human.”

  “It’s the same as how I act now.” Elain began wringing her slender fingers.

  “Yes,” I said, “but … try to keep the vision-talk … to yourself. While we’re there.” I added quickly, “Unless it’s something that you can’t—”

  “I can,” Elain said, squaring her slim shoulders. “I will.”

  Mor smiled tightly. “Deep breath.”

  Elain obeyed. I blinked, and it was done.

  Gone was the faint glow of immortal health; the face that had become a bit sharper. Gone were the pointed ears, the grace. Muted. Drab—or in the way that someone as beautiful as Elain could be drab. Even her hair seemed to have lost its luster, the gold now brassy, the brown mousy.

  Elain studied her hands, turning them over. “I hadn’t realized … how ordinary it looked.”

  “You’re still lovely,” Mor said a bit gently.

  Elain offered a half smile. “I suppose that war makes wanting things like that unimportant.”

  Mor was quiet for a heartbeat. “Perhaps. But you should not let war steal it from you regardless.”

  Elain’s palm was clammy in mine as Rhys winnowed us into the human lands, Mor taking Azriel and Nesta. And though her face was calm when we found ourselves blinking at the heat and sunshine of a full mortal summer, her grip on my hand was as strong as the iron ring around her finger.

  The heat lay heavy over the estate we now faced—the stone guardhouse the only opening I could see in either direction.

  The only opening in the towering stone wall rising up before us, solid as some mammoth beast, so high I had to crane my neck back to spy the spikes jutting from its top.

  The guards at the thick iron gates …

  Rhys slid his hands into his pockets, a shield already around us. Mor and Azriel took up defensive positions at our sides.

  Twelve guards at this gate. All armed, faces hidden beneath thick helmets, despite the heat. Their bodies were equally covered in plated armor, right down to their boots.

  Any of us could end their lives without lifting a hand. And the wall they guarded, the gates they held … I did not think they would last long, either.

  But … if we could place wards here, perhaps set up a bastion of Fae warriors … Through those open gates, I glimpsed sprawling lands—fields and pastures and groves and a lake … And beyond it … a solid, bulky fortress of dark brown stone.

  Nesta had been right. It was like a prison, this place. Its lord had prepared to weather the storm from inside, a king over these resources. But there was room. Plenty of room for people.

  And the would-be mistress of this prison … Head high, Elain said to the guards, to the dozen arrows now pointed at her slender throat, “Tell Graysen that his betrothed has come for him. Tell him … tell him that Elain Archeron begs for sanctuary.”

  CHAPTER


  52

  We waited outside the gates while a guard mounted a horse and galloped down the long, dusty road to the fortress itself. A second curtain wall lay around the bulky building. With our Fae sight, we could see as those gates opened, then another pair.

  “How did you even meet him,” I murmured to Elain as we lingered beneath the shade of the looming oaks outside the gate, “if he’s locked up in here?”

  Elain stared and stared at the distant fortress. “At a ball—his father’s ball.”

  “I’ve been to funerals that were merrier,” Nesta muttered.

  Elain cut her a look. “This house has needed a woman’s touch for years.”

  Neither of us said that it didn’t seem likely she would be the one.

  Azriel kept a few steps away, little more than the shade of one of the oaks behind us. But Mor and Rhys … they monitored everything. The guards whose fear … the salty, sweaty tang of it grated on every nerve.

  But they held firm. Held those ash-tipped arrows at us.

  Long minutes passed. Then finally a yellow flag was raised at the distant fortress gates. We braced ourselves.

  But one of the guards before us grunted, “He’ll come out to see you.”

  We were not to be allowed within the keep. To see their defenses, their resources.

  The guardhouse was as far as they’d allow us.

  They led us inside, and though we tried to keep our otherness to a minimum … The hounds leashed to the walls within snarled. Viciously enough that the guards led them out.

  The main room of the guardhouse was stuffy and cramped, more so with all of us in there, and though I offered Elain a seat by the sealed window, she remained standing—at the front of our company. Staring at the shut iron door.

  I knew Rhys was listening to every word the guards uttered outside, his tendrils of power waiting to sense any turn in their intentions. I doubted the stone and iron of the building could hold any of us, certainly not together, but … Letting them shut us in here to wait … It rubbed against some nerve. Made my body restless, a cold sweat breaking out. Too small, not enough air—