A Court of Silver Flames

by Sarah J. Maas

  Cassian ground into her, and groaned into her mouth at the first push of his hips. She arched her back at that deep-throated sound, baring her neck to him. He seized on it, dragging his mouth from hers.

  His tongue traced a line up the column of her neck, dragging heat in its wake, and reached that spot just below her ear that had her clenching, had her whimpering. He let out a laugh against her skin. “Like that?” he murmured, and licked it again.

  Her breasts ached, and she moved against him, seeking any contact with his chest, any bit of friction. But Cassian buried his face against her neck, teeth clamping down lightly atop her fluttering pulse. The slight hurt set her panting; the scrape of his tongue over the spot had her eyes rolling back in her head.

  He pulled his head from her neck, though. And Nesta had never been laid so bare as she was while he ground his hips into her again and watched her writhe.

  A dark smile graced his mouth. “So responsive,” he purred in a voice she’d never heard but knew she’d crawl to hear again. He drove his hips between hers, a lazy, thorough push of the hardness of him into the throbbing ache of her. She scrambled to regain any sense of control, of sanity—found herself wanting to hand it all over to him, to let him touch and touch and touch her, lick and suckle and fill her—

  Cassian growled, as if he read that in her stare, and kissed her again.

  Their tongues tangled, their bodies pressed so tightly she could feel his heartbeat against her chest. He tasted her thoroughly, withdrew, and tasted her again. Like he was learning every place in her mouth.

  She had to feel his skin. Had to feel the hardness pushing into her with her hands, her mouth, her body. She’d go mad if she didn’t, go mad if she couldn’t get these clothes off, go mad if he stopped kissing her—

  Nesta wedged her hand between their bodies, seeking him out. Cassian groaned again, long and low, as her hand cupped him through the leather of his pants. The breath stole out of her. The sheer size of him—

  Her mouth watered. She was aching, so wet that every stitch of the seam down the center of her pants was torture.

  His kiss turned deeper, wilder, and she grappled with the laces and buttons of his pants. There were so many she didn’t know where to find the ones to undo them, her fingertips ripping at every loop, nearly clawing to get him free.

  Cassian’s panting caressed her skin as he nipped at her bottom lip, her ear, her jaw. Her own staccato breathing echoed it, fire roaring in her blood, and he captured her mouth again, moaning into her as she gave up on the laces and buttons and laid her hand flat against him. He bucked as she rubbed the heel of her palm down his length, marveling at each inch.

  He tore his mouth from hers. “If you keep doing that, I’ll—”

  Nesta did it again, dragging the heel of her palm upward, toward the tip she knew pressed against his lower abdomen. His hips arced toward her, and he tilted back his head, exposing the strong column of his throat. She learned the shape of him through his pants, and pressed her hand harder, working him. He gritted his teeth, chest heaving like a bellows, and the sight of him coming undone had her leaning forward. Had her clamping her teeth onto his neck. Just as she rubbed him again, harder and rougher.

  He hissed. With her name on his lips, his hips thrust into her hand with a strength that made her core throb to the point of pain, imagining that force, that size and heat, buried deep in her. Another punishing rub of her palm, a scrape of teeth at his neck, and Cassian erupted.

  His wings tucked in tight as he came, and each spurt of his cock shuddered through his pants, echoing along her hand as she stroked and stroked him.

  When Cassian had stilled, when he was shaking—only then did Nesta remove her face from his neck. His hazel eyes were wide enough that the whites shone around them. A blush stained his golden cheeks, so enticing that she nearly leaned forward to lick that, too.

  But he remained gaping. Like he’d realized what he’d done and regretted it.

  Every bit of desire, of blessed distraction within her winked out.

  Nesta shoved at his chest, and he immediately let go, almost dropping her to the floor as their bodies pulled apart.

  She didn’t wait to hear his words of regret, that this had been a mistake. She wouldn’t let him hold that power over her. So Nesta curled her lips in a cold, cruel smile and said as she left, “Someone’s quick off the mark.”

  Cassian couldn’t look Azriel in the face at breakfast the next morning.

  His brother had returned late last night, refused to say anything about what he’d found regarding Briallyn, and only insisted that today they’d all meet at the river house and learn of it together. Cassian hadn’t cared. He’d barely listened to Azriel asking about training.

  He’d come in his pants after a few touches from Nesta, soaking himself like he was no better than he’d been in his youth.

  But the moment she had kissed him in the hall, he’d lost all semblance of sanity. He’d turned into something just short of an animal, licking and biting at her neck, unable to think clearly beyond the base instinct to claim.

  The taste of her had been like fire and steel and a winter sunrise. That had just been her mouth, her neck. If he got his tongue between her legs … He shifted in his seat.

  “Did something happen that I, as your chaperone, should know about?” Azriel’s dry question dragged Cassian from his rising arousal. From the amusement on his brother’s face, he knew Az could not only scent that arousal but see it on his face.

  “No,” Cassian grumbled. He’d never hear the end of it if he admitted what he’d done.

  He’d found his pleasure, and Nesta had not. He’d never allowed such a thing to happen.

  But he’d come hard enough to see stars, and only then realized she had not. That he’d embarrassed himself, that he’d left her unsatisfied, and if it was the only taste of her he’d ever get, he’d monumentally fucked it all to hell.

  And then there’d been her parting shot, blasting what was left of his pride into shards.

  Quick off the mark, she’d purred, like what they’d done hadn’t meant anything.

  He knew it was bullshit. He’d felt her frantic need, heard her moans and wanted to devour them whole. But that kernel of doubt took root.

  He had to make it even, somehow. Had to get the upper hand again.

  Azriel cleared his throat, and Cassian blinked. “What?”

  “I said, are you two ready to head down to the river house?”

  “Two?” He blinked through the cloud of arousal.

  Azriel chuckled, shadows skittering. “Did you listen at all last night?”

  “No.”

  “At least you’re honest.” Azriel smirked. “You and Nesta are wanted down there.”

  “Because of the shit with Elain?”

  Azriel stilled. “What happened to Elain?”

  Cassian waved a hand. “A fight with Nesta. Don’t bring it up,” he warned when Azriel’s eyes darkened. Cassian blew out a breath. “I take that as a no regarding the meeting topic, then.”

  “It’s about what I discovered. Rhys said he requires you both there.”

  “It’s bad, then.” Cassian surveyed the shadows gathered around Az. “You all right?”

  His brother nodded. “Fine.” But shadows still swarmed him.

  Cassian knew it was a lie, but didn’t push it. Az would speak when he was ready, and Cassian would have better success convincing a mountain to move than getting Az to open up.

  So he said, “All right. We’ll meet you there.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  Nesta could barely stand to be near Cassian as they flew over Velaris. Every glance, every scent of him, every touch while he carried her down to the river house grated along her skin, threatening to bring her back to last night, when she’d been starved for any taste of him.

  Thankfully, Cassian didn’t speak to her. Barely looked at her. And by the time the sprawling manor along the river appeared, she’d forg
otten to be annoyed by his silence. Two weeks up at the House, and the city suddenly loomed large, too loud, too full of people.

  “This meeting will be fast,” Cassian promised as they landed on the front lawn, as if he’d read the tension in her body.

  Nesta said nothing, unable to speak with the churning in her stomach. Who would be here? Which of them would she have to face, to endure them judging her so-called progress? They’d probably all heard of her fight with Elain—gods, would Elain be present?

  She followed Cassian into the beautiful house, barely noting the round table in the heart of the entry, crowned with a massive vase full of freshly cut flowers. Barely noting the silence of the house, not a servant to be seen.

  But Cassian paused before a landscape painting of a towering, barren mountain, void of life yet somehow thrumming with presence. Snow and pines crusted the smaller peaks around it, but this strange, bald mountain … Only a black stone jutted from its top. A monolith, Nesta realized, stepping closer.

  Cassian murmured, “I didn’t realize Feyre had painted Ramiel.”

  The sacred mountain from the Blood Rite. Indeed, three stars faintly glowed in the twilight skies above the peak. It was a near-perfect, real-life rendering of the Night Court’s insignia.

  “I wonder when she saw it,” Cassian mused, smiling faintly.

  Nesta didn’t bother to suggest Feyre might have simply peered into Rhysand’s mind. Cassian continued onward, leading her down the hall without another word.

  Nesta steeled herself as he stopped before the study doors—the same room where she’d sat and received a public lashing—and then flung one open.

  Rhys and Feyre sat on the sapphire couch before the window. Azriel leaned against the mantel. Amren had curled herself into an armchair, bundled in a gray fur coat, as if the nip in the air today were a blast of winter. No Elain, no Morrigan.

  Feyre’s gaze was wary. Cold. But it warmed as she smiled at Cassian, who strode to her and kissed her cheek—or tried to. He said to Rhys, “Really? She’s shielded even in here?”

  Rhys stretched out his long legs, crossing one ankle over the other. “Even in here.”

  Cassian rolled his eyes and plopped into the armchair beside Amren’s, surveying her fur coat and saying, “It’s barely cold today.”

  Amren’s teeth flashed. “Keep talking like that and it’ll be your pelt I wear tomorrow.”

  Nesta might have smiled had Amren not turned toward her.

  Tension, thick and painful, stretched between them. Nesta refused to look away.

  Amren’s red lips curled, her bob of black hair gleaming.

  Feyre cleared her throat. “All right, Az. Let’s hear it.”

  Azriel folded his wings, shadows writhing around his ankles and neck. “Queen Briallyn has been busier than we thought, but not in the way we expected.”

  Nesta’s blood went cold. The queen who had leaped into the Cauldron of her own free will, desperate to be turned young and immortal. She’d emerged a withered crone—and immortal. Doomed to be old and bent forever.

  Azriel went on, “In the week I’ve been watching her, I … learned what her next steps are.” The way he hesitated before he said learned said enough: he’d tortured it out of someone. Many people.

  Nesta glanced at his scarred hands, and Azriel tucked them behind his back, as if he noted her attention.

  “Get on with it,” Amren snapped, rustling in her chair.

  “The other queens indeed fled from Briallyn weeks ago, as Eris said. She alone sits in the throne room of their shared palace. And what Eris revealed about Beron was true, too: the High Lord visited Briallyn on the continent, pledging his forces to her cause.” A muscle ticked in Azriel’s jaw. “But Briallyn’s gathering of armies, the alliance with Beron, is only the auxiliary force to what she has planned.” He shook his head, shadows slithering over his wings. “Briallyn wishes to find the Cauldron again. In order to retrieve her youth.”

  “She’ll never attain the Cauldron,” Amren said, waving a hand gleaming with rings. “No one but us, Miryam, and Drakon know where it’s hidden. Even if Briallyn did uncover its location, there are enough wards and spells on it that no one could ever break through.”

  “Briallyn knows this,” Azriel said gravely. Nesta’s stomach churned. Azriel nodded to Cassian. “What Vassa suspected is true. The death-lord Koschei has been whispering in Briallyn’s ear. He remains trapped at his lake, but his words carry on the wind to her. He is ancient, his depth of knowledge fathomless. He pointed Briallyn toward the Dread Trove—not for her sake, but for his own ends. He wishes to use it to free himself from his lake. And Briallyn is not the puppet we believed her to be—she and Koschei are allies.” He added to Cassian, “You need to ask Eris whether Beron knows about this. And the Trove.”

  Cassian nodded into the ensuing silence. Nesta found herself asking, “What’s the Dread Trove?”

  Amren’s eyes glowed with a remnant of her power. “The Cauldron Made many objects of power, long ago, forging weapons of unrivaled might. Most were lost to history and war, and when I went into the Prison, only three remained. At the time, some claimed there were four, or that the fourth had been Unmade, but today’s legends only tell of three.”

  “The Mask,” Rhys murmured, “the Harp, and the Crown.”

  Nesta had a feeling none of them were good.

  Feyre frowned at her mate. “They’re different from the objects of power in the Hewn City? What can they do?”

  Nesta had tried her best to forget that night she and Amren had gone to test her so-called gift against the hoard within those unhallowed catacombs. The objects had been half-imprisoned in the stone itself: knives and necklaces and orbs and books, all shimmering with power. None of it pleasant. For the Dread Trove to be worse than what she’d witnessed …

  “The Mask can raise the dead,” Amren answered for Rhys. “It is a death mask, molded from the face of a long-forgotten king. Wear it and you may summon the dead to you, command them to march at your will. The Harp can open any door, physical or otherwise. Some say between worlds. And the Crown …” Amren shook her head. “The Crown can influence anyone, even piercing through the mightiest of mental shields. Its only flaw is that it requires close physical proximity to initially sink its claws into a victim’s mind. But wear the Crown, and you could make your enemies do your bidding. Could make a parent slaughter their child, aware of the horror but unable to stop themselves.”

  “And these things were lost?” Nesta demanded.

  Rhys threw her a frown. “Those who possessed them grew careless. They were lost in ancient wars, or to treachery, or simply because they were misplaced and forgotten.”

  “What does it have to do with the Cauldron?” Nesta pushed.

  “Like calls to like,” Feyre murmured, looking to Amren, who nodded. “Because the Trove was Made by the Cauldron, so might the Trove find its Maker.” She angled her head. “Briallyn was Made, though. Can’t she track the Cauldron herself?”

  Amren drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “The Cauldron aged Briallyn to punish her.” A glance at Nesta. “Or punish you, I suppose.” Nesta kept her face carefully blank. Amren went on, “But I think you took something from it when you seized your power, girl.”

  Feyre looked toward Nesta, her voice soft as she asked, “What exactly happened in the Cauldron?”

  Every image, thought, feeling pelted Nesta. Smothered her, exactly as she had to smother the rising power in her at her sister’s question. No one spoke. They all just stared.

  Cassian cleared his throat. “Does it matter?” Everyone faced him, and Nesta nearly sagged with relief at the shift of their attention. Even as something kindled in her chest at his words. His defense of her.

  “It’d help us gain insight,” Feyre said.

  “We can discuss it later …,” Cassian began, but Nesta straightened.

  “I …” They all halted. Twisted toward her. Her mouth went dry. Nesta swallowed against it,
praying they didn’t see the shaking hands she tucked under her thighs. Her thoughts swarmed her, each memory screaming, and she didn’t know where to start, how to explain it—

  Breathe. It calmed her mind whenever Cassian led her through their exercises. So she let herself inhale—then slowly exhale. Again. A third time.

  And into the silence, Nesta said, “I wasn’t aware of what I took. Just that I was taking things the Cauldron did not want me to have. It seemed fitting, given what it was doing to me.”

  There. That was all she could say, would say.

  But Feyre nodded, eyes shining bright with something Nesta could not place. Feyre said to Amren, “So it’s highly possible that the Cauldron couldn’t imbue Briallyn with the ability to track it. All it could do was give Briallyn the ability to track anything it Made, a sorry shadow of the original gift.”

  The others nodded, and Nesta dared a look at Cassian, who gave her a soft smile. Like in saying the few words she’d managed to get out, she’d somehow done something … worthy. Her chest tightened.

  Had she done so many unworthy things that her scant contribution earned that much praise?

  Nesta forced herself to ignore the nauseating thought as Amren continued, “If you were to gather all three objects, you could use the potency of their combined Made essence to track down the Cauldron, no matter where it is.”

  “Not to mention gain three objects of terrible power,” Azriel added grimly. “Capable of granting even a human army an advantage against the Fae.”

  “Raise the dead,” Cassian mused, his face tightening, any trace of that approving smile gone, “and you’d have an unstoppable force, able to march without rest or food. Open any door, and you could move that army of the dead wherever you wished. And with unrestrained influence, you could make any enemy territory and its people bow to you.”

  Silence again filled the room. Nesta’s heart thundered.

  “And all Koschei wants is to be free from his lake?” Rhys asked Azriel.

  But Amren answered. “No one really knows the full scope of the Trove’s powers. Beyond freeing him from his lake, Koschei may very well know something about the Trove that we don’t—some greater power that manifests when all three are united.”