Hadn’t been able to breathe or speak for long minutes now. His family had arrived, and they all surrounded him in the wrecked bedroom of Emerie’s house. They were speaking, Azriel with some urgency, but Cassian didn’t hear him, heard nothing but the roaring in his head before he said to no one in particular, “I’m going after them.”
Silence fell, and he turned to find them all staring at him, pale and wide-eyed.
Cassian tapped the Siphons on the backs of his hands, and his remaining Siphons appeared at his shoulders, knees, and chest. He nodded to Rhys. “Winnow me to her. Az, you find Emerie and Gwyn.”
Rhys didn’t move an inch. “You know the laws, Cass.”
“Fuck the laws.”
“What laws?” Feyre demanded.
“Tell her,” Rhys ordered him, night swirling around his wings. Cassian bristled. “Tell her, Cassian.”
The asshole had used that inherent dominance on him. Cassian gritted out, “Anyone who pulls a warrior from the Blood Rite will be hunted down and executed. Along with the warrior who is dishonorably removed from the Rite.”
Feyre rubbed at her face. “So Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn have to stay in the Rite.”
“Even I can’t break those rules,” Rhys said, a shade softer. “No matter how much I might want to,” he added, clasping Cassian’s shoulder.
Cassian’s stomach turned over. Nesta and her friends—his friends—were in the Rite. And he could do nothing to interfere, not without damning them all. His hands shook. “So, what—we just sit on our asses for a week and wait?” The idea was abhorrent.
Feyre gripped his trembling fingers, squeezing tight. “Did you— Cassian, weren’t you listening at all when we got here?”
No. He’d barely heard anything.
Azriel said tightly, “My spies got word that Eris has been captured by Briallyn. She sent his remaining soldiers after him while he was out hunting with his hounds. They grabbed him and somehow, they were all winnowed back to her palace. I’m guessing using Koschei’s power.”
“I don’t care.” Cassian aimed for the doorway. Even if … Fuck. Hadn’t he been the one to tell Rhys not to go after those soldiers? To leave them be? He was a fool. He’d left an armed enemy in his blind spot and forgotten about it. But Eris could rot for all he cared.
Az said, “We have to get him out.”
Cassian drew up short. “We?”
Rhys stepped up next to Azriel, Feyre beside him. A formidable wall. “We can’t go,” Feyre said, nodding to Rhys. It needed no explanation: with the babe less than two months away, Feyre wasn’t risking anything. But Rhys …
Cassian challenged his High Lord, “You can be in and out in an hour.”
“I can’t go.” Midnight storms swirled in Rhys’s eyes.
“Yes, you fucking can,” Cassian said, rage rising like a tidal wave that would sweep away all in its path. “You—”
“I can’t.”
It was agony—pure, undiluted agony that filled Rhys’s face. And fear. Feyre slipped her tattooed fingers through Rhys’s.
Amren asked sharply, “Why?”
Rhys stared at the tattoo on Feyre’s fingers, interlaced with his. His throat bobbed. Feyre answered for him. “We made a bargain. After the war. To … only leave this world together.”
Amren began massaging her temples, muttering a prayer for sanity.
zriel asked, “You made a bargain to die together?”
“Fools,” Amren hissed. “Romantic, idealistic fools.” Rhys turned bleak eyes to her.
Cassian couldn’t get a breath down. Az stood still as a statue.
“If Rhys dies,” Feyre said thickly, fear bright in her own eyes, “I die.” Her fingers grazed her swollen belly. The babe would die, too.
“And if you die, Feyre,” Azriel said softly, “then Rhys dies.”
The words rang hollow and cold like a death knell. If Feyre didn’t survive the labor …
Cassian’s knees threatened to buckle. Rhy’s face was tight with pleading and pain. “I never thought it’d turn out like this,” Rhys said quietly.
Amren massaged her temples again. “We can discuss the idiocy of this bargain later.” Feyre glared at her, and Amren glared right back before saying to Cassian, “You and Azriel need to retrieve Eris.”
“Why not you?”
Feyre pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because Amren is …”
“Powerless,” Amren snarled. “You can say it, girl.”
Feyre winced. “Mor left for Vallahan this morning and is out of our daemati magic’s range. Az can’t go in alone. We need you, Cassian.”
Cassian stilled. They just waited.
For Nesta to participate in the Blood Rite, to risk every horror and misery while he went off to save fucking Eris … “Let him die.”
“As tempting as that is,” Feyre said, “he poses a great danger to us in Briallyn’s hands. If he’s under the Crown’s influence, he’ll reveal everything he knows.” She asked Cassian, “What does he know about us, exactly?”
“Too much.” Cassian cleared his throat. Through their own bickering, through his need to goad Eris, he’d revealed too much. “He was worried about what we’d do with Nesta as a Night Court power, and with all three objects of the Dread Trove at our disposal. He thought the Night Court might turn around and attempt some sort of power grab.”
Feyre said hopefully, “Maybe the Made dagger we gave him will grant him immunity from the Crown. If he’s carrying the dagger, if they haven’t unarmed him, it might shield him against another Made object.”
“But we don’t know that,” Rhys countered. “And he’ll still be in Briallyn’s clutches. She might be able to sense the dagger herself—and it might respond to her.”
Az added darkly, “And there are plenty of other methods to get him to talk.”
Amren cut in, “You need to go now.” She turned to Feyre and Rhys. “We will return to Velaris and have a nice, long talk about this bargain of yours.”
Cassian didn’t bother to read Feyre’s and Rhys’s expressions as he gazed toward the small window, the wilderness beyond. As if he could see Nesta there.
He summoned his armor, the intricate scales and plates clamping with reassuring familiarity over his body. “I trained Nesta well. Trained them all well,” he said, his throat working. He added into the silence as Az tapped his Siphons and his own armor appeared, “If anyone can survive the Blood Rite, it’s them.”
If they could find each other.
Nesta broke into a flat-out sprint toward the tree with the knife, the male launching into movement only a heartbeat afterward.
He tripped over the scattered bodies, but Nesta kept her knees up. A mirror of every footwork exercise they’d done with the ladder on the ground, as if those bodies were the rope rungs to avoid. Muscle memory kicked in; she barely glanced at the tangle of limbs as she aimed for the tree. But the male had found his footing and closed in fast.
Someone had to have planted the weapon, either under the cover of darkness last night or weeks ago. The Blood Rite was savage enough without true weapons—only the weapons they made—but with actual steel thrown in …
The male had a good six inches and a hundred pounds on her. In physical combat, he’d possess every advantage. But if she could get that knife—
Nesta broke free of the bodies, legs flying as she ran the last few feet to the tree trunk with her hand outstretched. She brushed the knife’s handle—
The male barreled into her with all the force of a full-grown Illyrian warrior.
The breath whooshed out of her at the impact as they went down—and over the hill’s edge on the other side of the tree.
They tumbled toward the streambed a hundred feet below, flipping as they careened down the side of the hill. Rocks and leaves cracked and scratched against her, wings snapped above and below her, her hair lashed her face as her hands grappled—
Nesta slammed into the streambed so hard her spine groaned, the male landing atop her, sending every remaining scrap of breath exploding from her lungs.
His wings twitched. But he did not move.
Nesta opened her eyes to find herself staring into his unseeing gaze. To find her hand clenching the dagger she’d buried in his throat soaked in warm blood.
Grunting, Nesta rolled him off. Left the dagger sticking out of his throat, blood still leaking from the wound. The knife had pierced all the way through to the nape of his neck.
Nesta spat a mouthful of blood onto the dry stones. Her nightgown was covered in blood and dirt, her skin raw and stinging. But she was alive. And the male was not.
Nesta allowed herself to inhale slowly through her nose for a count of six. She held the breath, then slowly loosed it. Did the breathing exercise twice more. Assessed the state of her body, from her pounding head to her torn feet. Breathed again.
When her mind had stilled, Nesta pulled the knife from the male’s throat. Then stripped off his clothes, item by item, including his boots. She dressed herself with cold efficiency, shucking off the bloody nightgown and dropping it onto the male’s face in a mockery of a funeral shroud, then tucked the knife into the belt she cinched as tight as it would go. The clothes hung off her, and the too-big boots might be a liability, but it was better than the nightgown.
And then she went to find her friends.
CHAPTER
65
Nesta scaled the other side of the valley to find the land beyond empty of warriors. Behind her, across the small ravine, the others still slept. No sign of Emerie or Gwyn amongst them. No sign of where they might be, either.
Cassian had told her while lying in bed one night, sweaty and spent, that there were three dumping grounds for the Rite—one in the north, one in the west, and one in the south. Her friends had to be in the others, either together or one in each. They’d be terrified when they awoke.
Gwyn—
Nesta refused to consider it as she hurried through the pines, putting distance between herself and the sleeping warriors before she found a towering tree. She climbed, sap quickly coating her fingers, and when she cleared the canopy …
Ramiel might as well have been across an ocean. It loomed straight ahead, with two mountains and a sea of forest and the gods knew what else between her and its barren slopes. It looked identical to Feyre’s painting. She peered at the sun, then at the trunk below her, searching for moss. There—just below her left foot.
Ramiel was east. So she’d been dumped in the west, and the others …
She had to pick either north or south. Or would she be better off heading for the mountain and hoping she found them along the way?
She scoured her memory for any advice Cassian might have offhandedly given her. Cassian … Maybe he was already on his way to save her.
The bubble of hope in her chest ruptured. He couldn’t rescue her. He’d informed her himself about the laws forbidding such a thing. He’d be executed, and so would she. Even Rhysand or Feyre couldn’t stop it.
Cassian wasn’t coming to save her. No one was coming to save her, or Emerie, or Gwyn.
Nesta flexed her fingers, working some movement back into them after sitting still for so long. She swore softly at the blood that dribbled from the few small cuts on her hands.
They should have healed by now. But the magic that bound the Rite also suppressed any healing magic within a faerie’s blood, apparently. Including her own.
Any wounds could be fatal. Would heal at a human, mortal pace. Nesta allowed herself to take another few slow, steadying breaths. She could do this. Would do this.
She’d save her friends. And herself.
Shouting echoed from far behind her. The others were waking. Cursing, Nesta hurried down the tree, bark and pine needles sticking to her sap-crusted hands. She had to pick a direction, and be running by the time she hit the bottom.
The shouting behind her became accented by screams.
She glanced back, making sure no one was gaining on her. And as she did, she caught a flash of light from the woven bracelet on her left wrist. From the little silver charm in the middle, glinting in the light.
No—it was glowing.
Nesta brushed a fingertip over the charm. It buzzed against her skin. Dread sluiced through her—a pricking at her nape, as if a soft voice whispered, Hurry.
Nesta twisted to better see it against the sun, but the light within the charm vanished. Nesta pivoted northward. The charm shone again.
Brows rising, she angled her arm to the east: nothing. South: only a faint glow. No sense of urgency, of pure panic. But north … The charm blazed, and again that dread filled her.
Nesta sucked in a breath, remembering that night in the House when they’d made the bracelets. Remembering her wish for them: the courage to go out into the world when we are ready, but to always be able to find our way back to each other. No matter what.
She’d Made the charms. Into beacons. And whichever of her friends lay to the south wasn’t in nearly as much danger as the one to the north.
The land that way was uphill. A small blessing. The other warriors would likely choose the fastest and easiest way to Ramiel and avoid a route that involved climbing.
But how could the charms work here? The Rite banned magic, both from a wielder and from any objects. Unless the power surrounding the Rite didn’t stifle Made items. Fae spells had to be carefully worded—perhaps whoever had woven this spell for the Illyrians had never considered the possibility of a Made item winding up in the Rite.
Her own power lay dormant, though. She strained inward, reaching for it, but only emptiness met her.
Her throat tightened. She was herself a Made thing—and yet she was a person, too. The magic recognized her as a person and not a thing.
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to be shown that distinction. She inhaled the pine and distant promise of snow. Alive. Even in this hellscape, she was alive.
And she’d make sure her friends were, too.
Exhaling slowly, mastering her breath, Nesta lowered her arm and began moving.
Her too-big boots hit the ground, her toes shifting within them.
By the time Nesta straightened, checking the knife at her side, she was already heading north.
It occurred to Nesta after ten minutes of running uphill, the glimmering charm still urging her along, her feet in those infernal boots slipping this way and that, that she needed water. And food. And would need shelter before sunset. And would have to decide whether to risk a fire, or possibly die from cold just to avoid being found.
The clothes she’d swiped off the male weren’t thick enough to help her survive the night. And if the gray sky was any indication, snow or rain might be imminent.
But no warriors were on her tail. At least she had that. Unless they were as stealthy as Cassian and Azriel.
The thought had her checking her frantic pace, silencing her steps. Tucking the bracelet and glowing charm into her sleeve to hide its gleam in the dimness. Trying to leave scant evidence of her passing as she scaled a particularly steep hill and surveyed the terrain beyond.
More trees and rocks and—
Nesta dropped to the ground as an arrow whizzed past. A fucking arrow—
The knife hadn’t been a fluke. Someone had dumped weapons in the Blood Rite. Nesta scanned the terrain behind her for the arrow. There—stuck in the base of a tree.
She slid back down the hill until she reached it, pried it free, and tucked it into her belt. Then climbed the hill again, keeping low, as she peered over the crest once more.
And came face-to-face with a razor-sharp arrowhead.
“Get up,” the warrior growled.
With every league Cassian flew around the queens’ once-shared castle, Cassian cursed Eris for being stupid enough to get captured. Now this was Briallyn’s stronghold, he supposed. Patches of snow still crusted the hilly, open land, though the first buds and sprouts of spring poked through. He kept high enough that breathing was difficult, so high that he’d appear no more than a very large bird to any human on the ground. But with his Fae eyesight, he could clearly make out what crossed the land.
He saw nothing of Eris, though. No red hair, no lick of fire, no hint of his soldiers. Azriel, circling in the opposite direction, signaled that he hadn’t seen anything, either.
It was an effort to stay focused. To keep flying, circling like vultures, when his mind drifted to the northwest. To the Illyrian Mountains and the Blood Rite and Nesta.
Had she survived the initial surge? The warriors would be waking by now.
Fucking Eris. How could he have been reckless enough to let those soldiers get close?
Cassian again scanned the terrain below, fighting to keep his breathing steady in the thin air. He’d find Eris swiftly. Kick his ass, if he had time.
And what then? He couldn’t do anything to help Nesta. But at least he could be closer to the Rite. Should the worst happen …
He shut down the thought. Nesta would survive. Gwyn and Emerie would survive.
He’d allow no other alternative.