A Court of Silver Flames

by Sarah J. Maas

She had curled up on one of those hills, safe and guarded in the moonlight, and slept.

  Nesta dozed, heavy and dreamless, and did not open her eyes until sunlight, not moonlight, kissed her face.

  She was in her room, the sheets askew and half-spilled on the floor, but …

  Cassian was sleeping in a chair beside her bed.

  His head was at an awkward angle, and his wings drooped onto the stone—and he was wearing only his undershorts and a blanket that looked as if someone had draped it over his lap.

  It had been a nightmare, she realized with a cold splash of awareness. She’d dreamed of the Cauldron; she’d been lost in it, screaming and screaming.

  And it had been his voice she’d heard. His voice and …

  There was no sign of Rhysand. Just Cassian.

  She stared at him for long minutes, the unusual paleness of his face, the brows still scrunched with worry, as if he fretted for her even in his sleep. The sun gilded his dark hair and shone through his wings, bringing out the undertones of reds and golds in both.

  Like a knight guarding his lady. She couldn’t stop the image, sprung from the pages of her childhood books. Like a warrior-prince, with those tattoos and that muscle-bound chest.

  Her throat tightened unbearably, her eyes stinging.

  She would not let herself cry, not for herself or for the sight of him keeping watch beside her bed all night.

  But it was as if her furious blinking woke him, as if he could hear the flutter of her lashes.

  His hazel eyes shot to hers, like he always knew precisely where she was. And they were so full of worry, of that unrelenting goodness, that she had to fight like hell to keep the tears from falling.

  Cassian said gently, “Hey.”

  She clamped down on herself. “Hello.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” No. Though not for the reason he believed.

  “Good.” He groaned, stretching, first his arms and then his wings. Muscles rippled. “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s fine.”

  And that was that.

  But Cassian threw her a half smile, and it was so normal, so him in a way that no one else was or would ever be, that her throat tightened again. “You want breakfast?”

  Nesta managed to answer his half smile with one of her own. “I like your priorities, General.”

  “What happened to you?” Emerie asked as they panted through their abdominal exercises. “You look white as death.”

  “Bad dreams,” Nesta said, willing herself not to look to where Cassian stood, instructing Roslin from a respectful distance on how to do a proper squat. They’d had a quiet breakfast, but it hadn’t been awkward. It had been comfortable—easy. Pleasant.

  Gwyn asked, on Nesta’s other side, “Do you have them often?”

  “Yes.” Nesta finished a sit-up, grunting through the weakness in her middle.

  “Me too,” Gwyn said quietly. “Some nights, I need a sleeping potion from our healer to knock me out.”

  Emerie gave Gwyn an assessing look. Emerie never asked about Gwyn’s past, or the histories of the other priestesses, but she was a cunning female. Surely she’d seen the way they kept a healthy distance from Cassian, scented their hesitation and fear, and put a few things together. Emerie asked Nesta, “What did you dream about?”

  Nesta’s body locked up, but she launched back into motion, refusing to let the memories master her. “I dreamed of the Cauldron. What it did to me.”

  Gwyn said, playing with her hair, “I dream of my past, too.”

  But Gwyn’s admission, Nesta’s own, didn’t weigh them down. Nesta’s head had cleared slightly. And somehow, she found she could push herself harder.

  Perhaps in voicing those truths, they’d given them wings. And sent them soaring into the open sky above.

  “How are you holding up?”

  Cassian sat across from Rhys’s desk at the river house, an ankle resting on a knee, and asked, “Me? How about you? You look like hell.”

  “Yesterday was a rough day, followed by a rough night.” Rhys rested his head atop a propped fist on his desk.

  Cassian angled his head. “What happened before the disaster that was last night?”

  Gods, he’d nearly wept this morning to open his eyes and find Nesta staring at him, her face clear and free of pain. The shadows still lingered, yes, but he’d take anything over her screaming. Over that magic Rhys could only explain as pure death.

  When Rhys didn’t answer, Cassian said, “Rhys.”

  Rhys didn’t look at him as he whispered, “The baby has wings.”

  Joy sparked through Cassian—even as the broken whisper and what those words meant made his blood go cold. “You’re sure?”

  “We had an appointment with Madja yesterday morning.”

  “But he’s only a quarter Illyrian.” It was possible, of course, for the baby to have inherited wings, but unlikely, given that Rhys himself had been born without them, and only conjured them through whatever strange, unearthly magic he possessed.

  “He is. But Feyre was in an Illyrian form when he was conceived.”

  “That can make a difference? I thought she only made the wings—nothing else.”

  “She shape-shifts. She transforms her entire self into the form she takes. When she grants herself wings, she essentially alters her body at its most intrinsic level. So she was fully Illyrian that night.”

  “She doesn’t have the wings now.”

  “No, she shifted back before we knew.”

  “So let her change back into an Illyrian to bear the babe.”

  Rhys’s face was stark. “Madja has put a ban on any more shape-shifting. She says that to alter Feyre’s body in any way right now could put the baby at risk. On the chance that it could be bad for the baby, Feyre is forbidden to so much as change the color of her hair until after the birth.”

  Cassian raked a hand through his hair. “I see. But, Rhys—it’ll be all right. It’s not that bad.”

  Rhys snarled. “It is bad. For so many gods-damned reasons, it is fucking bad.”

  Rhys was as close to being beside himself as Cassian had seen him since he’d returned from Amarantha’s court. “Breathe,” Cassian said calmly.

  Rhys’s eyes simmered; the stars within them winked out. “Fuck you.”

  “Take a breath, Rhysand.” Cassian gestured to the window behind him, the lawn sloping down to the river. “You want to go fight it out, I’ve got energy to burn.”

  The study doors opened, and Azriel walked in. From the grim expression etched on his face, he already knew.

  Azriel claimed the seat beside Cassian. “Tell us what you need, Rhys.”

  “Nothing. I need to not fall apart so my mate doesn’t pick up a whiff of this when she comes home for lunch.” Rhys narrowed his eyes, and power rumbled in the room. “No one says a word about this to Feyre. No one.”

  “Didn’t Madja warn her?” Azriel asked.

  “Not strongly. She only mentioned an elevated risk during labor.” Rhys let out a harsh laugh. “An elevated risk.”

  Cassian’s stomach twisted.

  Azriel said, “I know this is bad timing, but there is another thing to consider, Rhys.”

  Rhys lifted his head again.

  Azriel’s face was like stone. “Feyre won’t show for another few weeks, but someone will notice soon enough. People will learn of her pregnancy.”

  “I know.”

  “Eris will learn.”

  “He’s our ally. I suspect he’ll be focused more on dealing with his father and finding his missing soldiers than on this.”

  Then Az went for the throat. “And Tamlin will learn.”

  Rhys’s snarl set the lights guttering. “And?”

  Cassian shot Azriel a warning glare, but Az said, unafraid and unbowed, “We need to be prepared for any fallout.”

  “Like I give a fuck about Tamlin right now.”

  That Rhys
couldn’t understand what Az meant told Cassian how distraught and terrified he was.

  Cassian tried to mimic Az’s calm tone. “He may react badly.”

  “He sets foot over this border and he dies.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Cassian said. “But Tamlin is already hanging by a thread. You and Lucien have made it clear that he’s barely improved this past year. Learning of Feyre’s pregnancy might make him crumble again. With a new war possible and Briallyn up to her bullshit with Koschei, we need a strong ally. We need the Spring Court’s forces.”

  “So we’re to hide her pregnancy from him?”

  “No. But we need to summon Lucien,” Azriel said, just a shade tightly, as if he didn’t like it one bit. “We need to tell him the news, and permanently station him at the Spring Court to contain any damage and to be our eyes and ears.”

  Silence. They let the words sink in for Rhys.

  “The idea of coddling Tamlin makes me want to shatter that window,” Rhys said, but it was with enough of a grumble that Cassian nearly sagged in relief. At least that sharp edge of violence had been dulled. Just a fraction.

  “I’ll contact Lucien,” Azriel offered.

  Fear still lingered in Rhys’s eyes, so Cassian walked around the desk and hauled his High Lord to his feet. Rhys let him.

  Cassian slung an arm around Rhys’s shoulders. “Let’s go get bloodied up.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Nesta was just settling herself at the dining table, stomach gurgling with hunger, when Cassian entered.

  Limped in was more like it.

  She couldn’t stop a near-silent gasp from escaping her as she took in the black eye, the split lip, the bruised jaw.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  Cassian shuffle-hopped to his chair and then dropped into it. “I sparred with Rhys.”

  “You look like a tenderized piece of meat.”

  “You should see him.” He laughed hoarsely.

  “Why did you fight like that?” If it had something to do with her nightmare—

  “Rhys needed to get it out of his system.” Cassian sighed at the bowl of roast chicken and rice soup that appeared before him. “Despite that smooth exterior my brother presents to the world, he needs to let loose every now and then.”

  “Your idea of letting loose and mine appear to be very different.”

  He snorted, sipping a spoonful of soup. “It wasn’t for fun. Just to release some tension.”

  “About what?” She knew she had no business inquiring.

  But Cassian set down the spoon, his face turning grave. “The baby has wings.”

  She needed to blink a few times to process that. “How can they know already?”

  “Madja’s magic allows her to glean a general shape of a babe within the womb, to check that all is well. He’s large enough now for her to detect that all the limbs are in order … and that he has wings.”

  Utterly incredible, the way their magic could work. To actually be able to see within the womb itself.

  Nesta couldn’t stop the small voice in her mind from wondering what her own power might do, if she untethered her leash on it. And couldn’t stop the bolt of panic that answered. As if thinking about it would allow it to roam free.

  Nesta made herself ask, “So Rhysand didn’t want the baby to have wings?”

  Cassian kept eating. “It’s not that. It will be a joy for him, for me and Az and Feyre, too, I suppose, to teach the baby how to fly, to love the wind and sky as we do. The problem is the birth.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How many half-Illyrians have you met?”

  “Only Rhys, I suppose.”

  “That’s because they’re extremely uncommon. But Rhys’s mother was Illyrian herself. And Illyrian women hardly ever marry and reproduce outside their communities. Illyrian males do so far more often, or at least fuck around, but you rarely see the offspring.”

  “Why?”

  “Illyrian females have a pelvis shaped specifically for children with wings to pass through. High Fae females do not. And when a child has wings, they can get stuck during labor.” His face had gone pale beneath the bruises. “Most females die, the babes with them. There’s no way for magic to help, short of fracturing a female’s pelvis to widen it for the birthing. Which might kill the babe anyway.”

  “Feyre is going to die?” Her words were a whisper. For a heartbeat, every bit of spite, of anger, of bitterness faded away. Pure, clear panic replaced it.

  “A few do survive.” Cassian made to rub his face, then stopped before he could press the bruises. “But the labor is so brutal that many of them either come close to death or are so altered by it that they can’t have another child.”

  “Even with a healer to repair them?” Her heart was pounding, so sickeningly fast she had to set down her utensils.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. And any attempts in the past to cut the child out of the mother’s womb have been …” He shuddered. “No mother has ever survived.” Nesta’s blood turned to acid. Cassian rolled his shoulders. “So we won’t even try that route. Madja will be there each step of the way, though, doing whatever she can. And we don’t yet know how Feyre’s own magic will impact the birth.”

  “Is Feyre distraught?”

  “She doesn’t know the full scope of it. But all of us who have grown up here know what it means for a High Fae female to bear a baby with wings.”

  Nesta willed herself to settle the fear leaching through her. “And Rhys needed to fight out his fear.”

  “Yes. Along with his guilt and pain.”

  “Perhaps another court has a healer who knows more than Madja. Maybe one with a winged people. The Dawn Court has the Peregryns—Drakon’s people are Seraphim. Miryam doesn’t have wings and yet she’s given birth to Drakon’s children.”

  “Rhys is heading to their island tomorrow. And Mor is making discreet inquiries at the Fae courts on the continent.” He ran a hand through his hair, Siphon catching the light. “If there is a way to save Feyre from a death sentence, Rhys will find it. He will stop at nothing until he figures out a way to spare her.”

  Silence fell, and the weight upon her chest was nearly unbearable. Rhys would do that, she knew without a doubt. The High Lord would go to the ends of the world for a way to save Feyre.

  She said quietly, “I’ll try scrying again.”

  Cassian’s black eye was stark in the light as he lowered his brows in warning. “After last night—”

  She lifted her chin. If that babe survived … Nesta would not allow him to be born into a world once more plunged into war. But she didn’t say that, couldn’t open herself up like that. “I need to regain my strength after yesterday’s attempt. We’ll do it tomorrow night.”

  “I want Rhys and Amren there. And Az.”

  “Fine.”

  Cassian leaned back in his chair. It was almost comical, his heavy stare combined with his split lip and black eye. He said after a moment, “Why haven’t you sought me out?”

  Nesta knew what he meant solely from the way his voice had dropped an octave.

  She could play this game of distraction. He had no idea how well she’d learned to play it. So she let her own voice drop, too. “Why haven’t you sought me?”

  “I’m taking my cues from you. You seemed to have no interest in me after …” He nodded to the table between them, the floor where she’d knelt between his legs. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Nesta let out a rough laugh. “No, you didn’t hurt me.” She reached across the table, tracing a finger down his arm before meeting his eyes. “I loved it when you fucked my mouth, Cassian.”

  His eyes darkened. She rose, and he went wholly still as she rounded the table and came to a stop beside his chair. “Do you want to fuck me on this table?” she asked softly, running a hand over the smooth surface. He shuddered, as if he imagined that touch on his skin.

  “Yes,” he said, voice guttural. “On
this table, on this chair, on every surface in the House.”

  “I don’t think the House would appreciate such filthy behavior. Even if it’s a romance reader as well.”

  “I … What?” His breath had turned uneven.

  She leaned in to press a kiss against his torn mouth. It wasn’t a loving gesture. Wasn’t even a sweet one. It was a challenge and a wicked taunt to forget their fear and pain and come tangle with her. “I have no interest in bedding a male who looks like he’s been in a tavern brawl,” she said onto his lips.

  “We can dim the lights.”

  Nesta chuckled. Desire had fogged his eyes, and she knew if she looked down, she’d see the evidence of how affected he was. But she wouldn’t give herself that temptation.

  He’d be her reward—but only after she’d accomplished the scrying.

  Her lips curved. “When you’re healed and looking pretty again,” she said, pulling away, “then I’ll let you fuck me wherever you please in this House.”

  Cassian’s hands dug into the arms of his chair, as if restraining himself from leaping upon her. But his mouth parted in a savage grin. “Deal.”

  No one asked about Nesta’s change of heart when she and Cassian entered the study in the river house late the next afternoon and found Rhys, Feyre, Azriel, and Amren waiting before a giant map of the faerie realms. A bowl of stones and bones sat beside it.

  They all stared, weighed and judged her. But her eyes went to Feyre, who stood across the room, a hand resting idly on the slight swell of her belly.

  Nesta refused to let anything show on her face as she offered her sister a small nod of greeting. She hated herself when Feyre’s eyes softened—hated the raw emotion there as Feyre nodded back, smiling tentatively.

  She couldn’t stand the relief and happiness in Feyre’s eyes. That merely acknowledging her sister politely had caused it. Unable to stomach it, Nesta glanced to where Rhysand stood at Feyre’s side. One look into his eyes and Nesta allowed her mind to open—just a crack.

  I will not say a word to Feyre, she swore.

  She didn’t do it for any particular kindness, but to wipe that cautious look from Rhys’s eyes before it grated further. He’d no doubt either heard or guessed that Cassian had told her about the baby’s wings.