A Court of Silver Flames

by Sarah J. Maas

  “What would you call it?” Cassian asked Nesta again.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Humor me.”

  She lifted a brow. But then said with all sincerity. “Killer.”

  His brows flattened.

  Nesta shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it necessary to name a sword?”

  “Just tell me: If you had to name a sword, what would you call it?”

  “Are you getting her one as a Winter Solstice present?” Emerie asked.

  “No.”

  Nesta hid her smile. She loved this—when the three of them ganged up on him, like lionesses around a very muscled, very attractive carcass.

  “Then why keep asking?” Gwyn said.

  Cassian scowled. “Curiosity.”

  But his jaw tightened. It wasn’t that. There was something else. Why would he want her to name a sword?

  “Back to work,” he said, clapping his hands. “For all that sass, you’re doing double time on the Valkyrie lunge hold.”

  Emerie and Gwyn groaned, but Nesta surveyed Cassian for another moment before following their lead.

  She was still mulling it over when they finished two hours later, drenched in sweat, legs wobbling. Emerie and Gwyn picked up their earlier conversation and aimed for the water station.

  Nesta watched the two of them go, then turned to Cassian. “Why were you pestering me about naming a sword?”

  His eyes remained on Gwyn and Emerie. “I just wanted to know what you’d name one.”

  “That’s not an answer. Why do you want to know?”

  He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. “Do you remember when we went to the blacksmith?”

  “Yes. He’s giving me a blade for Winter Solstice?”

  “He’s given you three. The ones you touched.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  He tapped his foot on the ground. “When you hammered those blades, you imbued them—the two swords and the dagger—with your power. The Cauldron’s power. They’re now magic blades. And I’m not talking nice, pretty magic. I’m talking big, ancient magic that hasn’t been seen in a long, long time. There are no magic weapons left. None. They were either lost or destroyed or dumped in the sea. But you just Made three of them. You created a new Dread Trove. You could create even more objects, if you wished.”

  Her brows rose higher with each absurd word. “I Made three magic weapons?”

  “We don’t know yet what manner of magic they have, but yes.”

  She angled her head. Emerie and Gwyn halted their chatting at the water station, as if they could see or sense the shift in her. And it wasn’t the fact that she’d Made these weapons that hit her like a blow.

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘We don’t know what manner of magic they have.’ Who is ‘we’?”

  “Rhys and Feyre and the others.”

  “And how long have all of you known about this?”

  He winced as he realized his error. “I … Nesta …”

  “How long?” Her voice became sharp as glass. The priestesses were watching, and she didn’t care.

  He did, apparently. “This isn’t the place to talk about it.”

  “You’re the one trying to coax a name out of me in the middle of training!” She gestured to the ring.

  Her blood pounded in her ears, and Cassian’s face grew pained. “This isn’t coming out the way it should. We argued about whether to tell you, but we took a vote and it went in your favor. Because we trust you. I just … hadn’t gotten a chance to bring it up yet.”

  “There was a possibility you wouldn’t even tell me? You all sat around and judged me, and then you voted?” Something deep in her chest cracked to know that every horrible thing about her had been analyzed.

  “It … Fuck.” Cassian reached for her, but she stepped back. Everyone was staring now. “Nesta, this isn’t …”

  “Who. Voted. Against me.”

  “Rhys and Amren.”

  It landed like a physical blow. Rhys came as no surprise. But Amren, who had always understood her more than the others; Amren who’d been unafraid of her; Amren with whom she’d quarreled so badly … Some small part of her had hoped Amren wouldn’t hate her forever.

  Her head went quiet. Her body went quiet.

  Cassian’s eyes widened. “Nesta—”

  “I’m fine,” she said coldly. “I don’t care.”

  She let him see her fortify those steel walls within her mind. Used every bit of Mind-Stilling she’d practiced with Gwyn to become calm, focused, steady. Breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth.

  She made a show of rolling her shoulders, of approaching Emerie and Gwyn, whose faces bunched with concern in a way Nesta knew she didn’t deserve, in a way that she knew would one day vanish, when they, too, realized what a wretch she was. When Amren told them what a pathetic waste of life she was, or they heard it from someone else, and they ceased being her friends. She wondered if they’d even say it to her face, or if they’d just disappear.

  “Nesta,” Cassian said again. But she left the ring without looking back at him.

  Emerie was on her heels instantly, trailing her down the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Nesta said, her own voice foreign to her ears. “Court business.”

  “Are you all right?” Gwyn asked, a step behind Emerie.

  No. She couldn’t stop the roaring in her head, the cracking in her chest. “Yes,” she lied, and didn’t look back as she hit the landing and vanished down the hall.

  Nesta made it to her bedroom, where she ran the bath. She knew Cassian would come by. So she stood by the tub, the water gushing from the spout, while he knocked on her door. She waited until she sensed him leave, giving up on her as everyone else had done, and then shut off the flow.

  She asked the House, “Is he gone?”

  The door opened in answer.

  “Thank you.” She strode into the empty hallway. Perhaps the House hid her from sight, for she saw and scented no glimpse of Cassian as she hurried down the short flight of stairs near her room. Down the hall. Right through the archway into that long stairwell.

  Then and only then did she let her fury out. Then and only then did she drop that coldness and give herself over to the raging of her heart.

  Amren had deemed her so untrustworthy, so awful, that knowing she had this world-altering gift would be dangerous. Amren had spoken to the others about it, and they had voted on it.

  Down and down and down.

  Step to step to step.

  Around and around and around.

  She didn’t count the stairs. Didn’t feel her legs moving. There was only the roaring of her blood and the roaring in her head and the crack down the center of her chest. No amount of Mind-Stilling could calm it, smother it.

  The ground grew nearer.

  She couldn’t think around her fury, that pain. Couldn’t think, only move.

  The stairwell turned warmer, farther away from the cold wind above.

  Amren had entirely given up on her. The debate about sending her up here had been different—Nesta knew that debate had been out of a desire to help her. She could acknowledge that now.

  This debate had been out of hatred and fear of her.

  The tiled rooftops became clear. Her legs were shaking. She didn’t feel them.

  Didn’t feel anything but that molten rage as the stairs suddenly stopped and she found herself before a door.

  It opened before her fingers could touch the handle. Sunlight flooded the stairwell, revealing cobblestones beyond.

  Rage rippling like a storm around her, Nesta stepped back into Velaris at last.

  CHAPTER

  46

  She didn’t note the city around her, the people who either beheld her face and kept well away or simply went about their business. Didn’t note the vibrant oranges and reds and yellows of the autumn trees or the sparkling blue of the Sidra as she cr
ossed one of the countless bridges spanning its winding body, aiming for its western bank.

  Nesta yielded to her fury. Later, she would have no memory of racing up the steps to the loft. No memory of the walk over before she slammed a hand into the wooden door. It shattered beneath her palm, wards fracturing like glass.

  Amren and Varian were in bed, the petite female naked as she rode the Prince of Adriata. Both of them halted, Amren twisting toward the door, Varian bolting upright, a shield of water coming around them as Nesta stepped into the room and growled, “You. You thought I shouldn’t even be told what my power can do.”

  Amren moved with the swiftness of the High Fae, leaping off Varian, who grabbed a sheet to cover himself as she slung a silk robe around her body. That shimmering wall of water made it seem as if they were beneath the ocean’s surface. Amren shot Varian a look. “Drop it.”

  He obeyed, sliding from the bed and shoving his long, muscled legs into his pants.

  Nesta snarled at him, “Get out.”

  But the Summer Court prince watched Amren, his face tight with concern. He’d stay, go down defending her. Nesta snorted, bitterness coating her tongue. Once, Amren had been that person for her—the person she knew would defend her in a fight, would speak for her. Amren nodded to him, and Varian threw Nesta a warning glare before hurrying from the room.

  Presumably to tell the others, but Nesta didn’t care.

  Not as Amren said, “I suppose that loudmouthed bastard told you more than was necessary.”

  “You voted against me,” she said, her cold voice belying the crack in her chest.

  “You have done nothing to prove you are able to handle such a terrible power,” Amren said with equal iciness. “On that barge, you told me as much when you walked away from any attempt at mastering it. I offered to teach you more, and you walked away.”

  “I walked away because you chose my sister.” Just as Elain had done. Amren had been her friend, her ally, and yet in the end, it hadn’t mattered one bit. She’d picked Feyre.

  “I didn’t choose anyone, you spoiled girl,” Amren snapped. “I told you that Feyre had requested you and I work together again, and you somehow twist that into me siding with her?” Nesta said nothing. “I told them to leave you alone for months. I refused to speak about you with them. And then the moment I realized my behavior was not helping you, that maybe your sister was right, I somehow betrayed you?”

  Nesta shook. “You know how I feel about Feyre.”

  “Yes, poor Nesta, with a younger sister who loves her so dearly she’s willing to do anything to get her help.”

  Nesta blocked out the memory of Tamlin in his beast form, how she had wanted to rip him limb from limb. She was no better than him, in the end. “Feyre doesn’t love me.” She didn’t deserve Feyre’s love. Just as Tamlin hadn’t.

  Amren barked out a laugh. “That you believe Feyre doesn’t only proves you’re unworthy of your power. Anyone that willfully blind cannot be trusted. You would be a walking nightmare with those weapons.”

  “It’s different now.” The words rang hollow. Was it any different? Was she any different than she’d been this summer, when she and Amren had fought on the barge, and Amren’s utter disappointment in her failure to be anything had surfaced at last?

  Amren smiled, as if she knew that, too. “You can train as hard as you want, fuck Cassian as often as you want, but it isn’t going to fix what’s broken if you don’t start reflecting.”

  “Don’t preach at me. You—” She pointed at Amren, and could have sworn the female stepped out of the line of fire. Just as Tamlin had done. As if Amren also remembered that the last time Nesta had pointed at an enemy, it had ended with his severed head in her hands. A joyless laugh broke from her. “You think I’d mark you with a death-promise?”

  “You nearly did with Tamlin the other day.” So Cassian had told them all about that, too. “But I’ll say to you again what I said on that barge: I think you have powers that you still do not understand, respect, or control.”

  “How dare you assume you know what is best for me?”

  When Amren didn’t answer, Nesta hissed, “You were my friend.”

  Amren’s teeth flashed. “Was I? I don’t think you know what that word means.”

  Her chest ached, as if that invisible fist had punched her once again. Steps thudded beyond the shattered door, and she braced for Cassian to come roaring in—

  But it was Feyre.

  Paint splattered her casual clothes; a smear of white graced her freckled cheekbone. Varian must have run half-naked through the streets to reach her studio. Feyre panted, “Stop this.”

  Whether Feyre noted or cared about the splinters and debris on the floor, she didn’t let on as she moved closer. Feyre pleaded, “Nesta, it should not have come out as it did.”

  “Did Cassian tell you that?” He’d gone to Feyre, rather than here?

  “No, but I can guess as much. He didn’t want to keep anything from you.”

  “My issue isn’t with Cassian.” Nesta leveled her stare at Amren. “I trusted you to have my back.”

  “I stopped having your back the moment you decided to use that loyalty as a shield against everyone else.”

  Nesta snarled, but Feyre stepped between them, hands raised. “This conversation ends now. Nesta, go back to the House. Amren, you …” She hesitated, as if considering the wisdom of ordering Amren around. Feyre finished carefully, “You stay here.”

  Nesta let out a low laugh. “You are her High Lady. You don’t need to cater to her. Not when she now has less power than any of you.”

  Feyre’s eyes blazed. “Amren is my friend, and has been a member of this court for centuries. I offer her respect.”

  “Is it respect that she offers you?” Nesta spat. “Is it respect that your mate offers you?”

  Feyre went still.

  Amren warned, “Don’t you say one more fucking word, Nesta Archeron.”

  Feyre asked, “What do you mean?”

  And Nesta didn’t care. Couldn’t think around the roaring. “Have any of them told you, their respected High Lady, that the babe in your womb will kill you?”

  Amren barked, “Shut your mouth!”

  But her order was confirmation enough. Face paling, Feyre whispered again, “What do you mean?”

  “The wings,” Nesta seethed. “The boy’s Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labor, and it will kill you both.”

  Silence rippled through the room, the world.

  Feyre breathed, “Madja just said the labor would be risky. But the Bone Carver … The son he showed me didn’t have wings.” Her voice broke. “Did he only show me what I wanted to see?”

  “I don’t know,” Nesta said. “But I do know that your mate ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.” She turned to Amren. “Did you all vote on that, too? Did you talk about her, judge her, and deem her unworthy of the truth? What was your vote, Amren? To let Feyre die in ignorance?” Before Amren could reply, Nesta turned back to her sister. “Didn’t you question why your precious, perfect Rhysand has been a moody bastard for weeks? Because he knows you will die. He knows, and yet he still didn’t tell you.”

  Feyre began shaking. “If I die …” Her gaze drifted to one of her tattooed arms. She lifted her head, eyes bright with tears as she asked Amren, “You … all of you knew this?”

  Amren threw a withering glare in Nesta’s direction, but said, “We did not wish to alarm you. Fear can be as deadly as any physical threat.”

  “Rhys knew?” Tears spilled down Feyre’s cheeks, smearing the paint splattered there. “About the threat to our lives?” She peered down at herself, at the tattooed hand cradling her abdomen.

  And Nesta knew then that she had not once in her life been loved by her mother as much as Feyre already loved the boy growing within her.

  It broke something in Nesta—broke that rage, that roaring—seeing those tears begin to fall, the fear crumpling Feyre’s paint
-smeared face.

  She had gone too far. She … Oh, gods.

  Amren said, “I think it is best, girl, if you speak to Rhysand about this.”

  Nesta couldn’t bear it—the pain and fear and love on Feyre’s face as she caressed her stomach.

  Amren growled at Nesta, “I hope you’re content now.”

  Nesta didn’t respond. Didn’t know what to say or do with herself. She simply turned on her heel and ran from the apartment.

  Cassian had gone to the river house. That had been his third mistake of the day.

  The first had been how clumsy he’d been in asking about a sword name, prompting Nesta’s suspicion. He hadn’t been able to lie to her, so he’d told her everything.

  The second mistake had been letting Nesta hide in her room and not barging in to speak to her. Letting her take a bath, thinking it’d cool her off. He’d done the same, and when he’d emerged, he’d followed her scent to the floor with the exterior stairs, where the door stood open.

  He had no idea if she had made it out or if she’d collapsed within, so he’d taken the steps, too. All ten thousand of them, her scent fresh and furious.

  She’d made it to the bottom. The door had been left open.

  He’d launched skyward, knowing he’d have trouble tracking her scent in the bustling city, hoping to spot her from the air. He assumed Amren was working at the river house, so that was where he’d gone.

  Only Amren wasn’t there. And neither was Nesta.

  He’d reached Rhys’s study when word came. Not from a messenger, but from Feyre—mind to mind with her mate.

  Rhys was at his desk, face tight as he silently spoke to her. Cassian saw that look, knew who he spoke to, and went still. Neither was here, which meant they were probably at Amren’s apartment, and if Feyre was giving a report …

  Cassian whirled for the doors, knowing he could be there in a two-minute flight, praying he’d be fast enough—

  “Cassian.”

  Rhys’s voice was a thing of nightmares, of the darkness between the stars.

  Cassian froze at that voice he’d so rarely heard, and never once directed at himself. “What happened?”

  Rhys’s face was wholly calm. But death—black, raging death—lay in his eyes. Not a star or shimmer of violet remained.