“We can make it,” Emerie panted, sprinting at the head of their pack toward the bridge, now visible through the snow-crusted trees. “We can outrun them.”
Arrows whizzed past.
Emerie hit the bridge first, the rickety contraption bouncing with her weight as she practically flew across it. Arrows thudded into the trees, the ground, the bridge posts, and Nesta didn’t hesitate as she raced over the slats, not daring to look at the plunge below to a barren riverbed, only at Emerie as she cleared the bridge—
A scream of pain blasted behind them, and Nesta whirled at the end of the bridge to find Gwyn still on the other side with an arrow through her thigh. Down. Too close to the males closing in—
“CUT IT!” Gwyn roared.
“Get up,” Nesta ground out. “Get up.”
The priestess tried. She made it to her feet, but she’d never cross the bridge in time.
So Nesta took the Illyrian bow off her shoulder. Took the coil of rope off, too, and handed it blindly to Emerie. “Tie one end to that tree, and then around yourself.” Nesta didn’t wait to see if she was obeyed before she knotted the other end to the arrow. Fitted the arrow into the bow.
“We didn’t learn archery,” Emerie breathed.
But Nesta nocked the arrow in place. Took aim. Right at Gwyn, who eyed the rope tied to the arrow, the other end around the tree and Emerie, and understood.
“My sister taught me.” Nesta’s arms trembled as she drew back the string. “A long time ago.”
Teeth gritted, grunting, Nesta strained for every inch. Aimed for Gwyn as her friend ran toward the bridge, hobbling, face white with pain, leaving a trail of blood in the snow behind her.
Nesta let the arrow soar as the first of the males broke through the trees.
It flew true. Landed in the snow at Gwyn’s feet.
The priestess grabbed the arrow and wrapped the rope around her middle, over and over again as she ran for the bridge—
Nesta dropped the bow. Gwyn had reached the bridge’s far side and was yelling, “CUT IT CUT IT CUT IT!”
The males cleared the trees. They raced toward the bridge and the limping Gwyn, gaining on her fast. Nesta had only to throw out a hand before Emerie tossed the sword to her.
Gwyn, limping halfway down the bridge, didn’t stop moving. The males were only a few feet behind, crowding onto the rickety structure.
Nesta brought the blade down upon the bridge’s ropes. Even as the wood fell out from beneath her, Gwyn still seemed to be running, then leaping into the open air, only that rope around her middle to keep her from death as she began to plunge—
But Nesta had grabbed on to the rope, dropping before the bridge post and wrapping her legs around it, holding on tightly as inch after inch of rough fiber ripped through her hands. Behind her, braced against the pine tree, Emerie held on just as tightly.
Gwyn fell toward the ravine floor, Illyrian males shrieking as they tumbled, untethered, with her.
Nesta screamed, her palms on fire. Red coated the rope, but she clamped her torn hands tighter and breathed through the ripping, tearing sensation.
Until Gwyn halted her plunge, yanked to a stop. The entire world seemed to suck in a breath as Nesta waited for the snap of the rope.
But Gwyn only careened toward the rock face, grunting in pain as she hit.
The Illyrians who had fallen had carried the only bows, thankfully, and the males on the other side cursed and spat.
But Nesta and Emerie paid them no heed as they hauled Gwyn upward, bloodied hands turning the rope redder still. Each pull had Nesta panting against the pain until Gwyn cleared the cliff edge, grimacing as the arrow through her thigh touched the ground. It had been a clean shot, but blood soaked her leg. Her face was already pale.
“Fucking bitches!” one of the males roared.
“Oh, shut up!” Emerie bellowed across the ravine, helping Nesta lead Gwyn into the snowy trees, their breaths puffing out before them. “Find something new to call us!”
They managed to slide the arrow out of Gwyn’s leg and bind it using an extra shirt they’d taken from a dead warrior, but the priestess still limped. Her face had grown ashen, and even propped up between Nesta and Emerie, she kept their pace glacial.
Yet they continued toward Ramiel, now visible ahead of them.
They encountered no one else. It began snowing again around midday, and Gwyn’s steps grew staggered. Her breathing too labored. Soon Nesta and Emerie were half-carrying her between them.
By the time evening fell, just getting Gwyn high into a tree took all their remaining strength. They secured themselves to its trunk with the bloodied rope, and Nesta and Emerie idly plucked tiny rope fibers from their torn hands. They had no more food, only water.
The next day was the same: slow walking, snow flurries, ears straining for any hint of other warriors, too many breaks, only water to fill their bellies, and, as night fell, a new tree.
But this tree was the very last before a barren slope rose above them like a black beast.
They’d made it to the foot of Ramiel.
Nesta awoke before dawn, checked that Gwyn breathed, that her leg hadn’t become infected, and stared at the black-and-gray slope ahead.
Far up, too far, lay its peak with the sacred black stone. Three stars glinted above the mountain: Arktos and Oristes to the left and right; Carynth crowning them. Their light flared and waned, as if in invitation and challenge.
“Cassian told me only twelve have made it this far,” Nesta murmured to her friends. “We’ve already earned the title of Oristian just by being here.”
Emerie stirred. “We could stay up here today, wait it out overnight, and be done at dawn. To hell with any titles.” It was the wise thing to do. The safe thing to do.
“That path,” Nesta said, pointing to a small one along Ramiel’s base, “could also take us down south. No one would go that way, because it takes you away from the mountain.”
“So we’d come all this way and just hide?” Gwyn said, voice hoarse.
“You’re hurt,” Nesta countered. “And that is a mountain in front of us.”
“So rather than try and fail,” Gwyn demanded, “you would take the safe road?”
“We would live,” Emerie said carefully. “I’d love nothing more than to wipe the smirks off the lips of the males in my village, but not at this cost. Not if it costs us you, Gwyn. We need you to live.”
Gwyn studied Ramiel’s craggy, unforgiving slope. Not much snow graced its sides. Like the wind had whipped it all away. Or the storms had avoided its peak entirely. “Is it living, though? To take the safe road?”
“You’re the one who’s been in a library for two years,” Emerie said.
Gwyn didn’t flinch. “I have. And I am tired of it.” She surveyed the blood-soaked leather along her thigh. “I don’t want to take the safe road.” She pointed to the mountain, to the slender path upward. “I want to take that road.” Her voice thickened. “I want to take the road that no one dares travel, and I want to travel it with you two. No matter what may befall us. Not as Illyrians, not for their titles, but as something new. To prove to them, to everyone, that something new and different might triumph over their rules and restrictions.”
A cold wind blew off Ramiel’s sides. Whispering, murmuring.
“They call this climb the Breaking for a reason,” Emerie countered gravely.
Nesta added, “We haven’t eaten in days. We’re down to the last of our water. To climb that mountain—”
“I have been broken once before,” Gwyn said, her voice clear. “I survived it. And I will not be broken again—not even by this mountain.”
Nesta and Emerie kept silent as Gwyn released a sharp breath. “A commander from Hybern raped me two years ago. He had his soldiers hold me down on a table. He laughed the entire time.”
Tears gleamed in Gwyn’s eyes. “Hybern attacked in the dead of night. We were all asleep when they broke into the temple and began the slaughter.
I shared a room with my twin, Catrin. We woke at the first of the screaming from the walls. She was … Catrin was always the strong one. The smart and charming one. After our mother died, she took care of me. Looked out for me. And that night, she ordered me to go protect Sangravah’s children while she ran right for the temple walls.”
Gwyn’s voice shook. “When I reached the children’s dorm, the slaughter was only a few halls away. I gathered the children, and we ran for one of the catacomb tunnels. They were accessible through a trapdoor in the kitchen, and I’d gotten the last child in when I heard the soldiers coming. I … I knew they’d find us if I went and left the door uncovered, so I threw a rug over it and then moved the kitchen table atop it. I’d just finished moving the table when the soldiers found me.”
Nesta couldn’t breathe. Gwyn stared at the mountain rising high above. Even the wind had seemed to quiet to hear her words.
“The screaming had stopped, and they had other priestesses with them. Including Catrin. But their commander walked in, and asked me where the rest of us were. They wanted the children, too. The girls.”
Nesta could hear Emerie’s thundering heart, its frantic beat echoing her own.
Gwyn swallowed. “I told him the children had taken the mountain road to get help. He didn’t believe me. So he grabbed Catrin, because our scents were nearly identical, you see, and told me that if I didn’t reveal where the children were, he’d kill her. And when I didn’t give the children up …” Her mouth shook. “He beheaded Catrin right there, along with two other priestesses. And then he told his soldiers to go to work on us. He claimed me. I spat in his face.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “And then he … went to work.”
Nesta’s heart cracked.
“I hadn’t yet participated in the Great Rite, and we were so remote up there that I never had the chance to lie with a male, and he took that from me, too. And then he called over three of his soldiers and told them to keep going until I revealed where the children had gone.”
Nausea roiled Nesta’s gut. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.
“The first had just unbuckled his belt when Azriel arrived.” Silent, unending tears streamed down Gwyn’s face.
“Azriel slaughtered all of them within moments. He didn’t hesitate. But I could barely move, and when I tried to get up … He gave me his cloak and wrapped me in it. Morrigan arrived a few minutes later, and then Rhysand appeared, and it became clear some of the soldiers had gotten away with the piece of the Cauldron, so Azriel headed after them. Mor healed me as best she could, then brought me to the library. I couldn’t … I couldn’t bear to be at the temple, with the others. To see Catrin’s grave and know I failed her, to see that kitchen every day for the rest of my life.
“The first five months I was at the library, I barely spoke. I didn’t sing. I went to the priestess who counsels all of us, and sometimes I just sat there and cried, or screamed, or said nothing. And then I began working with Merrill, upon Clotho’s request, and the work focused me. Motivated me to get out of bed each morning. I started singing during the evening service. And then you came along, Nesta.”
Gwyn’s eyes slid to hers, brimming with tears and pain and—hope. Precious, beautiful hope. “And I could tell something bad had happened to you, too. You were fighting it, though. Not letting it master you. I knew Catrin would have been the first to sign up for training, so … I did, too. But even training these months hasn’t erased the fact that I let my sister die. You asked me once why I don’t wear the hood or the Invoking Stone. That stone is a sign of holiness. How can someone like me wear it?”
Gwyn stopped at last, as if waiting for them to damn her.
But tears were running down Emerie’s face. They didn’t halt as Emerie took Gwyn’s hand and said, “You are not alone, Gwyn. Do you hear me? You are not alone.”
Nesta took Emerie’s other hand as her friend went on, “We have suffered differently, but … My father once beat me so badly he broke my back. He kept me in bed for weeks while I healed, telling people I was ill, but I wasn’t. It was … It was one of the lesser of his evils.” She paused. “He beat my mother before that. And she … I think she shielded me from him, because he never laid a hand on me until she was gone. Until he beat her so badly she couldn’t recover. He made me dig her grave on a night with a new moon, and told people she’d miscarried a babe and died from blood loss.”
She angrily wiped a tear away. “Everyone believed him. They always believed him—he was so charming to them, so smart. Whenever people told me how lucky I was to have such a good father, I wondered if I’d imagined all the bad parts. Only my scars, my wings reminded me of the truth. And when he died, I was so happy, yet they expected me to mourn him. I should have told them all what a monster he was, but I didn’t. They had turned a blind eye to my wing-clipping while he was alive; why should they bother to believe the truth now that he was among the honored dead?”
Emerie’s nose crinkled. “I still feel his fists on me. Still feel the impact of him slamming my head into a wall, or crunching my fingers in a door, or just railing on me until I blacked out.” She was shaking, and Nesta squeezed her hand tighter. “He never gave me any money or allowed me to earn my own, never let me eat more than he deemed appropriate, and wormed his way so far into my mind that I still hear him when I look in the mirror or make a mistake.”
She swallowed. “I came to training because I knew he’d have forbidden it. I came to training to get his voice out of my head. And to know how to stop a male if one ever puts another hand on me again. But none of it will ever bring my mother back, or the fact that I hid while my father took out his rage upon her. Nothing will ever make that right. But this mountain …” Emerie pointed to the small dirt path at the base of the peak. “I’ll climb it for my mother. For her, I’ll face the Breaking and go as far as I can.”
The two of them looked to Nesta. But her gaze remained upon the mountain. Its peak. That path leading up to it. The hardest of all the routes.
Finally Nesta said, “I was sent to the House of Wind because I had become such a wretch, drinking and fucking everything in sight. My … family couldn’t stand it. For more than a year, I abused their kindness and generosity, and I did it because …” She exhaled a shuddering breath. “My father died during the war. Before my eyes, but I did nothing to stop it.” And then it all came out. She told the two of them every horrible thing she had done and thought and savored. Told them of the Cauldron and its terror and pain and power. Told them the worst of her, so that if they decided to risk climbing that mountain with her, they’d go into it with their eyes open. So that they could choose to pull back now.
And when Nesta finished, she braced herself for the disappointment in their faces, the disgust.
Gwyn’s hand slid into hers, though. Emerie tightened her grip on Nesta’s other hand, too.
“Neither of you is to blame for what happened,” Nesta whispered. “Neither of you failed anyone.”
“Neither did you,” Emerie said softly.
Nesta gazed at her friends. And saw pain and sorrow in their tear-streaked faces, but also the openness of letting each other see the broken places deep inside. The understanding that they would not turn away.
Nesta’s eyes stung as Gwyn said, “So we climb Ramiel. We take the Breaking. We win to prove to everyone that something new can be as powerful and unbreakable as the old rules. That something no one has ever seen before, not entirely Valkyrie nor entirely Illyrian, can win the Blood Rite.”
“No,” Nesta said at last. “We win to prove to ourselves that it can be done.” She bared her teeth in a feral grin at the mountain. “We win the whole damn thing.”
CHAPTER
69
Eris and the small caravan rode eastward for three days, stopping only to eat and sleep. Their pace was leisurely, and from the glimpses Cassian and Azriel got through the clouds, it seemed Eris was unchained. Briallyn’s small, hunched figure rode at his side each day. But the
y caught no sign of the Crown on her—no glint of gold in the sun.
The Blood Rite would end the next day. Cassian had heard nothing of Nesta, felt nothing. But he’d barely slept. Had hardly been able to keep his focus on the party ahead as they entered a low-lying forest beyond the hills, ancient and knotted and full of hanging moss.
“I’ve never been here before,” Azriel murmured over the wind. “It feels like an old place. It reminds me of the Middle.”
Cassian kept his silence. Didn’t speak as they trailed their quarry deeper into the wood to a small lake in its center. Only when the party halted at its dark shores did Azriel and Cassian land nearby. Begin their silent tracking on foot.
The group must not have been concerned about being overheard, because Cassian could make out their words from well beyond their campsite along the shore. Twenty of them had gathered, a mixture of what looked like human nobility and soldiers. Eris’s white stallion had been hitched to a branch. But the male—
“Over here, Cassian,” Eris crooned.
Cassian whirled, and found the High Lord’s son holding a knife at his ribs.
By midday, Nesta could barely breathe. Gwyn was dragging, Emerie was panting, and they’d begun to ration their water. No matter how high they climbed, how many boulders they cleared along the narrow path, the peak grew no closer.
They saw no one else. Heard no one else.
A small mercy.
Nesta’s breath singed her lungs. Her legs wobbled. There was only the pain in her body and the relentless circling of her thoughts, as if they were vultures gathering to feast.
She just wanted to turn off her mind—
Was it possible that the Breaking wasn’t merely physical, but mental as well? That this mountain somehow dredged up every bit of her fear and sucked her mind deep into it?
They halted for lunch, if water could be called lunch. Gwyn’s leg was bleeding again, her face ghostly white. None of them spoke.
But Nesta noted their haunted eyes—knew they heard their own horrors.
They rested for as long as they dared, then moved again.
A Court of Silver Flames Page 63