Chapter 16 — Nesta - A Court of Splintered Harmony

None of this was real.

Nesta was on her knees, panting hard, and the darkness had dissolved to reveal . . . nothing.

It had formed image after image. Her father’s neck snapping in Hybern’s hands. Her mother, wasted away to nothing on her deathbed, bones jutting out from her sallow skin like dead growth beneath melting snow. Feyre bleeding out, Nyx still and silent across the room. Elain stolen, pleading for help.

She’d already seen all of it. Already faced it.

It showed her Cassian, aloof and distant. Loathing her very existence, finally aware that she wasn’t worth it.

She shut her eyes against that one, but she was facing that already, too, wasn’t she? She’d faced all of it and survived. Had faced every nightmare, seen every broken and miserable part of herself and accepted it.

Like hell would she allow this creature to bring her to her knees again.

Grunting, panting through her teeth, Nesta got to her feet.

Pure darkness lay around them—

No. That was a lie. She’d experienced real darkness, in the heart of the Cauldron. She’d survived it.

She’d survive this, too.

She closed her eyes, breathing in for three beats, then out. Again. Again. On the third release, the Mind-Stilling settling through her, she opened her eyes. Light streamed in.

Her friends, her family, were all scattered throughout the temple, on their knees or cowering, sobbing, screaming at whatever invisible horror they beheld.

Cassian was curled into a ball, wings wrapped tightly around himself like a shield, their delicate networks of veins and muscles illuminated by the flickering ruby glow of his Siphons.

Her head hollowed out. They were all lost in their worst fears, their unfiltered nightmares.

She’d seen it happen before. Bryaxis had been on that final battlefield against Hybern. Nesta had witnessed that dark cloud descending upon their enemies, leaving only shrieking madness and ugly death in its wake.

Nyx was screaming. He was still held between Feyre and Rhys, cradled close, all three bound by Clotho’s ribbon—but both parents were lost to their own minds, their own terrors. And it was the sound of Nyx’s terrified screams, that babe who was still too young to know what true fear was, that had Nesta’s vision distilling to something lethally clear.

“You want to terrorize a baby?” she asked the darkness hoarsely. “Come pick on someone your own size.”

A low, hissing laugh sounded from the arched ceiling. There, coiled in a corner like some great dragon made of shadow and smoke, lurked Bryaxis.

“You’re dead,” Nesta seethed, fingers curling at her sides. “Dead.”

A long, sinuous tail thrashed like a cat’s before a voice like wind through dry grass asked, “Am I? Come prove it to me, then.”

Nesta dared a glance toward Rhys, her deadliest ally in this situation. But he was still bound to his son and his mate, a puddle of vomit to one side of him, tears running down his ash-white face as he beheld something on the ground, something beyond his worst imaginings. He didn’t see the son or the mate in his arms—didn’t feel them. He’d be of no use to her, not until he could work his way free of Bryaxis’s net.

Nesta bared her teeth at the creature crouched by the ceiling. “Why are you here?”

Again, that long tail thrashed, brushing over the mosaic of stars and the moon on the domed ceiling. “Why do you stand before me while the others cannot?” Bryaxis demanded, voice sharpening into claws on stone.

Nyx wailed again. It took every ounce of restraint Nesta had not to run to that baby, slice through that ribbon binding him to his parents, and take him in her arms. But to do that would leave her nephew dangerously exposed—and leave her fighting one-handed.

Not that she had any weapon to fight with. And in this dress, all these stays and skirts . . . how could she even move? Even if Rhys got free, how—

Something clattered nearby, and she dared take her eyes off Bryaxis once again.

Ataraxia lay on the ground in front of Rhys. He was shaking, vomit and spittle at the edges of his mouth, so unhinged that he looked half-wild, but—“Kill it,” the High Lord snarled before convulsing in on himself again, a shattered scream breaking from his lips.

She’d bought him time to work his way out of Bryaxis’s snare—but only for a heartbeat.

That heartbeat was all Nesta needed. She stretched out a hand, and Ataraxia obeyed. Its hilt met her palm as Bryaxis pounced.

Long, snapping jaws, a spiked tail, talons designed for shredding, all crafted of smoke and night—

Nesta blindly swung Ataraxia up.

Light ruptured, and the creature roared. Debris rained from the ceiling, flowers and petals with it. Bryaxis leaped away, landing atop the pews, as nimble as a shadow.

Nesta had all of a second to angle Ataraxia as the creature lashed its tail, aiming right for her head. Nesta ducked low, trying to roll—

Trying.

Her torso couldn’t bend properly in the dress. Her legs could barely move. She smashed face-first into the nearest pew, her nose crunching. Warm blood filled her mouth with a coppery tang.

Bryaxis laughed again, the sound sending the remaining flowers shriveling into rot and dust.

“We helped you,” Nesta panted, the words thick with blood as she heaved herself to her feet again, forced her shaking legs to steady. Forced her hand to pivot Ataraxia before her.

The creature tilted its serpentine head to the side, revealing a crest of great, spiked horns. “And yet you called for me today.” Its voice was nothing short of a nightmare.

Nesta spat blood onto the stones, showering the wilted flowers littered there. “I did no such thing.”

Another low laugh that raked along her bones. “I have come home to where sisters wait for me.”

In answer, Elain screamed. Then Mor. Magic pulsed past Nesta, spiraling toward Bryaxis’s squatting form. The shadow grew, engorging in answer. It was feeding on their terror.

Nesta glanced to Cassian. He remained hunched over himself, head in his hands, shaking and shouting, his Siphons guttering like candles in a gale under the cover of his wings. Lost to her.

Emerie was down, too, her damaged wings splayed out on the floor. Even Amren was shuddering against a pew, hands over her eyes. Whispering over and over to herself, “You survived it; you got through it.” Her red lips shook with each word. “Monster, monster, monster.”

Nesta was alone in this, then.

Nyx wailed again, burying his face in his unseeing mother’s neck.

Bryaxis turned its mighty head toward the babe, toward Nesta’s sister and her mate. That great, spiked tail whipped back and forth, back and forth. “The suckling’s fear is sweet as honey.”

Something sharp as glass shot through Nesta. “Yours will be, too,” she said, and didn’t give Bryaxis time to react before she attacked.

Ataraxia met what might have been a clawed foot the size of her entire body. But the shadows blasted apart, and Bryaxis howled, debris again raining, tiles scattering on the floor, stones threatening to crush all these people she loved. Endangering Nyx, even within his parents’ arms. She had to get it outside. But to unleash Bryaxis upon the city, upon all the innocents of Velaris—

Rhys roared toward her, once again battling through his own nightmares just enough, “KILL IT!”

Bryaxis recoiled like a striking asp, and shot for where Mor knelt on the other side of the temple.

Nesta winnowed as that talon of blackness plunged for where Mor lay, presumably to blast her soul apart with its horror, Nesta slammed headfirst into it. She dug Ataraxia into the closest thing she could find to a limb.

Light flared, and a force like an avalanche sent her tumbling.

No—it wasn’t real. It was all imagined, that force. It couldn’t touch her; it just made her think she’d been touched so she would reel back. She found her feet; her legs; her strength. Mind-Stilled in a single moment, settling into her body fully.

Nesta launched herself at the serpentine creature once more rearing up.

Bryaxis dove for her, those huge jaws yawning open. Nesta winnowed again, right to where its massive, crested head met its spine. She plunged Ataraxia down—

Nothing but air met the sword, and she plummeted with stomach-churning speed before colliding with a pew.

A crack radiated through her arm and shoulder, but she didn’t feel it, not as she got to her feet, not as she whirled to find Bryaxis sweeping from the temple in a roiling cloud of darkness.

She gritted her teeth, blood tickling along her chin, and was only vaguely aware of how her left arm hung at her side as she vaulted over the pew—clumsily, thanks to her dress—smashing through all those flowers and ribbons Elain had so lovingly arranged. Now little more than withered obstacles in her way.

Behind her, in the temple, the screaming stopped. Not one of her friends made a sound.

But then the screaming in the streets began.

Nesta burst into the sunlight in time to see that dark cloud soar into the startlingly blue sky.

She didn’t hesitate. She winnowed, right onto the roof of the building next door. Below, swarming through the streets, people were fleeing. It wouldn’t do them any good. Not against Fear.

Bryaxis seemed intent on a destination, though—its dark cloud shot to the north, to . . .

To the House of Wind. And to the veritable font of fear that lived within it.

Home, it had said.

Nesta was running before she formed a plan, terra-cotta tiles slipping from beneath her flimsy slippers, dress hindering the length of each step. She reached the edge of the roof, catapulting herself across the narrow alleyway and onto the next, scrambling to her feet on the treacherous tiles, skirts getting in the way of her knees, her feet, her ability to rise swiftly.

Like hell would she let Bryaxis reach the mountain. Like hell would she let it get to the priestesses. It had lived with them for centuries—why did it now seek to feed on them? Why had it returned to wreak such pain and havoc?

Nesta cleared the next roof. The next. Every breath singed her throat. One of her arms, she couldn’t bother to discern which, had a tingling numbness. It didn’t matter. She had to make it to the House of Wind first. Had to winnow there; had to find the concentration to do so.

But to stop would give Bryaxis vital seconds ahead of her. And she’d winnowed so much already that her reserves had become a dried-up well.

Nesta landed on the next roof, scaling its steep gable and racing along the narrow strip. She couldn’t winnow herself any farther. But Ataraxia . . .

If she timed it right, if she aimed right—

The edge of the roof revealed a jump that she couldn’t possibly hope to make, not when she was this drained, not in this gown.

Nesta flipped Ataraxia in her hand, muscles aching as she pulled back her sword arm, sleeves tearing down the seams, her legs lurching to a stop.

With mere inches to the drop, Nesta used the whole of her momentum to hurl the sword through the air. And used what remained of her magic stores to rip open a hole in the sky. A sister-hole opened miles away, right in front of that racing shadow.

Spinning, Ataraxia sailed through both holes, emerging as a glimmer of light in the distance, plunging with all that force straight into Bryaxis’s side.

Bryaxis bayed, arching, the sound like thunderheads breaking open—but Ataraxia tumbled earthward. The shadow twisted on itself, screeching toward Nesta with such hate that even from a distance, it seared her bones.

She hadn’t stopped it. Ataraxia had inflicted a mere scratch, and there was nothing and no one left to defend the mountain.

With a mocking snap of that mighty tail, Bryaxis surged onward to the House of Wind.

Even with a sword that could kill the unkillable, Nesta had failed.

A hand grabbed her shoulder. Feyre, white-faced and tear-streaked. Somehow, she’d gotten that ribbon free and tracked Nesta here. Nyx had to be safely away now, likely with Rhys. “Hurry,” her sister begged, and winnowed them.

They slammed into the wards above the House so hard that Nesta’s breath knocked from her lungs. Feyre yelped, “Fuck!” and then they were falling, plunging toward the unforgiving stone fortress far below.

Feyre blasted out a frigid gust of wind, slowing their fall enough that they landed easily on the veranda stones outside the dining room, the glass doors already opening, as if the House were urging them in. Nesta was running before she’d fully set foot on the ground, Feyre at her side.

There was no sign here of the dark, serpentine shadow creature.

“I think Bryaxis is heading for the priestesses,” Nesta managed to say, her voice raspy and nasal-sounding. She barely noticed the numbness creeping through her body as she and Feyre launched through the dining room, into the hall and down the stairs, right down to the library doors.

The silence in the library was worse than screaming. The doors were open, and Clotho stood between them.

“Run!” Nesta shouted, voice breaking.

Clotho held up a gnarled hand.

“Bryaxis is coming,” Feyre panted, her face still etched with the horror of what she’d seen, the devastation that her son had experienced. She didn’t falter one step in her sprint toward Clotho and those doors. “Bryaxis is coming—”

Nesta eyed her sister’s weapons. An Illyrian blade—she’d gotten one of those somehow. But if Ataraxia had done nothing to Bryaxis, then Feyre’s sword would be more than useless.

Clotho still didn’t move. Instead, a piece of paper appeared before her.

“RUN,” Nesta roared, now feet from the High Priestess. No one stood behind her in the library. Not a sound issued from within. Where was Gwyn? She needed to warn Gwyn and rally the other Valkyries—

Words appeared on Clotho’s paper. Skidding to a halt, Nesta had to read them twice to understand.

Bryaxis has returned to the lowermost level of the library.

“It’s going to feed on you—” Nesta gasped out, righting herself. Feyre did the same beside her, reading the paper.

That is not a concern. We reached an agreement.

“Bryaxis just unleashed itself on us at Nyx’s Naming Day ceremony,” Feyre said between shaking breaths. “It cannot be allowed to live, to return here.”

Nesta grabbed her sister’s hand. Or tried to. Her own arm was somehow not moving. It was utterly numb. But she kept her eyes fixed on Clotho’s paper as new words appeared: I am sorry for your suffering—

“My son was screaming,” Feyre snarled, now shaking so hard Nesta could hear her teeth chattering. Shock was setting in. “I held him in my arms and didn’t even know it. He didn’t know I held him. We are going down there right now and I am going to fucking obliterate that thing—”

Power rumbled through the very stones of the House of Wind. Enough power that Nesta glanced at her sister. She forgot, sometimes, how deadly Feyre was.

But Clotho stood firm between the doors. Blocking their way.

The paper said, I cannot let you enter. Bryaxis answered the call, and we shall honor it.

“What call?” Feyre demanded, but a chill slithered down Nesta’s spine.

“The song,” Nesta breathed. “Calling lost sisters home.”

Clotho’s head bobbed in a nod. Bryaxis has been a resident of this place for millennia. I will not deny her this return.

“Her?” Feyre repeated.

But Nesta cut in, “She attacked us.”

“I don’t care what oaths you have here,” Feyre bit out. “She went after my son, and I—”

The Mother has offered Bryaxis her protection. You shall not violate it.

Feyre stiffened. Power swarmed around her like a living mist.

Mere feet away, Nesta could have sworn something close to anger radiated from Clotho.

This is my home, Clotho wrote. Your authority ends at this doorway, High Lady. I decide which souls pass over my threshold. Which souls are under my protection.

Feyre slowly, slowly blinked. That power rolled.

Nesta gaped, unable to help it. For Clotho to take this stand for Bryaxis—

All the Mother’s creatures have value, Clotho wrote. Even when we cannot see it. She returned to the only place she knows as home. And I apologize again for your son’s fear.

Feyre’s teeth flashed in the dim light. “You want to keep her down there again, fine. But if she comes out of this library, she’s dead.”

Nesta had no idea what to do. She’d arrived here frantic, furious, ready to kill a creature that could not be killed, ready to avenge her family’s and friends’ fear and suffering.

And now Clotho stood in her way. Defending that creature with her usual grace and strength. Putting the High Priestess on the other side of a line. Turning her into someone Nesta didn’t know.

Nesta asked, her jagged breathing evening out, “Are the other priestesses all right? Is Gwyn all right?”

Clotho’s hooded head swung her way. Bryaxis has agreed to harm none within these walls, unless they venture into her pit. The others have been made aware, and will stay well away, as they always have. They are currently sheltering in their rooms until you leave.

“Until we leave?” Feyre demanded, power sparking like stirred embers.

I did not want them to see us at odds. The hood nodded at Nesta. Gwyneth is fine—she did not take the news with any sort of shock. We will resume our ceremony and celebrations as soon as we are able.

As soon as Nesta and Feyre were gone.

Feyre stepped forward, like she might betray that ancient promise of autonomy within these walls, and Nesta tried to grab her shoulder. Her arm wouldn’t work, so she used the other one. Found her fingers filthy and coated in her own blood.

“Let’s go,” she said hoarsely, gently to Feyre. “Nyx needs you.”

“Bryaxis went after my son.” Feyre’s words shook as much as her body. Her blue-gray eyes were wide—so wide. Like she couldn’t shake the terror. Like it still ran rampant through her soul.

Clotho’s paper revealed no more. The conversation was over.

With a final, withering glare, Feyre stalked for the stairs, power rippling in her wake. Nesta lingered a beat longer. Clotho stood so still, so silent.

“Please be careful,” Nesta whispered. But the High Priestess just turned on her heel, pale robes swirling, and strode inside her domain.

The library doors shut with a resounding groan. It occurred to Nesta that she’d never seen those doors closed. Not once.

But as she followed after her sister, metal locks clicked into place.