Hands shoving her down, down, down into freezing water, voices laughing and sneering.
A brutish male face grinning as he anticipated the trophy that would be pulled forth—
She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save Elain, sobbing on the floor. Couldn’t save herself. No one was coming to rescue her, and these males would do what they wanted, and her body was not her own, not human—not for much longer—
Nesta wrenched her thoughts back to the present, blasting back the memory.
Her face veiled in the shadows beneath her pale hood, Clotho sat in silence, as if she’d seen the thoughts blare through Nesta, as if she knew how often the memory of that day in Hybern woke her. The limpid blue stone crowning the hood of Clotho’s robe flickered like a Siphon in the dim light as she slid a piece of parchment across the desk.
You can begin today by shelving books on Level Three. Take the ramp behind me to reach it. There will be a cart with the books, which are organized alphabetically by author. If there is no author, set them aside and ask for help at the end of your shift.
Nesta nodded. “When is the end of my shift?”
Using her wrists and the backs of her hands, Clotho pulled a small clock to herself. Pointed with a bulging knuckle to the six o’clock marker.
Five hours of work. Nesta could do that. “Fine.”
Clotho considered her again. Like she could see the churning, roaring sea inside her, that refused to leave her alone for so much as a moment, that refused to grant her a second of peace.
Nesta lowered her eyes to the desk. Forced herself to release a breath. But with its escape past her lips, that familiar weight swept in.
I am worthless and I am nothing, Nesta nearly said. She wasn’t sure why the words bubbled up, pressing on her lips to voice them. I hate everything that I am. And I am so, so tired. I am tired of wanting to be anywhere but in my own head.
She waited for Clotho to gesture, to do anything to say she’d heard the thoughts.
The priestess motioned to the library above and below. A silent dismissal.
Feet heavy, Nesta made her way to the sloping ramp.
The task was menial, but required enough concentration that time slipped away, her mind quieting to a blissful nothing.
No one approached Nesta as she hunted down sections and shelves, fingers skimming over the spines of books as she searched for the right place. There were at least three dozen priestesses who worked and researched and healed here, though it was nearly impossible to count them when they all wore the same pale robes and so many kept the hoods over their faces. The ones who’d left their hoods down had offered her tentative smiles.
This was their sanctuary, gifted to them by Rhysand. No one could enter without their permission.
Which meant they’d approved her presence, for whatever reason.
Nesta’s hands were near-withered with dust by the time a bell chimed six silvery peals throughout the cavernous library, ringing from its top levels down to the black pit. Some priestesses rose from where they worked at the desks and chairs on each level; some remained.
She found Clotho at the same desk. Did she ever lift her hood? She must, in order to bathe, but did she ever show anyone her face?
“I’m done for the day,” Nesta announced.
Clotho slid another note across the desk.
Thank you for your assistance. We will see you tomorrow.
“All right.” Nesta pocketed the note.
But Clotho held up a broken hand. Nesta watched with no shortage of awe as a fountain pen lifted above a piece of paper and began to write.
Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dusty. You’ll wreck that beautiful dress down here.
Nesta glanced to the gray gown she’d thrown on. “All right,” she repeated.
The pen began moving again, somehow spelled to connect with Clotho’s thoughts. It was nice to meet you, Nesta. Feyre speaks highly of you.
Nesta turned away. “No one likes a liar, Priestess.”
She could have sworn a breath of amusement fluttered from beneath the female’s hood.
Cassian didn’t come to dinner.
Nesta had stopped in her room only long enough to wash the dust from her hands and face, and then nearly sprinted upstairs, stomach growling.
The dining room had been empty. The place setting for one confirmed that she was in for a solitary meal.
She’d stared at the sunset-bathed city far below, the sole sounds her rustling dress and creaking chair.
Why was she surprised? She’d humiliated him at Windhaven. He was probably with his friends at the river house, ranting at them to find some other way to deal with her.
A plate of food appeared, dumped unceremoniously onto the place mat. Even the House hated her.
Nesta scowled at the red-stoned room. “Wine.”
None appeared. She lifted the glass before her. “Wine.”
Nothing. She tapped her nails on the table’s smooth surface. “Were you told to not give me wine?”
Talking to a house: a new low.
But as if in answer, the glass filled with water.
Nesta snarled toward the open archway at her back. “Funny.”
She surveyed the food: half a roast chicken seasoned with what smelled like rosemary and thyme; mashed potatoes swimming in butter; and green beans sautéed with garlic.
That silence roared in her head, in the room.
She drummed her fingers again.
Ridiculous. This whole thing, this high-handed interference was ridiculous.
Nesta stood and aimed for the doorway. “Keep your wine. I’ll get my own.”
CHAPTER
7
Without the wall’s magic blocking access to the human lands, Mor winnowed Cassian after sundown directly to the manor that had become home and headquarters to Jurian, Vassa, and—apparently—Lucien. Even more than a year later, the ravages of war lay evident around the estate: trees felled, barren patches of earth where greenery had not yet returned, and a general bleak openness that made the gray-stoned house seem like an accidental survivor. In the moonlight, that starkness was even emptier, the remnants of trees silvered, the shadows in the pockmarked earth deeper.
Cassian didn’t know to whom the home had once belonged, and apparently neither did its new occupants. Feyre had told him that they called themselves the Band of Exiles. Cassian snorted to himself at the thought. Mor didn’t linger upon dropping him at the house’s arched wooden door, smirking in a way that told him even if he begged her to help, she wouldn’t. No, she wanted to see him play courtier, precisely as Rhys had asked.
He hadn’t planned on starting this mission today, but after that disastrous attempt at a lesson with Nesta, he’d needed to do something. Anything.
Nesta had known exactly what bullshit she was pulling by refusing to get off that rock. How it would appear to Devlon and the other preening assholes. She’d known, and done it anyway.
So as soon as he’d dumped Nesta at the House, he’d headed to a deserted cliff by the sea where the roar of the surf drowned the raging heat in his bones.
He’d stopped by the river house to admit to his failure, but Feyre had only simmered with annoyance at Nesta’s behavior, and Rhys had given him a wary, amused look.
It was Amren who had said, Let her dig her own grave, boy. Then offer her a hand.
I thought that’s what this past year has been, he’d countered.
Keep reaching out your hand, had been Amren’s only reply.
He’d found Mor soon after that, explained that he needed to be transported, and here he was. He raised his fist to the door, but the wooden slab pulled away before he could touch it.
Lucien’s scarred, handsome face appeared, his golden eye whirring. “I thought I sensed someone else arriving.”
Cassian stepped into the house, floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “You just got here?”
“No,” Lucien said, and Cassian marked the tightness of his shoulde
rs beneath the dark gray jacket he wore, the taut silence emanating from every stone of the house. He marked its layout, in case he needed to fight his way to an exit. Which, given the displeasure that Lucien radiated as he strode for an archway to their left, seemed a distinct possibility.
Without turning, Lucien said, “Eris is here.”
Cassian didn’t falter. Didn’t reach for the knife strapped to his thigh, though it was an effort to block the memory of Mor’s battered face. The note nailed to her abdomen, her naked body dumped like garbage at the border of the Autumn Court. The fucking bastard had found her there and left her. She had been on death’s threshold and—
Cassian’s plans for what he’d one day do to him went far beyond the pain inflicted by a knife. Eris’s suffering would last weeks. Months. Years.
Cassian didn’t care that Eris had convinced Keir to delay his visit to Velaris, had apparently done so out of whatever shred of kindness remained in him. Didn’t care that Rhys had noted something in Eris that had earned his trust. None of that mattered to Cassian one fucking bit. His attention focused on the red-haired male seated near the roaring fire in the surprisingly fancy parlor. He knew enough to keep tabs on an enemy.
Eris lounged in a golden chair, legs crossed, his pale face the portrait of courtly arrogance.
Cassian’s fingers curled. Every time he’d seen the prick these past five centuries, he’d struggled with it. This blinding rage at the mere sight of him.
Eris smiled, well aware of it. “Cassian.”
Lucien’s gold eye clicked, reading Cassian’s rage while warning flashed in his remaining russet eye.
The male had grown up alongside Eris. Had dealt with Eris’s and Beron’s cruelty. Had his lover slaughtered by his own father. But Lucien had learned to keep his cool.
Right. Rhys had asked Cassian to do this. He should think like Rhys, like Mor. Push aside the rage.
Cassian gave himself a second to do so, vaguely aware of Vassa saying something. He had noted and half-dismissed the two humans in the room: the brown-haired warrior—Jurian—and the red-haired young queen.
If Rhys and Mor were here … They wouldn’t say a word about anything in front of Eris. Would pretend this was a friendly visit, to check on how the human lands were holding together. Even if Eris was most likely their ally.
No, Eris was their ally. Rhys had bargained with him, worked with him. Eris had held up his end at every turn. Rhys trusted him. Mor, despite all that had happened, trusted him. Sort of. So Cassian supposed he should do so as well.
His head hurt. So many things to calculate. He’d done it on battlefields, but these mind games and webs of lies … Why had Rhys asked him to do this? He’d been direct in dealing with the Illyrians: he’d laid out the hell that would be brought down upon them if they rebelled, and shown up to help with whatever they needed. That was in no way comparable to this.
Cassian blinked, and registered what Vassa had said: General Cassian. A pleasure.
He gave the queen a swift, perfunctory bow. “Your Majesty.”
Jurian coughed, and Cassian glanced to the human warrior. Once human? Partially human? He didn’t know. Jurian had been sliced apart by Amarantha, his consciousness somehow trapped within his eye, which she’d mounted on a ring and worn for five hundred years. Until his lingering bones had been used by Hybern to resurrect his body and return that essence into this form, the same one that had led armies on those long-ago battlefields during the War. Who was Jurian now? What was he?
From his spot on a ridiculous pink sofa by the far wall, Jurian said, “It only goes to her head when you call her that.”
Vassa straightened, her cobalt jacket a sharp contrast to the red-gold of her hair. Of the three redheaded people in this room, Cassian liked her coloring the best: the golden hue of her skin, the large, uptilted blue eyes framed by dark lashes and brows, and the silken red hair, which she’d cut to her shoulders since he’d last seen her.
Vassa said to Jurian, “I am a queen, you know.”
A queen by night, and firebird by day, sold by her fellow human queens to a sorcerer-lord who had enchanted her. Damned her into transforming each dawn into a bird of fire and ash. Cassian had waited until sundown to visit, so as to find her in her human form. He needed her to be able to speak.
Jurian crossed an ankle over a knee, his muddy boots dull in the firelight. “Last I heard, your kingdom was no longer yours. Are you still a queen?”
Vassa rolled her eyes, then looked to Lucien, who sank onto the sofa beside Jurian. Like the Fae male had settled similar arguments between them before. But Lucien’s attention was upon Cassian. “Did you come with news or orders?”
Keenly aware of Eris’s presence near the fire, Cassian kept his gaze upon Lucien. “We give you orders as our emissary.” He nodded to Jurian and Vassa. “But when you are with your friends, we only give suggestions.”
Eris snorted. Cassian ignored him, and asked Lucien, “How’s the Spring Court?”
He had to give Lucien credit: the male was somehow able to move between his three roles—an emissary for the Night Court, ally to Jurian and Vassa, and liaison to Tamlin—and still dress immaculately.
Lucien’s face revealed nothing of how Tamlin and his court fared. “It’s fine.”
Cassian didn’t know why he’d expected an update regarding the High Lord of Spring. Lucien only gave those in private to Rhys.
Eris snorted again at Cassian’s fumbling, and, unable to help himself, Cassian at last turned toward him. “What are you doing here?”
Eris didn’t so much as shift in his seat. “Several dozen of my soldiers were out on patrol in my lands several days ago and have not reported back. We found no sign of battle. Even my hounds couldn’t track them beyond their last known location.”
Cassian’s brows lowered. He knew he shouldn’t let anything show, but … Those hounds were the best in Prythian. Canines blessed with magic of their own. Gray and sleek like smoke, they could race fast as the wind, sniff out any prey. They were so highly prized that the Autumn Court forbade them from being given or sold beyond its borders, and so expensive that only its nobility owned them. And they were bred rarely enough that even one was extremely difficult to come by. Eris, Cassian knew, had twelve.
“None of them could winnow?” Cassian asked.
“No. While the unit is one of my most skilled in combat, none of its soldiers are remarkable in magic or breeding.”
Breeding was tossed at Cassian with a smirk. Asshole.
Vassa said, “Eris came to see if I could think of any reason why his soldiers might have gotten into trouble with humans. His hounds detected strange scents at the site of the abduction. Ones that seemed human, but were … odd, somehow.”
Cassian lifted a brow at Eris. “You believe a group of humans could kill your soldiers? They can’t be that skilled, then.”
“Depends on the human,” Jurian said, the male’s face dark. Vassa’s was a mirror.
Cassian grimaced. “Sorry. I— Sorry.”
Some courtier.
But Eris shrugged a shoulder. “I think plenty of parties are interested in triggering another war, and this would be the start of it. Though perhaps your court did it. I wouldn’t put it past Rhysand to winnow my soldiers away and plant some mysterious scents to throw us off.”
Cassian flashed him a savage grin. “We’re allies, remember?”
Eris gave him an identical smile. “Always.”
Cassian couldn’t stop himself. “Maybe you made your own soldiers vanish—if they even vanished at all—and are just making this up for the same bullshit reason you just spewed out.”
Eris chuckled, but Jurian cut in, “There have been tensions amongst the humans regarding your kind. But as far as we know, as far as we’ve heard from Lord Graysen’s forces, the humans here have kept to the old demarcation lines, and have no interest in starting trouble.”
Yet was left unsaid.
Would asking about the human quee
ns on the continent reveal Rhys’s hand? The conversation had shifted toward it, so he could bring it up as idle talk, rather than as the reason he’d come here … Fuck, his head hurt. “What about your—your sisters?” He nodded to Vassa. “Would they have anything to do with this?”
Eris’s gaze shot to him, and Cassian reined in his curse. Perhaps he’d said too much. He wished Mor were here. Even if putting her and Eris in a room together … No, he’d save her that misery.
Vassa’s cerulean eyes darkened. “We were just getting to that, actually.” She gestured to Cassian. “You’ve heard the same rumors we have: they’re stirring again across the sea, and are poised to start trouble.”
“Are they stupid enough to do it is the real question,” Jurian said.
“They’re anything but stupid,” Lucien said, shaking his head. “But leaving a human scent at the site is so obvious a clue that it seems unlikely it was one of them.”
“Any move they make is heavily weighed,” Vassa said, glancing to the wall of windows overlooking the destroyed lands beyond. “Though I cannot think why any of them would capture your soldiers,” she said to Eris, who seemed to be monitoring each word out of their mouths. “There are other Fae on the continent itself, so why bother to cross the sea to take yours? And why not the Spring Court’s? Tamlin wouldn’t notice anyone missing at this point.”
Lucien cringed, and Cassian, while inclined to smirk at the thought of the asshole suffering, found himself frowning. If war was coming, they needed Tamlin and his forces in fighting shape. Needed Tamlin ready. Rhys had been visiting him regularly, making sure he’d be both on their side and capable of leading.
How Rhys had managed not to kill the High Lord of Spring was something Cassian still couldn’t understand.
But that was why Rhys was High Lord, and Cassian his blade.
He knew if he ever got the name of the human bastard who’d put his hands on Nesta, nothing would stop him from finding the man. A conversation he’d had with Nesta years ago, when she’d still been human, forever lurked in the back of his mind. How she’d stiffened at his touch, and he’d known—scented and seen the fear in her eyes and known—that a man had hurt her. Or tried to. She’d never told him the details, but she’d confirmed it enough by refusing to share the man’s name. He’d often contemplated how he’d kill the man, if Nesta gave him the go-ahead. Peeling his skin from his bones would be a good start.
A Court of Silver Flames Page 8
