Chapter 10 — Nesta - A Court of Splintered Harmony

“You really think Tarquin won’t ally with us in this conflict?” Standing in the river house foyer, Nesta frowned at her sister, then at Rhys. Feyre was clad in a sea-green gossamer gown much like the ones Mor favored—likely in anticipation of the Summer Court heat. Rhys, however, was in his usual head-to-toe black. “He backed us against Hybern.”

Feyre fiddled with the gold-and-pearl headband atop her hair. She’d been teary-eyed when she’d come downstairs moments ago, having just said goodbye to Nyx in the nursery before his morning nap.

“It’s worth confirming—and formalizing,” Feyre said, mouth twisting to one side. An understatement. That they were squeezing this visit in so close to the party, leaving right when all the decorations were going up—vases overflowing with autumnal blooms on every surface, sparkling silver streamers hanging from the walls and archways—told Nesta how urgent securing Tarquin’s alliance was to their efforts.

Nesta couldn’t help but see how young her sister was, despite being a mother, High Lady, and savior of these lands. Young and beautiful and bearing so much on her slim shoulders.

“Is Amren going to be there?” Nesta dared ask. With Varian as her lover, Amren spent ample time at the Summer Court, and might have more sway than even Feyre.

“No,” Feyre said, chin lifting. “She’s returning from the Day Court in an hour, and will help Ana watch Nyx.”

Nesta, of course, would supply whatever additional help they needed. Even if the thought of Aunt Amren made her shudder. But the babe loved the female. And Nesta had never seen Amren smile so much as she did when she was around him.

Nesta didn’t fail to note that Rhys had somehow drifted off to study one of Feyre’s paintings across the foyer. Coward. Throwing a glare his way, Nesta said to Feyre, “Maybe if you explained to Amren more of your reasoning behind uniting Prythian before chasing down Fomoria’s help—”

Feyre waved a hand, irritated. “Even if I begged Amren to come help me navigate the Summer Court, she wouldn’t.”

“I’m shocked you’re even letting her help with Nyx.”

Feyre glanced up the stairs, as if she could see all the way to the nursery and the babe within. “Our argument has nothing to do with Nyx and his care. She’s his aunt—I’m not going to deny her access to him because she and I are at odds.”

“Well, you could try saying sorry,” Nesta said simply.

“Sorry for what? Disagreeing with her?”

“I butt heads with Amren plenty.” The Mother knew they’d spent a fair chunk of last year not speaking. “I don’t think that was the thing that upset her.”

“Then what was?” Feyre tapped a slipper-clad foot. “We need Prythian united. For additional arms, yes, but also to project strength to any potential allies on the continent who might be afraid to defy the unholy trifecta brewing over there. And that would ultimately help Amren’s plan of wooing Fomoria, wouldn’t it?”

Nesta knew Rhys was listening to every word, but choosing to stay out of it. His wings were drawn in tight to his back, though. What side did he fall on?

Feyre sighed, more to herself than to Nesta. “We need Summer ready to stand with us. Winter and Dawn, too, but Tarquin seems to have the most influence with the others. What he does, they’ll follow. Amren insisted that time was precious—so this should, hopefully, be a quick but effective visit. Tarquin already knows why we’re coming.”

Nesta motioned to her sister’s gown. “And you’re pandering to him with the Summer Court–colored attire?” Feyre usually had no problem wearing magnificent black and some High Lady jewelry to match.

Feyre gave her a rueful look, all traces of anger fading. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to remind Tarquin that we’re fond of his court.” She fingered the material of her skirts, then winked at Nesta. “And I really wanted an excuse to wear this color.”

It was a lovely color—precisely the sort of shade that would appeal to her sister’s artistic soul.

Rhys sauntered over, deeming it safe to return at last. Feyre slipped her tattooed fingers into his before asking, “Are you doing the winnowing or should I?”

Rhys sketched a bow, kissing Feyre’s hand. “By all means, winnow us, my lady.” He inclined his head to Nesta in distant greeting—and farewell. Better than ignoring her, Nesta supposed.

Feyre rolled her eyes at Rhys’s iciness, but threw Nesta a parting hopeful smile, and then they were gone.

* * *

Seated in a pew at the back of the small temple beneath the House of Wind an hour later, nothing but music and candlelight around her, Nesta at last found a shred of peace. That might have been due to the triad of voices weaving through the space, none more lovely and clear than Gwyn’s.

Though it wasn’t the usual sunset or sunrise hour for the priestesses’ daily prayers, Nesta had been directed to the temple when she asked after Gwyn. What now unfolded before Nesta seemed to be a dress rehearsal for the Autumn Equinox ceremony tomorrow. White and black candles—to signify the Equinox’s balance of night and day—and a set of silver scales adorned the altar, the dishes of the latter laden with samplings of the four elements. Feathers, stones, cinders, tiny vials of water: each scale was meticulously and carefully filled with its offerings so it hung in absolute harmony with its twin.

Gwyn stood between two other priestesses Nesta was only vaguely acquainted with, neither of them Valkyries, their eyes closed in reverent joy as they wove their song together. If Gwyn had noticed Nesta sitting here, she hadn’t let on. Hadn’t looked to the back of the chamber, where Nesta sat amongst a few others who’d come to savor the music.

Frankly, Gwyn could have carried the entirety of the song herself, that mezzo-soprano voice so rich and resonant that it seemed to effortlessly burst from her throat. But the other two—an alto and soprano—added sweet and interesting details.

But Gwyn . . . Gwyn shone. Despite the dimness of the mountain, Nesta’s friend seemed to radiate light. Color. Her humble pale robes were the same as everyone else’s, no jewelry adorned her—she didn’t even wear the Invoking Stone atop her brow as the others did—and yet the candlelight seemed to bend toward Gwyn. Reflect off her. Or maybe that was her remarkable copper hair. Or her eyes. Whenever her friend opened those eyes, the entire room was treated to the sight of a teal so vibrant it reminded Nesta of the Sidra.

Her friend was beyond beautiful. But it was what was inside, Nesta knew, that made her glow. That made Gwyn seem to be painted in full color while everyone else was rendered in charcoal sketches. At no time was it more apparent than when Gwyn was singing.

Nesta’s chest tightened. How long had it been since she’d heard this voice? Since she’d last seen Gwyn? She’d felt the ache of missing her many times before now, but being here . . . it was worse. All she wanted to do was go up to her friend and start to talk and laugh and tease the way they had for months. And the fact that she couldn’t freely do so, that she hesitated, cracked something vital inside her.

Nesta hadn’t been to a Valkyrie training session in weeks. Not since Bryce had arrived. Whether Cassian and Azriel still instructed the priestesses, she didn’t know—Cassian woke early every morning, regardless of training—but Gwyn hadn’t been to training since the Blood Rite.

As far as Nesta knew, her friend hadn’t left the library since the Blood Rite. Not even to attend Nesta’s mating ceremony. Nesta knew Gwyn had been hurt that Nesta had knocked her out during the Blood Rite, that Emerie had carried her to the top of Ramiel and Gwyn hadn’t had the chance to continue to fight beside them. But she was surprised that her friend had stopped coming to training entirely.

Give her time, Emerie counseled. Nesta heeded her advice, taking comfort in Emerie’s presence at training, her steady friendship.

Yet right before Bryce Quinlan had crashed into their world, Emerie had written to explain that with the oncoming winter, her shop was busier than ever, so she was taking a break from training for a few months to ensure all the orders were filled before Samhain. Winter came early to the Illyrian Mountains—she wanted to make sure her people were equipped. Even if most of them were ungrateful assholes.

So that last morning of training, hours before Bryce had appeared, Nesta had entered the ring and found she was alone. Well, not alone. The other priestesses—Valkyries—were there. But Emerie and Gwyn were not. And though Cassian and Azriel had been almost disgustingly nice that morning, she hadn’t been able to shake the heaviness from her limbs, her heart.

Robes rustled to Nesta’s left, and she turned to find Clotho taking a seat beside her. The High Priestess of the library, her face hidden behind the heavy shadows of her pale hood, touched Nesta’s shoulder with a gnarled hand in welcome. Nesta inclined her head in return, knowing that there was no use speaking until the song was finished.

So it came as a surprise when a piece of parchment appeared in Nesta’s lap, its ink still drying. Clotho’s enchanted pen hovered in the air above her knees—though she kept it low enough that no one onstage or in the other pews might glimpse it.

Nesta skimmed the note, written on a letterhead beneath a symbol of two crescent moons flanking a full moon. It said in flowing script: It is appropriate that you should arrive just now. Their song is one to call lost sisters home.

Nesta whispered so only Clotho could hear, “Did you plan it that way?”

She had the distinct impression that Clotho was smiling beneath the hood. The pen danced over the paper, writing, I wish I were that skilled. But no—this is a song we sing each Autumn Equinox. It is a prayer for wholeness, for the return of things and people lost to us, so balance might be restored.

Nesta nodded as the song ended. Gwyn and the other two singers huddled together, talking. Two more priestesses—one of them the golden-haired Ananke—strode onto the dais to join the conversation. “So this is an important holiday to you?” Nesta asked softly.

All holidays are important, Clotho wrote back, especially the Fading Cycle, the progression from the Autumn Equinox to Samhain to Winter Solstice. Then she added, But in this court, yes—after tomorrow, night claims the majority. Light begins to yield—to die; then the light fully dies on Samhain, traversing the worlds of the dead before being reborn in this world after the longest night of Winter Solstice.

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Nesta muttered.

A huff of amusement from beneath the hood.

“I love Solstice,” Nesta admitted, “and I can see how the longer nights make the Autumn Equinox important for the Night Court. But Samhain? Last year it was so . . . somber.” She’d barely paid attention to it.

It is indeed a somber holiday for some. The veils between life and death, between all worlds, are thinnest on Samhain. But some see that as a blessing; to commune with long-lost loved ones. Some see it as a cause to welcome them home; to celebrate the eternal bonds across worlds. You should come to our ceremony for it—the songs are different. Older, strange. Unsettling, even.

“Are you saying that I can relate to such things?” Nesta teased.

Clotho patted her knee with a mangled hand. Of course not.

On the dais, Gwyn and the other two began singing again, this time starting with a round initiated by the alto in the group. Gwyn followed, then the soprano, each making their way through the tune before joining together in one voice.

This time, Nesta noted how the alto’s voice grew quieter, then silent altogether.

Seeming to understand her unvoiced question, Clotho wrote, She represents the lost sister. By the end, the other two will have sung her back to them.

Such a wealth of knowledge and tradition, all hidden here beneath ancient stone. “Will I hear this at the temple tomorrow for the Equinox?”

No. Most other temples do not remember this song, or see a need for it.

“But you do?”

Clotho stared straight ahead, though her pen moved on the paper. There will always be sisters lost to us—ones we pray each day will find a way home to our sides. Not only in the physical, mortal sense, but an emotional and spiritual one, too. Other temples perhaps do not understand the importance and need for such prayers in the way we do down here. This year, when it seems we need it most, I’ve bade them—a nod to the priestesses on the dais—to put a little magic into their melody. A little wish for the Mother to listen. And tomorrow I will throw a little magic of my own into their song, silent as my voice might now be.

Nesta’s chest tightened. These females had built a community of love and support so they might all heal from the horrors they’d endured, her friend up on that dais amongst them. What did Gwyn feel, singing a song to call home lost sisters, when her twin had been so violently ripped from her? She wished she could ask her friend. Offer whatever comfort Gwyn might need.

Nesta observed, “You should be leading the ceremony tomorrow for Nyx’s Naming Day.”

Clotho shook her head. The High Lady extended me the honor, but I explained to her that I am needed here. In case a sister does come back after hearing the Song of Returning tomorrow.

When had Clotho last left this mountain? When had she last felt the wind and sun upon her face?

Clotho wrote before Nesta could dare ask, I summoned you here so that you might deliver this to the High Lord and Lady. I might not be able to do them the honor of presiding over their son’s Naming Day, but I can offer this instead.

Clotho fished in her pockets and pulled out a braided, silvery piece of fabric. It was delicate as frost, and even in the faint light, it glistened.

Nesta blinked, unable to hide her awe. “What is it?”

As you and your mate were bound by thread during your mating ceremony, so, too, is the child bound to his parents—and to the Mother. This is my gift to them: the thread to use tomorrow.*

Nesta gingerly took the ribbon from Clotho. It was light as air—so light that if she hadn’t been examining it, she might not even have known she held anything. “It’s stunning. Is this what you use down here for your own rites?”

No. It is a gift to the High Lord and Lady’s son. One like it has never been made, and perhaps never will be again.

“Did—did you make it?” Nesta stammered, loudly enough that Gwyn finally looked her way. Her friend’s brows rose high at seeing her, though she didn’t miss a single note of the song. Yet Nesta didn’t fail to notice the slight lines of strain that suddenly bracketed Gwyn’s mouth.

Clotho wrote, It is the least I can offer in return for the home that the High Lord granted me long ago.

Nesta peered at the glittering string. Though no great magic pulsed from it, it seemed . . . alive. Aware, somehow. “They will be very moved,” she managed to say, thinking of Clotho creating this exquisite thing. Either with magic or her agonizingly broken hands, she’d put in the effort out of gratitude and love.

Clotho patted Nesta’s knee again, and in silence, they listened to the song echo through the room. The alto’s voice returned for the last, loudest, most joyful chorus. A Song of Returning. Of lost sisters coming home at last.

At least one sister would be returning to see Nesta tomorrow. Emerie would arrive in Velaris for Nyx’s ceremony, she reminded herself with no small amount of joy.

Clotho was already up and moving toward the dais, and Nesta rose, thinking through the words she’d prepared for Gwyn. A balance between diplomacy and groveling.

But a female voice called behind her, “Nesta! We haven’t seen you in weeks.”

Nesta found Roslin and Deirdre standing with crossed arms. Both of them still wore pieces of their white ribbons woven through their braids.

Gods, where had she left her own? In her closet levels and levels above, she remembered. After that night Rhys had nearly killed her for handing over the Mask, she’d been so disgusted with everything that she’d torn the ribbon off the wrist where she’d taken to wearing it and thrown it into that closet. She hadn’t so much as peeked at it in the weeks since.

What would Emerie say when she saw that Nesta wasn’t wearing it? She still wore the charm bracelet from that happy night they’d woven them upstairs, but Emerie would surely notice the lack of the white ribbon. Her friend didn’t know the full extent of what had happened with the Mask—Nesta hadn’t found a moment to explain it to her. Hadn’t even seen her since then. Would Emerie be as furious with her as the others in the Night Court were? Her stomach twisted with the thought.

Nesta turned to greet the two priestesses. “I’m sorry I haven’t made it to training lately. You’re both still going, right?”

“Every morning, though our instructors also haven’t bothered coming for several weeks now,” Deirdre said, clearly affronted. Nesta didn’t blame her. Cassian had really abandoned training? It was surely because of her. And she supposed Azriel was still pissed off enough about the whole Bryce thing that he didn’t want to see her, either. But to abandon the rest of the priestesses and Valkyries was unforgivable.

Roslin sighed, unaware of Nesta’s brewing temper. “Cassian, I can live without. No offense,” she added to Nesta, who pulled herself out of her anger long enough to chuckle. “But Azriel . . .” Roslin sighed again, fluttering her eyelashes.

Nesta couldn’t stop her snort.

“Wait,” Deirdre said, frowning deeply. “If you’re here now, you could have come to training this morning, couldn’t you?”

“I’ve been preparing for Nyx’s Naming Day,” Nesta lied.

The truth was, after what occurred with Bryce and the Mask . . . she hadn’t wanted to go to training. Hadn’t wanted to be near Cassian’s or Azriel’s anger and resentment, hadn’t wanted to face the priestesses, her fellow Valkyries, and know that she had, in fact, chosen the lives of strangers in another world over theirs. That she hadn’t for one moment considered their well-being or that of anyone else before handing over the Mask.

So she hadn’t gone for a few days. And then a few days turned into a week. And a week into . . . well, weeks. But apparently, her mate and his brother hadn’t attended, either. Which irritated her to no end. Even if she had little right to feel that way.

“I’ll come back soon,” Nesta lied again.

“That’s what she keeps saying,” Roslin said, tossing her red braid over a shoulder as she nodded toward someone behind Nesta. “Come, Deirdre, I want to ask Ananke about the schedule for tomorrow.”

The two priestesses headed for Ananke, leaving Nesta to turn as Gwyn strode down the aisle. She always forgot, somehow, that her friend was taller than her. Only by an inch or two, but enough to be a surprise, even now. Gwyn moved with a fluid grace, probably thanks to her nymph grandmother, and came to a stop before Nesta on near-silent feet.

Nesta braced herself, unsure what to do with her hands, her face, her posture. It was like meeting a stranger.

Gwyn offered a grim smile that suggested she felt the same. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

Every part of Nesta loathed the tension, the caution. But she said as casually as possible, “I had to pick up something for Nyx’s Naming Day.” She held up the shimmering bit of ribbon Clotho had made.

Gwyn’s eyes widened, the distance momentarily shattered by her awe. “That is . . . remarkable,” she breathed, shaking her head. “Sangravah—the town, I mean, not the temple compound—had fine weavers, and they sometimes came to sell their wares to us or even give us classes on how to work a loom, but I never saw anything like that.”

Nesta said wryly, “Our bracelets certainly don’t look like that.” She lifted her wrist slightly, the navy blue and crimson and silver threads Emerie had woven with a small silver charm vibrant in the candlelit space.

Gwyn glanced at her own wrist, at the bracelet still there, despite everything. A small mercy that Gwyn hadn’t taken it off—a shred of hope. Something to build on. Nesta couldn’t help but notice that Gwyn wasn’t wearing her white ribbon either, though.

Gwyn smiled a shade crookedly. “Nyx’s ribbon makes our bracelets look sad.”

“Clotho made it for him,” Nesta said, relieved that Gwyn was willing to play along, to try to be normal. “I don’t think any of ours stood a chance.”

Gwyn’s throat bobbed as she surveyed Clotho’s work, still awed. “Make sure the High Lord and Lady know how precious it is.”

Nesta nodded, heart racing. “I also came here because I wanted to ask you for a favor. To help me work on something.”

All amusement faded from Gwyn’s eyes. “You came here to ask me to do work for you.”

The other words went unspoken: We haven’t spoken in months and you’re suddenly here to ask me for a favor?

Nesta swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. It was so much harder, even now, to opt for calm explanations over a barbed retort. But for Gwyn, it would always be worth it. “I need someone to write down my account of events that occurred recently. Discreetly.”

Curiosity mingled now with the sarcastic disbelief in Gwyn’s fine features.

So Nesta went on, fumbling for the words, “It . . . it was big enough, important enough, that I think there should be an official record of it left for future generations. I was hoping that the best would assist me in the task.” She meant it sincerely, but Gwyn was having none of it. Her expression remained unchanged. So distant, so far from the joy that Nesta had just witnessed radiating from her friend while she sang.

It pained Nesta to behold. Something had happened, more than Nesta overriding her wishes on Ramiel’s slopes. But she couldn’t ask her friend about it. It was clear that wouldn’t be received well.

Gwyn only stared, waiting for an explanation.

“I . . .” Nesta clenched and unclenched her fingers at her sides. “I wasn’t ready to come back here, to even talk to you about doing this until . . .” She hadn’t been ready until she’d been drowning in the sea, and realized that if she died, this history would die with her. Even Azriel didn’t know the entirety of it. “I wasn’t ready.” She offered a tentative smile that she prayed her friend would echo. “But I am now.”

Yet still no smile graced Gwyn’s lips. “I’m needed for the Equinox preparations, I’m afraid. Perhaps after, if Merrill can spare me.”

Nesta understood precisely what her friend meant: No.

The silence that spread between them was so awful that Nesta blurted, “You’re invited, you know. To Nyx’s Naming Day. Emerie’s coming. She—we’d love to see you.”

Gwyn slid her hands into the pockets of her robe, probably to fiddle with the Invoking Stone she always kept in there, rather than on her brow like the others. “Again, I’m needed here.” The same excuse Clotho had offered.

“You can’t hide down here forever,” Nesta said quietly.

Gwyn stilled. Nesta immediately regretted the words—though not necessarily the sentiment. “I wasn’t aware I was hiding.”

“I meant . . . you should live your life,” Nesta attempted to clarify.

“That’s what everyone else here does,” Gwyn said. “They live out their lives in the library. Why can’t I?”

It really wasn’t the time or place for this conversation, but Nesta couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. “Because you went out there, and you triumphed, and . . . what was it all for, if you’re just going to stay down here in the darkness?”

“I’m content down here in the darkness,” Gwyn said with unusual sharpness. “My work fulfills me, despite what you might think.”

Nesta opened her mouth, but someone spoke from behind her.

“If that work is so fulfilling, Gwyneth,” Merrill sneered, “why aren’t you doing it right now?”

Nesta grimaced as she twisted to find the white-haired beauty seemingly floating toward them on a phantom wind. “Merrill.”

Merrill sniffed through her pert nose and pointed with a slim hand toward the open temple doors. “I’ve been waiting an hour for you to proofread the latest chapter, Gwyneth. Do I need to wait another?”

Nesta’s fingers clenched again.

But Gwyn’s face remained impassive. “No, Merrill.” All traces of anger, of fight, faded into resignation. Gwyn added halfheartedly to Nesta, “I’ll see you later.”

Nesta knew it wouldn’t be anytime soon. But she couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand Gwyn backing down, couldn’t stand the cold distance, the resignation to Merrill’s cruelty.

Nesta called out to Gwyn’s back, “Come to Nyx’s Naming Day tomorrow. Please.”

Merrill laughed, nasty and sharp. “I’d die of shock if she did.”

Nesta turned to the female slowly, gathering her fury. “There’s no need to reveal yourself for the complete asshole you are, Merrill. Everyone here is already aware.”

Two nearby priestesses—Lorelei and Ananke—spun toward them, gasping. But Nesta held Merrill’s lilac-blue stare.

Merrill tutted. “Such language, in a holy place.”

Nesta gave her a gesture that was sure to defile this place further. But before Merrill could respond, Nesta saw Gwyn striding away from them, already at the doors. As if she had not heard or cared about Merrill’s barb.

So Nesta let Merrill see the lingering silver fire in her eyes as she promised, softly but viciously, “If I find out you had anything to do with her staying down here, you’ll answer to me.”

“Anything to do with what?” Merrill spat. “With Gwyneth being a coward? She does that all on her own, no assistance from me required.”

Gwyn seemed to pause on the threshold, like she’d whirl back around and give Merrill a piece of her mind, but she just kept walking. Until she was gone.

Nesta calmed her simmering rage. Or tried to.

Merrill, damn her, was right in a way: This wasn’t the place for foul language. For confrontation. The priestesses had seen enough violence. Some of them might train to defend themselves each day, but seeing Nesta and Merrill go at it . . . She didn’t want to bring that darkness here. The Mother knew enough of it had once dwelled within this mountain, down below the library.

So Nesta pivoted on her heel and left, blocking out Merrill’s taunting laugh as it trailed behind her.

She clutched Clotho’s ribbon instead, the material almost metallic against her hand. And she could have sworn she felt a pulse of approval run through it. Like the High Priestess herself appreciated her restraint. Her balance.

Perhaps Nesta could thank the Autumn Equinox for that. She sure as hell couldn’t thank herself.