Chapter 24 — Nesta / Mor - A Court of Splintered Harmony

Nesta inhaled through her nose, silently counting to three. The salt and damp of the sea filled her nostrils, along with the sweetness of morning grass and the faint rot of falling leaves.

Once again she stood on the cliff from which she’d attempted to winnow to the Prison days before. But a wholly altered vista greeted her.

The sea was calm today—a crushing blue and still as a mirror. Gulls circled above, crying to one another. Nesta exhaled through her mouth, the autumn sun resting against her back like a friendly hand.

She gathered her strength, her concentration, for this monumental jump over the horizon. She focused on her toes, warm within her boots, cushioned in the meadow grasses that stretched to the edge of the cliff.

No one knew she’d come here. She’d meant what she’d said to Cassian. She didn’t know what her place was within this court—only that she loved many of the people in it. She’d thought that meant turning away from this horizon line, but what if it meant going toward it? What if what she sought—the way to save them, protect them—lay all the way out there, somehow?

If she could only make the final leap. Rally enough of her remaining power to cross all the way to the Prison and whatever secrets it might hold. Rhys had told her to ask for his help in this, but she knew it was something she had to do alone.

Nesta breathed in again, focusing once more on her toes, the ground, the sky. Exhaled. Willed her well of power to refill, to steady. Willed her lungs to stop heaving, her heart to ease its thundering gait. A few more minutes—she’d rest here a few more minutes, then attempt the jump.

Even if a voice in the back of her mind warned her not to dare. She didn’t have the power, the skill. She’d wind up beneath the ocean again, wind up dead this time—

“So Bryaxis attacks,” mused a female voice behind her, “and the first thing you do is go stand in a meadow and breathe?”

Nesta whirled, hand reaching for Ataraxia at her side.

Somehow, Amren was there in the meadow, despite not being able to winnow. Nesta’s shoulders slumped, a deep exhale bursting out of her.

“I needed a moment to myself,” she lied. “Away from everyone. I needed to hear myself think.”

Amren’s red lips, back to their usual color, tugged into a grin. “It is often hard to do that with all those loudmouths running around the river house, isn’t it?”

Nesta snorted. “Yes.” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind an ear, hoping the female would keep believing the lie she’d been fed. “When did you get back?”

“Oh, I’m not back,” Amren drawled. “Not yet, at least. Varian and I were winnowing to Velaris when I sensed you out here, thinking and breathing in the grass. I bade him to leave me over there”—a nod toward the rolling green meadow sloping away behind her—“and told him to come back for me in ten minutes. Though perhaps you could winnow me there.” A wry look. “Since you seem to be capable of such things these days.”

Nesta straightened. “I wasn’t keeping it a secret. I just . . . didn’t want anyone knowing until I could do it right.” She hadn’t told Cassian yet—though now that she’d told Feyre, she knew she should.

Amren waved a delicate hand. “We all keep secrets these days, don’t worry.”

Ah. “Is that why you’re here?” There had to be some bigger reason than Amren sensing her and wanting to say hello. She’d sensed her and wanted to tell her something important—away from everyone.

“You could say that.” Amren’s eyes glimmered with a hint of that old, otherworldly silver. “Rhys gave you the Trove, didn’t he?”

“And the blades.” Nesta jerked her chin to where Ataraxia lay sheathed at her side. After the other day, she’d decided she’d wear it at all times—and if their enemies discovered that she had Made a magic blade . . . well, she’d make sure they didn’t live long enough to tell anyone else. And if she failed, Rhys would see to it.

It didn’t matter in the end, that Cassian had told Rhys that she was afraid of the Trove, but the knowledge lingered, like an open sore she couldn’t stop picking at. Her mate answered to Rhys, though—reported everything to him as his general. She supposed she’d have to adapt her expectations of what confidences he’d keep, especially where her powers and the Trove were concerned.

“Good.” Amren nodded her approval at Ataraxia. “With all the forces that gather against us, we cannot afford to have one of our greatest weapons”—she gestured toward Nesta herself—“disarmed and cut off from the very tools that might save us. Especially when you seem to be the only one capable of doing what needs to be done, even when it’s a thankless, impossible task.”

Nesta stilled. “What does that mean?”

Amren’s gaze simmered. “You gave Bryce Quinlan the Mask, knowing it would earn you the fury and scorn of your family. You knew all that it would cost you, yet you did it because the risk to entire worlds was too great. You did not debate it, did not seek permission, did not waste time. You knew it would strain the ties most valuable to you, but you did it anyway. That is the kind of person we need wielding the Trove and those swords.

“And yesterday, against Bryaxis, your actions provided a needed reminder for Rhys to trust you again—to get those weapons back into your hands. He learned not only what having you at odds with him would cost, but also what locking up the Trove and swords could mean in the struggle against our enemies. He learned, with his son right there, that even a few seconds of having to decide whether to give them to you would risk that which he loves the most. And perhaps more important, Feyre is now determined. Focused. The great beast inside her has stirred again, realizing that nothing but total ruthlessness will protect her young. There is no force in any world greater than that—the love of a mother for her child.”

Nesta slowly shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

“Because I want to ensure you fully grasp where I stand when I advise you that it is in the best interests of this court if you tell Rhys you’re sorry for what happened with the Mask.”

Nesta started. “You think I should apologize?” She’d never heard Amren utter the word sorry even once. And Nesta had felt, this morning with Rhys, that she and the High Lord were beginning to understand each other.

Amren shrugged, her gray silk blouse shimmering with the movement. “I understand your decision, but it was no small thing to hand over the Mask. There’s a vital trust that still needs to be rebuilt, girl.”

Nesta squared her shoulders. “If Feyre trusts me, that should be enough for Rhys.”

“I think,” Amren said, the wind ruffling her hair, “that if you had asked Rhysand about handing over the Mask, he would have eventually agreed with you. He’d have argued against it, but in the end, he would have relented. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night knowing he’d damned an entire world by not helping.” Amren studied her red, glossy nails. “But the fact that you didn’t ask, and went ahead and gave the Mask to Miss Quinlan . . . it frightens him. More than he’ll admit. So apologize and give him one less thing to worry about. He’s trusting you again, obviously, as he’s already given you the Trove, but he needs to know that you will obey when necessary. That will be a vital piece of surviving the evil that gathers around us.”

Nesta crossed her arms. “So it’s about controlling me?” Disgust and annoyance flared through her, and though the bulk of her power had returned to the Cauldron, she knew silver flame still flickered in her stare.

“No,” Amren said coolly. “It’s about where you fit into this court.”

“I’m a Valkyrie. That’s all anyone needs to know.” She’d sweated and bled for that title.

“But who do the Valkyries serve?” At Nesta’s suddenly neutral face, Amren added, “Are Rhys and Feyre your High Lord and Lady?”

Nesta had never sworn allegiance to either of them. As an individual or as a Valkyrie. At the thought of kneeling before Rhys and Feyre, however much she might care about and respect them . . . Her teeth clenched.

“I thought so,” Amren said a shade quietly. “And don’t believe Rhys hasn’t thought about that, too.”

“Feyre is my sister. I’ll always help her.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“So, what,” Nesta snapped, unable to help it, “I need to get on my knees and swear fealty?”

The wind dragged strands of Amren’s hair across her pale face. Her lips curved into a sharp smile. “No. But I think you already know where your path lies, Nesta Archeron.”

I think that eight-pointed star was tattooed on you for a reason.

Amren nodded, like she’d somehow heard the memory of Bryce Quinlan’s words echo through Nesta’s head. Her eyes turned to quicksilver as she cast her gaze toward the northern horizon, as if she could see all the way to the Prison. “So do it.”

How Amren knew, how she guessed— “It’s too far. I can’t rally the power to winnow all the way out there.”

“I would go with you, if I could,” Amren admitted, voice raw. But the female would never again set foot on that blasted island. From fear, from rage, from the threat of whatever forces might try to entomb her down there again. “But in lieu of that, I will tell you this: winnowing is as much a matter of will as it is of power.”

“But when the others winnow—”

“You are not the others. No rules need apply to you, if you do not wish to submit to them.”

Nesta swallowed hard. “Do you know why . . . What’s waiting out there?”

Amren answered gravely, “It’s for you to learn. And for you to decide whether to go that way”—she pointed toward Velaris—“to serve the court and family you love.”

“Or?” Nesta dared ask.

Amren pointed to the Prison. “Or to go there. To see if there might be more.”

“More what?” Nesta begged.

“More ways, other ways, to serve. To save those you love.”

Bryce’s voice echoed in Nesta’s head: Through love, all is possible.

“I will say,” Amren murmured, “the fact that you can and do love us, Nesta Archeron, is something of a miracle, and brings me a great deal of joy.”

Nesta’s throat closed up.

“Find a way to save us,” Amren said. “Explore the forgotten tunnels and passages. Rhys has altered the wards to the Prison to allow our circle in—since you all seem to keep winding up there, he told me. Find what keeps calling to you, what keeps bringing you here to this cliff at the edge of the world.”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Nesta hedged.

“Maybe. But you’ll never know for sure unless you go.”

“You’re not going to warn me not to enter the Prison alone?” As far as Nesta knew, no one in this court had ever risked such a thing.

“The others have not been called there, not as you have. Even your sisters are not Made quite as you are. So go explore. See what wants so desperately to be found. Maybe the Mother is throwing us a bone.” She surveyed Nesta from head to toe. “And bring Gwydion with you.”

Nesta reached a hand to the sword at her hip. “I have Ataraxia—”

“Gwydion found its way into your hand. Don’t turn your back on its blessing.”

Nesta swallowed, but nodded. A wish, and the legendary sword appeared, sheathed down her spine. Its power tingled along her back like a lover’s breath over her skin. Rhys had shown her how to retrieve the blade and put it away earlier—and though it would likely take her a damn long time to figure out more complicated things, at least this had proved easy enough to master.

Amren’s silver eyes gleamed with approval.

So Nesta turned toward the horizon, the vast, still sea sparkling between her and that island.

“Will it, girl. Focus that will into your power,” Amren ordered, “and it shall be done.”

Nesta closed her eyes. Rallied her power in the back of her mind. The Prison. I will go to the Prison.

In her mind, a blazing hand of power reached for her over that horizon. Nesta did not hesitate. She grabbed the hand. Wind and darkness and pressure, and—

Green. Mist. Quiet.

As easily as walking from one room to the next, Nesta stepped onto the mossy, chilled earth of the Prison’s lowlands.

Its sole mountain rose like a tidal wave. There was nothing but mossy rocks and grass between her and her goal, near its summit.

The gates of bone.

Mist and wind wrapped around her, but her focus remained fixed on those distant gates now groaning open, as if pushed by phantom hands.

As if to welcome her in.

She was shaking by the time she reached the top of the slope, and not just from exhaustion. Had the bone gates always towered so high? Had the darkness within always been so thick?

It took a moment to get her numb, trembling fingers to properly latch onto Gwydion’s black hilt. To draw the sword, as Amren had bade her, its black metal now glistening with starlight. Even that seemed to get sucked into the looming darkness of the Prison. But the radiance warmed her, somehow. Her grip steadied on the hilt. Strength flowed down her arm. Whether it was her own courage or the blade, she didn’t care.

Exhaling a steadying breath, Nesta stepped through the gates. Into the dark.

Gwydion shone like a dark star in the obsidian silence. A few feet in, its illumination silvered the stone walls, the rocky path plunging downward. No faelights needed.

“All right,” she said into the stillness. “Let’s see what—”

Gwydion’s light went out.

Darkness slammed in around her. Nesta yelped, instinct igniting a kernel of faelight as she dropped the sword like a novice—

But no clang of metal on stone rang out. She spun in a circle, fingers still wrapped around a hilt that was no longer there. The ground at her feet was empty. Only rock and dust.

It took her a heartbeat to understand.

Gwydion’s light hadn’t been extinguished—Gwydion had disappeared, right out of her hand.

The Prison had stolen it.

Despite Cassian’s teasing, five trunks of clothing wasn’t nearly enough. Mor had squeezed her things into every last crevice—not just the clothing, but also the jewelry, the hair accessories, the shoes . . .

For Cassian, it was easy. He walked into a place in all that armor and looked terrifying, and he usually got his way.

Her outfits—her armor—required more calculation, depending on who she was meeting, and what she wanted, what they wanted, and the location where they met.

She’d bidden her farewells at breakfast, not that it had been a particularly cheerful one. But she’d smothered Nyx with kisses all over his face—which had been covered in most of the mashed-up goop Rhys had been feeding him—and then deliberately kissed Cassian on the cheek, smearing said goop on him, and headed for the door.

Feyre had laughed. Nesta had stared at Mor with the wariness that only a female who’d just witnessed another female kissing her mate could conjure.

So Mor had winked at Nesta, as if to say, Relax, he’s all yours.

If Nesta had been any other person, Mor might have quipped, Been there, done that, but they’d already dealt with one disaster mere hours before. And had endured Bryaxis hours before that. She didn’t need to add a brawl with Nesta to the list.

Snickering at the memory, Mor stepped out the front door and onto the sun-washed front lawn. She preferred her goodbyes like this—no prolonged embraces or advice from the overprotective males in her life.

Even if the most overprotective of those males wasn’t even here.

Her stomach twisted. She’d come as close as she’d ever dared to telling Azriel everything last night. Why she hadn’t once returned the love and desire she’d seen in his eyes from the moment they’d met. Why it would have been so unfair of her, so cruel, to grant him that even once, knowing what he felt . . . and knowing where her heart usually lay.

What Bryaxis had shown her yesterday at the temple had cemented for her that she could never tell him, though. She’d barely slept at all last night thanks to seeing it play out, over and over again, in agonizing detail.

She rolled her shoulders as she crossed the lawn, the dew tickling her ankles. Her heavy gown—a thicker green silk, long-sleeved, and more modest than she usually favored—and fur-lined cape dragged in the grass behind her, both far too warm for the autumn weather in Velaris. But the moment she set foot in Vallahan, she’d be shivering if she wasn’t dressed appropriately, and she couldn’t afford to show them even that sliver of vulnerability.

She crossed the wards surrounding the property, their tingling the only sign of breaching the boundary. Her trunks were already held in that in-between pocket that was so useful for traveling—not as big as Rhys’s, but she could certainly carry five trunks crammed with clothes—and all she had to do now was simply picture the visitors’ landing space outside the golden walls of Thrudheim, summon nearly the entirety of her power, and winnow there.

One last attempt to stop this madness before it wreaked havoc on their world.

Feyre and Rhys had already planned out an alternate treaty, in case Storr failed. Mor would present it to Vallahan first, to see if the king found it any more palatable—as he seemed the most predisposed toward her. Or at least willing to lend her an ear.

She flexed her hands at her sides, working out the faint trembling in them. It was a fool’s errand. She knew it—Rhys and Feyre knew it. Vallahan would know it, too. But she’d try. One last time.

Mor sucked in a breath, an ancient, night-kissed power awakening from its slumber deep within her. Different from Rhys’s. Older. Her hateful father had tried to lord that over Rhys’s father once—Keir had wound up with two broken legs as a result.

It had been one of the few times Mor had appreciated the former High Lord. And one of the first times in her childhood at the Hewn City that she’d smiled.

Keir had seen that smile, though. In his agony, he’d seen her in the shadows, laughing softly at his screams. When he’d recovered, he’d broken one of her legs and asked her if it was still funny.

She’d seen that yesterday, too.

Her mother had done nothing. And though Mor’s Fae body had healed the broken bone—a straight snap across her shin—she hadn’t smiled again for a long, long time. Until three arrogant, reckless Illyrian boys had overturned her life.

Gods, she’d left things a mess with Azriel. Maybe she should track him down and talk to him before leaving. The Mother knew when she’d be back, and—

“Take me with you.”

Mor whirled. With the wall of wards, her senses had been muddled enough not to notice anyone approaching from the house.

But there stood Elain, immaculate in her heavy rose-colored dress and cloak. A small bag shook in her trembling hands.

Mor slowly blinked. “Excuse me?”

Elain’s brown eyes were lined with silver, pleading as she crossed the wards. “Take me with you—to wherever you’re going. I can’t stay here.”

Mor backed up a step—then another. “I’m going into enemy territory on a diplomatic mission,” she said as gently as she could. “I know you’re upset right now, but . . .” She hadn’t believed it last night, and still couldn’t quite believe it now: Azriel and Elain. In bed together. This sweet, shy young female had been sneaking behind her mate’s back to tangle with the shadowsinger, of all people. “I can’t bring you with me. I have an estate in the countryside—Athelwood—if you want to use it. No one is there except my horse, Ellia. She’s docile and sweet and you could ride her every day. You’d have the whole place to yourself, and it’s warded to hell and back—”

“I don’t want to go to an empty house. I don’t want to be locked away and forgotten.” Elain took another step, those doe-like eyes so wide, so searching. “Let me come with you. I won’t get in your way. I won’t talk to anyone, or do anything to jeopardize your task. I’ll help tend to your clothes, fix your hair, whatever it is you need.”

“You are the sister of the High Lady of the Night Court,” Mor said, reeling. “Your presence will have a marked effect, and might make you a target.”

“I can protect myself.” Elain’s chin lifted. Mor had enough decency not to scoff at the idea. “And as for being Feyre’s sister . . . I think my presence will lend more legitimacy, more urgency to your requests for peace.”

“How so?” Mor asked. She could humor her.

Elain glanced at the river house behind them. She definitely hadn’t told anyone about this plan.

If Mor took Elain to Vallahan, who would kill her for it first? Rhys? Feyre? Nesta? Azriel? Lucien? The line of would-be Mor-murderers would stretch out the door.

But Elain explained, “It shows that Feyre is willing to send her flesh and blood as a sign of her goodwill. That she trusts them.”

Mor crossed her arms. “Hmm.”

Elain added sheepishly, “And there is also the fact that you and I are quite attractive.”

Mor raised a brow. “What of it?”

Elain blushed. “That tends to make people agree to . . . things they might not otherwise agree to.”

Mor chuckled this time. “As flattering as it is that you think I—we—could deter this invasion from happening because we’re that good-looking . . . That’s not really how it works. These people are old and greedy enough that however tempting the thought of bedding one of us might be, the prospect of regaining vast swaths of territory is even more seductive.”

Elain grimaced, but tried again. “There’s also the fact that I’m Made.”

Mor stilled.

Elain pressed on, “And I am a Seer. I might not be privy to all your meetings, but I’m not a fool. I listen. I’m clever enough, even if none of you think of me that way.”

Something like shame twisted in Mor’s gut. But she made herself say, “So?”

Elain’s eyes shuttered. “So I understand what you fear is happening in Vallahan. That they either have or are about to attain a Made weapon. My sisters never bother to ask for my help, but . . .” A slight shrug. “Perhaps I could find it for you, figure out whether Vallahan already has it in their possession. Perhaps it would speak to me. Like calls to like. And I heard you need proof to present to potential allies—proof that these enemies are working with the one they call Koschei the Deathless. I can help find that, too, in whatever way I am able. People tend to forget I am there. Perhaps that’s not the most appealing asset, but it might be useful nonetheless.” The last words were barely more than a whisper. “I’m not skilled like my sisters are in so many things, but I can try. I will try.”

Mor said nothing. Just stared at her. Thinking.

Elain deflated. Her shoulders sank, head bowing. Like she already knew what Mor would say. What the others had said to her a hundred times these past few years.

It was awful. That crumbling, curling-inward motion.

“I can’t . . .” Elain said thickly. “I can’t stay here,” she repeated. “I can’t.” Her voice broke. “And I want to be useful. For once.”

Mor peered at the river house. They’d never, ever forgive her. It might even be worse than Nesta handing over the Mask.

“What about Az?” Mor asked carefully, a pang rocking through her at the memory of their argument on the bridge. No small part of her was actually relieved to be leaving, if only so she didn’t have to face him again soon.

Running away, a voice in her accused. Like you always do.

Elain’s expression turned bleak. “I can’t stay here,” she whispered once more.

Mor inferred what she meant, the words Elain couldn’t yet formulate. Elain needed time and distance—needed to be away so she could think and feel without anyone else swaying her. Mor knew exactly how it felt, how necessary it was, that leaving. That space. That need to run and run and not look back.

And beyond that, Elain was right. A Seer—a Made Seer—would be useful in Vallahan. They needed to find that Made object. To know if Vallahan already had it in hand.

Mor started, “If I take you—”

Elain’s brown eyes turned nearly gold with hope. “I will do whatever tasks need to be done, I will listen to every order you give me, I won’t get in your way—I promise.”

Mor squinted at the blue sky and sighed. “Please don’t make me regret this,” she said—and held out her hand.

Elain beamed, tears of pure relief shining now, and grabbed Mor’s hand. “Thank you.” She squeezed tightly enough to hurt. “Thank you.”

Mor sighed again, rallying even greater power this time, enough to carry two bodies across the world. She’d be drained to near-uselessness when they arrived at Thrudheim. “Wait to thank me until you feel how cold it is in Vallahan,” she muttered.

And then they were gone.