A Court of Silver Flames

by Sarah J. Maas

  “I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to fall for the nightgown, but I suppose that’s the difference between a female thinking she’s a warrior and the real thing,” the cold-faced leader said as Nesta and Emerie were hurled at his booted feet. He chuckled, eyes glassy enough that Nesta wondered if someone had smuggled in a case of wine along with the weapons. “Hello Emerie.”

  Nesta recognized the male then. Bellius, Emerie’s hateful cousin.

  Emerie only spat, “Where the fuck is she?”

  Bellius shrugged. “Found the nightgown a few miles ago. Perhaps some other warrior fucked and killed her.” His smile held nothing but evil. “You shouldn’t have come here, cousin.”

  Emerie retorted, “I was brought here against my will, cousin. But now I’ll enjoy proving you and your father wrong.

  His teeth shone in the dim, snowy light through the forest canopy. “You’ve disgraced your father. Disgraced our family.”

  Nesta eyed her weapons at the male’s feet, all ceded upon Emerie’s capture.

  “Was it you who sabotaged the Rite with these weapons?” Nesta seethed.

  Bellius chuckled again, though his eyes remained hazy. Flakes of snow gathered in his dark hair. “I wouldn’t call it sabotage. And neither did she.”

  Nesta froze. She’d seen that glassy-eyed look before—on the faces of Eris’s soldiers.

  And that word—she. Had Briallyn somehow ensnared Bellius with the Crown? He’d looked glassy-eyed when she’d seen him in Emerie’s shop months ago. When he’d recently come back from a scouting trip to the continent. Briallyn must have intercepted him then. Perhaps used the Crown to influence the Illyrians to break their sacred rules of the Rite, to plant the weapons here. But why?

  Bellius said to Emerie as the female shook with rage, “You know I can’t let you leave here alive. Our family would never recover from the shame.”

  “Fuck you,” Emerie snarled. “Fuck your family.”

  Bellius just eyed Nesta, smiling faintly. He brushed the snow from the shoulders of his jacket. “I get first crack at the High Fae bitch,” he said to his warriors.

  Nesta’s gut churned, acid burning through her. She had to find some way out of this, even outnumbered, unarmed, with no magic—

  The pure panic and rage in Emerie’s face told her that her friend, too, was coming up short on any solution.

  Bellius stepped toward them.

  And then blood splattered across the side of his face as the guts of one of his cronies spilled onto the snow before him.

  The thing that crawled over the ridge had been crafted of nightmares. Part cat, part serpent, all black fur and sharp claws and hooked teeth. It halted at the edge of the camp. Didn’t look down at the gutted corpse of the warrior whose abdomen it had sliced open with a single swipe. Blood stained the snow around him in a wide circle.

  The warriors, Bellius with them, readied themselves. Bellius drew his sword.

  The creature leaped. Warriors screamed, weapons flashing in the bloodied, shrieking fray.

  “Run,” Nesta ordered Emerie, surging to her feet. She snatched her weapons, and Emerie lunged to grab a sword as it flew from a warrior’s hand and into the snow.

  A female voice rang out from the other side of the ridge. “Here!”

  Nesta nearly sobbed at the voice, at the coppery head of hair that popped up, the hand beckoning as Bellius and his males squared off against the thing tearing into them. Nesta and Emerie reached the hilltop’s edge and slid down, snow spraying. Gwyn waited on its other side, bloodied and in a warrior’s clothes, face filthy and torn, but eyes clear.

  “Follow me,” Gwyn breathed, and they wasted no effort arguing as they half-fell down the hillside and sprinted through the trees, aiming to the southeast.

  They ran until the warriors’ screams, the beast’s roars, were distant. Until they faded away entirely.

  They stopped near a trickle of a stream through the snow, panting so hard Nesta had to lean against a tree.

  “How?” Emerie gasped out.

  “I woke up before the others,” Gwyn said between breaths, a hand on her chest.

  “So did I,” Nesta said. “I thought it was because I’m Made, but maybe it’s because you and I aren’t Illyrian.”

  Gwyn nodded. “I started running, and found a cache of weapons almost immediately.” She gestured to the blood on her Illyrian leathers. “I changed from the nightgown into someone else’s clothes. From a body, I mean.” She held up her wrist. “Did you know this thing glows? I remembered your wish for us: that we’d always be able to find our way back to each other. No matter what. I figured it would lead me to you. It must be somehow immune to the magic ban in the Rite.”

  She smiled crookedly at Nesta. “I kept to the trees the first two nights, watching the beasts, and I spotted that horrible male and his companions this morning. Saw they’d found my nightgown and displayed it, and I knew they were hunting for you. I thought I’d take them out before they could find you.”

  “You led the beast right to them.”

  “I learned where the beasts sleep during the day,” Gwyn said. “And that they get very angry when awoken.” She pointed to the cuts on her face, her hands. “I barely outran that one as I led it toward the camp. My timing was just good luck, though.”

  Emerie shuddered. “The Mother watched over us.”

  Nesta could have sworn the charms on their bracelets let out a soft, singing hum at that.

  But Gwyn winced. “He’s really your cousin?”

  “I hope I can refer to that sad fact in the past tense after this,” Emerie said coolly.

  Nesta offered her a savage smile. “We need to keep moving. If Bellius or any of his friends survive, they’ll want to kill us even more now.”

  Four more days. They had to last four more days.

  Gwyn said hoarsely as they moved into the wilderness, the snow mercifully lightening, “You two came looking for me.”

  “Of course we did,” Emerie said, interlacing her hand with Gwyn’s, then Nesta’s, and squeezing tightly. “It’s what sisters do.”

  CHAPTER

  68

  Nesta far preferred caves to trees. But as night fell and no caves revealed themselves, she found herself with no other option but to scale one behind Emerie and Gwyn, the latter revealing how she’d managed to rest while up one: a long stretch of rope. It must have been one of the items Queen Briallyn had the Illyrians leave, presumably for trussing captives or stringing them up or strangling them, and Gwyn had used it to bind herself to the trunk of a tree each night. It was long enough that the three of them, sitting side by side on a massive branch, were able to tie themselves together and to the tree itself.

  “How’d you avoid the creatures climbing up to eat you?” Emerie asked Gwyn, who was wedged between her and Nesta. “They were pulling Illyrians off the branches like apples.”

  “Maybe because I don’t smell like an Illyrian,” Gwyn said, frowning at her clothes. “Despite these.” She nodded to Nesta. “You don’t, either. If we’re lucky, our scents will mask Emerie’s.”

  “Perhaps,” Nesta said, voice quieting as the night deepened. The snow had finally stopped hours ago, and even the whipping wind had eased. A small miracle.

  Gwyn peered forward to look at Emerie. “How much do you know about the Rite?”

  Emerie tucked her hands under her armpits for warmth. “A good amount. My father and brother—and my horrid cousins—talked about it endlessly. Any family gathering, all the males told and retold their oh-so-glorious tales from their own Rites. How many they killed, the beasts they escaped. None of them ever made it to Ramiel, though.” Emerie nodded to Nesta. “They always hated that about Cassian. And Rhysand and Azriel. They hated that the three of them made it to the very top and won the whole thing.”

  “The mountain is that hard to climb?” Gwyn asked, voice hushed.

  Emerie grunted. “Hard to reach; harder to climb. It’s covered in jagged rock that slices you
up like a cheese grater.”

  Nesta shuddered.

  “And with our healing slowed to a human rate thanks to the rules of the Rite,” Emerie went on, “we’ll be lucky to make it to the Pass of Enalius in one piece.”

  “What’s that?” Nesta asked.

  Emerie’s eyes shone. “Long ago—so long ago they don’t even have a precise date for it—a great war was fought between the Fae and the ancient beings who oppressed them. One of its key battles was here, in these mountains. Our forces were battered and outnumbered, and for some reason, the enemy was desperate to reach the stone at the top of Ramiel. We were never taught the reason why; I think it’s been forgotten. But a young Illyrian warrior named Enalius held the line against the enemy soldiers for days. He found a natural archway of stone amongst the tangle of boulders and made that his bottleneck. He died in the end, but he held off the enemy long enough for our allies to reach us. This Rite is all to honor him. So much of the history has been lost, but the memory of his bravery remains.”

  As Cassian’s name would last through history, Nesta thought. Would her own? Some small part of her wished for it.

  “There are a few different paths to the top of Ramiel,” Emerie went on. “But the hardest one, the most infamous, is the one that takes you through the Pass of Enalius. Through the archway of stone. They call that path the Breaking.”

  “Why am I not surprised that’s the one Cassian and his brothers took?” Nesta grumbled.

  Emerie and Gwyn chuckled, but when a beast roared in the distance, they instantly fell quiet.

  Nesta murmured, “We should take watches.”

  They divvied them up, Nesta taking first watch, Emerie second, and Gwyn third, and when that was decided, they sat in silence for a long moment. They’d eaten a meager meal of some roast squirrel Gwyn had managed to pilfer from an unsuspecting Illyrian, but hunger remained a vocal knot in their bellies.

  Nesta leaned into Gwyn’s warmth, let it seep through her bones. And prayed to whatever god might be listening that the rumbling of their stomachs wouldn’t reveal them to the beasts below.

  The fourth day brought sun, bright enough to make the snow blinding, even in the shadows of the pines. Gwyn had climbed their tree to its summit, then estimated that Ramiel lay days away to the northeast. Leaving them, should they make it, a day to climb its barren face.

  “I couldn’t see if anyone else was ahead,” Gwyn announced, “but there’s a massive ravine nearby with a small wooden bridge. We must be the first to find it—if anyone else had, they would have destroyed the bridge to prevent further use. We need to reach it before the others do.”

  “How far ahead?” Nesta asked, checking the knife at her side, the rope she’d coiled over a shoulder and the Illyrian bow there. Emerie had the sword she’d snatched from Bellius’s camp, and Gwyn bore a shield and a knife of her own.

  “Several hours, if we can run it,” Gwyn said.

  “Running risks attention,” Emerie warned.

  “Walking risks losing the bridge,” Nesta countered.

  The three of them looked at each other. “Run, then,” Gwyn said, and they nodded.

  They set a light pace, meant to keep their steps silent and easy even with the snow underfoot, but running after days of exhaustion, limbs stiff with cold and belly mostly empty, made Nesta’s head pound.

  “We’ve got company,” Emerie panted, and the three of them halted. Not five hundred yards away stood six males.

  “Do you think they know about the bridge?” Gwyn breathed.

  As soon as she said it, the males burst into a sprint. Not toward them, but toward the ravine.

  Swearing, Nesta launched into movement with Gwyn and Emerie close behind, snow flying at their feet. “Hurry!” she shouted.

  Through the trees ahead, the world lightened—as if the forest had stopped. It had, she realized. At the ravine’s edge, now equidistant between them and the males. Whoever made it first would cut the bridge behind them.

  And if they both reached the bridge at the same time …

  “We have to intercept them,” Nesta panted. “Well before they reach the bridge.” She altered her trajectory abruptly, and Emerie and Gwyn moved with her as one. The males aiming for the bridge seemed to realize their enemy was now coming right at them. They slowed, reaching for their weapons.

  Nesta found her target, a male with a good foot on her, and swiped with her dagger as she careened into him. He’d been running fast enough that he lost his balance and went down as he dodged her blow. Precisely where she wanted him: right in front of Emerie. Nesta pivoted to the next male as her friend drove her sword into the first male’s chest.

  The next male Nesta attacked was ready, swiping with a short sword. She ducked, twirling away—allowing him to land the blow on Gwyn’s shield. Just as Gwyn ducked, slashing across his shins with a dagger.

  The four others—

  Nesta weaved and bobbed against another male, dagger to dagger. Each movement sang in perfect harmony with her breath; each pivot of her body, her limbs, was part of a symphony.

  The male swung broadly at Nesta, and she glimpsed her opening. She let his blow go wide before slamming her elbow into his nose. Bone met bone with a crunch that rang through her.

  He went down with a grunt and Nesta’s blade slashed silver and red across his throat. She didn’t let herself feel the warm slickness of his blood.

  Another male already charged at her, and Gwyn shouted Nesta’s name—grabbing her attention just before the priestess chucked a shield to her.

  Nesta caught it, spinning in the snow on one knee as she absorbed the impact of its weight. Expelling her breath in a mighty exhale, she lifted the shield high as the male brought down a sword meant for her head. Nesta met the blow, thrusting the shield upward and knocking the male off balance. She slammed her knife into his boot.

  He screamed, falling backward, and Nesta leaped to her feet, swinging the shield so hard it dented as it slammed into his head. The reverberations bit into her hand and forearm, but she kept her grip on the shield.

  Nesta whirled to the next opponent, but her friends had halted. The males around them were down.

  Utter silence filled the snowy forest. Even the birds in the pines had stopped chirping.

  “Valkyries,” Emerie said, eyes blazing bright.

  Nesta grinned through the blood she knew was splattered on her face. “Hell yes.”

  “Four fucking days,” Cassian hissed from where he and Azriel monitored the castle. “We’ve been sitting on our asses for four fucking days.”

  Azriel sharpened Truth-Teller. The black blade absorbed the dim sunlight trickling through the forest canopy above. “It seems you’ve forgotten how much of spying is waiting for the right moment. People don’t engage in their evil deeds when it’s convenient to you.”

  Cassian rolled his eyes. “I stopped spying because it bored me to death. I don’t know how you put up with this all the time.”

  “It suits me.” Azriel didn’t halt his sharpening, though shadows gathered around his feet.

  Cassian blew out a breath. “I know I’m being impatient. I know that. But you really think we shouldn’t go up to that damned castle and peek inside?”

  “I told you: their castle is too heavily warded, and full of magical traps that would trip up even Helion. Beyond that, Briallyn has the Crown. I have no interest in explaining to Rhys and Feyre why you died on my watch. And even less interest in explaining it to Nesta.”

  Cassian stared toward the castle. “You think she’s alive?” The question haunted him with every breath these last few days.

  “You’d know if she’d died,” Azriel said, pausing his work and looking up at Cassian. He tapped his brother’s chest with a scarred hand. “Right here—you’d know, Cass.”

  “There are plenty of other unspeakable things that could be happening to her,” Cassian said, voice thickening. “To Emerie and Gwyn.”

  The shadows deepened around Azriel, hi
s Siphons gleaming like cobalt fire. “You—we—trained them well, Cassian. Trust in that. It’s all we can do.”

  Cassian’s throat tightened, but a motion drew Azriel’s gaze away. Cassian shot to his feet. “Someone’s leaving the castle.” The two of them wordlessly launched into the skies, entering the cloud cover within moments. In the chill, thin air, Cassian glimpsed only what the gaps in the clouds offered.

  But it was enough.

  A small caravan had left the eastern city gates, departing down the bare road that led through the hills.

  “I don’t see a prison wagon,” Cassian said over the wind.

  Azriel’s gaze remained on the earth below. “They don’t need one,” he said with quiet venom.

  Cassian had to wait until the next gap in the clouds to see.

  No, they hadn’t needed a prison wagon. Because riding atop a white horse at the front of the party, side by side with a hunched, small figure, was Eris.

  “Stupid asshole,” Cassian snarled. “She snared him with the Crown.”

  “No,” Az said quietly. “Look at his left. He’s still got the dagger at his side. If he was in her thrall, he’d have already handed it over.”

  “So possessing another Made object does protect him against the Crown.” Which meant … “Traitor.” Cassian spat. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” His hands curled into fists. “Let’s get him, drag his ass home, and tear him apart.” He’d been drawn away from Nesta for this? For Eris’s games?

  Azriel’s voice cut through the howling wind. “We follow them. Capture Eris now and we might not get anything out of him. At least not quickly. We trail them and learn just how far this betrayal goes. See who they’re meeting with. It has to be important, for them to leave the safety of the castle.”

  There was no arguing with the logic of it, even if Cassian’s heart screamed at him with every flap of his wings to fly back home.

  Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn hadn’t even reached the bridge when a new group of males closed in, armed with bows and arrows.