A Court of Silver Flames

by Sarah J. Maas

  He supposed, at its root, he loved the Winter Solstice because it was uninterrupted time with the people he treasured most.

  This year, just as it had last year, it filled him with nothing but churning acid.

  The Court of Nightmares was decorated as it usually was, adorned for the celebration that lasted three whole days surrounding the longest night of the year. Each night held a different ball, and at the first of them, Nesta would dance with Eris.

  Tonight. In a matter of moments.

  He’d had a month to prepare for this. A month of being in Nesta’s bed—or at least fucking her in it. The Cauldron knew she hadn’t ever asked him to stay after he pulled out of her.

  He stood at the foot of the black dais, staring out at the glittering throng with a face that promised death. Az stood on the other side of the dais, wearing a similar expression.

  Each and every one of the people here could fucking burn in hell.

  Starting with Keir, at the head of the gathered crowd. Ending with Eris, standing proud and tall—wearing Night Court black—beside him.

  Mor stood by Feyre’s and Rhysand’s thrones, representing them until they arrived.

  The entire throne room was bedecked in black candles, evergreen wreaths and garlands, and holly berries. The twin banquet tables flanking either side of the massive space overflowed with food, but it was forbidden to all until Feyre and Rhys allowed it.

  He’d lightened some of his Night Triumphant demeanor with the people of the Hewn City lately, but not by much. Cassian didn’t envy Rhys his juggling act. They couldn’t isolate Keir, not if they were to need his Darkbringers again. Hence the nicer tone. But they couldn’t let him forget the ass-kicking he’d receive if he stepped out of line. Hence the only slightly nicer tone.

  They’d heard nothing of the Crown, nothing from Briallyn. She had not come for the Trove. Cassian wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was over. None of them were.

  The towering doors to the throne room at last yawned open.

  Dark power rumbled through the mountain, warning of their approach. The mountain sang with it. Everyone turned as the High Lord and High Lady appeared, crowned and garbed in black.

  Rhys looked his usual handsome self, but Feyre …

  The room gasped.

  Tonight also served another purpose: to tell the world of Feyre’s pregnancy.

  She wore a dress of sparkling black panels, much like the one she’d first worn here—and it did nothing to hide her swelling belly.

  No, it showed off her pregnant womb, gleaming in the candlelight.

  Rhys’s face was a portrait of smug, male pride. Cassian knew he’d shred anyone who so much as blinked wrong at Feyre into a million bloody ribbons. Indeed, cold violence rippled off Rhys as they walked toward the dais, Feyre’s baby-rich scent filling the air. He’d let everyone here smell it, further confirming that she was with child.

  Feyre might as well have been a goddess of old, crowned and glowing, her belly swollen with life. Her serene face was lovely, and her full red lips parted in a smile at Rhys as they aimed for their thrones. Keir looked torn between anger and shock; Eris’s face was carefully neutral.

  Motion at the back of the room tugged Cassian’s stare from his enemies, and then—

  Both sisters wore black. Both walked behind Rhys and Feyre, a silent indicator that they were a part of the royal family. Had mighty powers of their own. They’d planned it that way, wanting Eris to see for himself how valuable Nesta was. Cassian wondered if Elain and Nesta had broken their silence while waiting for their entrance. They hadn’t spoken to each other for months now.

  Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way around. And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was needed. So Elain had let her golden-brown hair down tonight, and pinned it back with twin combs of pearl. He’d never once in the two years he’d known her found Elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court … It sucked the life from her.

  Nesta in Night Court black threatened to bring him to his knees.

  She’d braided her hair over her head in her usual style, but atop it, a delicate tiara of glinting black stone rested, slender spikes jutting upward in a dark corona. Each spike was topped with a tiny sapphire, as if the spikes were so sharp they’d pierced the sky and drawn cobalt blood.

  And the dress …

  Silver thread embroidered the skintight velvet bodice, the straps so narrow they might as well have been nothing against her moon-white skin. The neckline plunged nearly to her navel, where the silver thread gathered to hold a small sapphire that matched the ones on her crown. The full skirts brushed the dark floor, rustling in the rippling silence.

  Nesta’s chin remained high, accentuating her long, lovely neck. Her red-painted lips cocked in a feline smirk as her kohl-lined eyes took in the room watching her every breath.

  Nesta seemed to glow with the attention. Owned it. Commanded it.

  Feyre and Rhys took their thrones, and Nesta and Elain came to stand at the foot of the dais, between him and Azriel. Cassian didn’t dare say a word to Nesta, or even glance at her, at the body on display—the body he’d tasted so many times now it was a miracle no imprint of his lips lay against her neck.

  He didn’t dare look at Eris, either. One glance and it’d give away their entire game. Even her scent—his scent, Cassian knew with no small amount of satisfaction—had been carefully glamoured to hide any trace of him.

  Feyre declared to the assembled crowd, “May the blessings of the Winter Solstice be upon you.”

  Keir scuttled forward, bowing low. “Allow me to extend my congratulations.” Cassian knew the bastard didn’t mean a word of it.

  Eris stalked to his side, their honored guest. “And allow me to extend mine as well, on behalf of my father and the entire Autumn Court.” He flashed Feyre a pretty, cultivated smile. “He shall be thrilled by this news.”

  Rhys’s mouth curled in a cruel half smile, the stars winking out in his eyes. “I’m sure he will.”

  There was no pretending tonight: Rhys truly was the High Lord of the Court of Nightmares while Feyre and their babe were here. He’d slaughter anyone who threatened them. And enjoy it.

  Rhys said to no one in particular, “Music.”

  An orchestra hidden in a screened-in mezzanine began playing.

  Feyre raised her voice and said, “Go—eat.” The crowd undulated as people aimed for the tables.

  Only Eris and Keir remained before them. Neither spared Mor so much as a glance, though she smirked down at them, her red dress like a flame in the gloom of the hall.

  Cassian, in his black armor, felt more like the beasts carved into the towering pillars beneath this mountain. He’d brushed his hair and left it loose, and that had been the extent of his grooming for tonight. He’d spent most of his time thinking about how he’d like to peel Eris’s skin off in tiny strips, how Rhys and Feyre had crossed a line by asking this of Nesta. He loved them both, but they could have found another way to ensure Eris’s allegiance. Not that Cassian had come up with a better alternative.

  At least Briallyn and Koschei had not yet acted further. Though he had no doubt they’d be making their next move soon.

  Feyre commanded the crowd, her voice like thunder at midnight, “Dance.”

  People paired off and fell seamlessly into the music. Keir went with them this time.

  “Before you join the merriment, Eris,” Rhys drawled, a long black box appearing in his hands, “I’d like to present you with your Solstice gift.”

  Cassian kept his face blank. Rhys had gotten the bastard a gift?

  Rhys floated the box over to Eris on a night-kissed win
d. Let enough of that wind remain, wrapping behind Eris, for Cassian to know it blocked him from sight. From Keir’s sight, specifically.

  Eris lifted his brows, flipping open the carved lid. He stiffened, voice going low. “What is this?”

  “A present,” Rhys said, and Cassian caught a glimpse of a familiar hilt in the box.

  The dagger Nesta had Made. Cassian refrained from whirling on Rhys and Feyre, demanding to know what the hell they were thinking.

  Eris sucked in a breath. Feyre said, “You can sense its power.”

  “There’s flame in it,” Eris said, not touching the dagger. As if his own magic warned him. He shut the lid, face slightly pale. “Why give this to me?”

  “You’re our ally,” Feyre said, a hand resting on her belly. “You face enemies that exist outside of the usual rules of magic. It seemed only fair to give you a weapon that operates outside those rules, too.”

  “This is truly Made, then.”

  Cassian braced himself for the truth, the damning, dangerous truth to be revealed about Nesta. But Rhys said, “From my personal collection. A family heirloom.”

  “You possessed a Made item and kept it hidden all these years? During the war?”

  “Don’t take our generosity for granted,” Feyre warned Eris quietly.

  Eris stilled, but nodded. He extended the box back to Rhys. “I’ll leave it in your keeping while I dance, then.” He added with what Cassian could have sworn was sincerity, “Thank you.”

  Feyre nodded as Rhys took the box and set it beside his throne. “Use it well.” She smiled softly at Eris. “Ordinarily I would ask you to dance, but my condition has left me unwell enough that I worry about what so much spinning would do to my stomach.” It was the truth. Feyre had bolted from dinner three nights ago to find the nearest toilet. Now she made a show of looking between her two sisters. Elain gave a passable impression of appearing interested. Nesta just looked bored. Like they hadn’t just given away the dagger she’d Made.

  Perhaps it was because Nesta’s eyes had drifted toward the dancing, shimmering throng. As if she couldn’t help herself when the music swelled. She seemed to be half-listening. Maybe music meant more to her than the dagger—more than magic and power.

  Feyre noted the direction of Nesta’s stare. “My oldest sister shall take my place.”

  Nesta barely glanced to Eris, who pulled his assessing gaze from Elain to stare at the eldest Archeron sister with a mix of wariness and intent that set Cassian’s jaw grinding. Or it would have been grinding, if he hadn’t mastered himself in time to keep his face blank as Nesta began walking toward Eris.

  Eris offered an arm, and Nesta took it, her face neutral, her chin high, each step gliding. They halted at the edge of the dance floor, pulling apart to face each other.

  Others watched from the sidelines as the dance finished and the introductory strains of the next began, a harp strumming high and sweet. Eris extended a hand, a half smile on his mouth.

  As if those harp strings wrapped around Nesta’s arm, she raised it, and placed her hand in his precisely as the last, swift pluck of the harp sounded.

  Percussion and horns blasted; low stringed instruments started a rushing stroke of music. A summons to the dance in a countdown to movement. Cassian reminded himself to breathe as Eris slid his broad hand over Nesta’s waist, tucking her in close. She lifted her chin, looking up into his face as a deep-bellied drum thumped.

  And as the violins began their sweeping song, a beckoning back-and-forth, Nesta moved as if her very breath were timed to the music. Eris went with her, and it was clear that he knew the dance’s nuances and exact notes, but Nesta …

  She gathered her skirts in her other hand, and as Eris led her into the waltz’s opening movements, her body went loose and taut in so many different places Cassian didn’t know where to look: she was bent and shaped and directed by the sound.

  Even Eris’s eyes widened at it—the sheer skill and grace, each movement of her body precisely tuned to each note and flutter of music, from her fingertips to the extension of her neck as she turned, the arch of her back into a held note. Cassian dared a glance at Feyre and Rhys and found even their normally composed faces had gone a bit slack.

  By the time Nesta and Eris finished their first rotation through the dance floor, Cassian had the growing feeling that Elain had rather undersold her sister’s abilities.

  The music burned through Nesta.

  Had there ever been such a perfect, half-wild sound in the world? Mor’s memories on the Veritas were nothing compared to this, hearing it performed live, dancing through it. It flowed and swam around her, filling her blood, and if she could have done so, she would have melted into the melody, become the rolling drums, the soaring violins, the clashing cymbals with the counter-beat, the horns and reeds with their high-arcing song.

  There wasn’t enough space inside her for the sound, for all it made her feel—not enough space in her mind, her heart, her body; and all she could do to honor it, worship it, was dance.

  Eris, to his credit, kept up.

  She held his eyes throughout each step, let him feel her supple body, how pliant it was as she arched into a cluster of notes. His hand tightened on her, fingers digging into the groove of her spine, and she let a small smile rise to her red-painted lips.

  She had never worn such a color on her mouth. It looked like sin personified. But Mor had done it, along with the swoop of liquid kohl over her upper eyelids. And when Nesta had looked in the mirror at last, she hadn’t seen herself staring back.

  She’d seen a Queen of the Night. As merciless and cold and beautiful as the god Lanthys had wanted to make her. Death’s Consort.

  Death herself.

  Eris released her waist to spin her, and it was no effort to time her rotation to the flutter of notes, her gaze locking back to his exactly as the music returned to the melody. Flame simmered in his eyes, and he spun her again—not a prescribed move in the dance, but she followed through, snapping her head around to meet his gaze once more, her skirts twirling.

  His lips curled with approval, his test passed.

  Nesta smirked back at him, letting her eyes glitter. Make him crawl, Mor had said. And she would.

  But first she would dance.

  Cassian knew the waltz. Had watched and danced it for centuries. Knew its last half minute was a swift frenzy of notes and rising, grand sound. Knew most dancers would keep waltzing through it, but the brave ones, the skilled ones would do the twelve spins, the female blindly turning with one arm above her head, rotated again and again and again by her partner as they moved across the dance floor. To spin was to risk looking the fool at best, to eat marble at worst.

  Nesta went for it.

  And Eris went with her, eyes blazing with feral delight.

  The music stomped into its crashing finale, drums striking, violins whirring, and the entire room straightened, eyes upon Nesta.

  Upon Nesta, this once-human female who had conquered death, who now glowed as if she had devoured the moon, too.

  Between one beat and the next, Eris lifted Nesta’s arm above her head and whipped her around with such force her heels rose off the ground. She’d barely finished the rotation when he spun her again, her head turning with such precision it took Cassian’s breath away.

  And her feet …

  One spin after another after another, moving across the now-empty dance floor like a night storm, Nesta’s slipper-clad feet danced so fast they were a near blur. He knew that Eris turned her arm, but her feet held her, propelled them. It was she who led this dance. On the seventh spin, she twirled so swiftly she rose fully onto her toes.

  On the ninth spin, Eris released her fingers. And Nesta, arm still stretched above her head, rotated thrice more. Each one of the sapphires atop her tiara glimmered as if lit with an inner fire. Someone gasped nearby. It might have been Feyre.

  And as Nesta spun solo—on the toes of one perfect foot—she smiled. Not a courtier’s slick sm
ile, not a coy one, but one of pure, wild joy, brought by the music and the dance and her wholehearted yield to it.

  It was like seeing someone being born. Like seeing someone come alive.

  By the time Nesta finished the last rotation, that absurd defiance of basic laws of movement and space, Eris had her hand again, spinning her three more times, his red hair glinting like fire as if in echo to the unchecked, dark joy bursting from her.

  Nesta’s mother had wanted a prince for her. Cassian now thought she’d undervalued her daughter. Only a king or an emperor would do for someone with that level of skill.

  She was seducing Eris within an inch of his life. The murmuring of the Hewn City confirmed that Cassian wasn’t the only one noting it.

  Eris’s eyes gleamed with wanton desire as he drank in Nesta’s smile, the glow about her. He knew what Nesta might become with a little ambition. The right guidance.

  If he learned that the Dread Trove answered to her, that she’d Made his new dagger …

  It was a mistake, to bring her here. To dangle her before Eris, the world.

  Emerging from her cocoon of grief and rage, this new Nesta might very well send entire courts to their knees. Kingdoms.

  The music rose and rose and rose, faster and faster and faster, and as its last few notes sounded, Eris again released her. Nesta spun solo once more, three more precise, perfect rotations as Eris dropped to a knee before her and held up a hand.

  The final note blasted and held, and Nesta halted with preternatural ease, taking Eris’s hand in the same movement that her back arched and she flung up her other arm, the portrait of triumph.

  The next dance began, and Nesta did not hesitate when Eris led her into it. It was a lighter, easier dance than the first, whose music had been a song in her blood.

  Her partner might be a monster, but he knew how to dance. Had known how her body screamed to do those extra, solo turns, and let her go free not once but twice, and even then it had not been enough. If she hadn’t been wearing the heavy dress, she might have begged the orchestra to play the song again so she could just execute spin after spin after spin by herself, knowing when to throw in doubles and triples by instinct and ear alone.