Chapter 4 — Cassian - A Court of Splintered Harmony

“Nesta.”

The others remained in the study, but Cassian had watched Nesta see herself out with hardly a word. And like the lovesick asshole he was, he’d followed her.

She paused, already halfway to the house’s grand entry. He allowed himself the seconds spent closing the distance to observe her in a way he hadn’t dared earlier.

Her Illyrian leathers hung looser than they had a month ago. Her eyes seemed colder.

That was no surprise. Her eyes had been cold since the day Bryce Quinlan had returned to her own world. He knew why. He’d put that coldness there.

“What is it?” she demanded by way of greeting.

“You’re not staying for lunch?”

She lifted a brow as if to say, That’s really why you came running after me? But she answered, “I’m not hungry. And I don’t want to see round two of Feyre and Amren going at each other.”

“All right.” The words died in his throat. He had no idea how he could stand here, aching to touch her, to bury his face in her neck and breathe in her scent, while also wanting to just . . . roar at her.

What the fuck were you thinking? How could you be so reckless? How could you have given that stranger the Mask and not talked to any of us about it first? Do you know what could have happened?

He wished he could trust her again, but he couldn’t. Not yet. That had gone unsaid, when they’d been discussing the locations of the Trove and the weapons. They’d stay in Rhys’s possession until Nesta could prove herself trustworthy.

The thought alone made Cassian queasy. As did the question of whether she’d ever be able to accomplish it.

Nesta lifted both brows now. “Anything else?”

He swallowed hard and said plainly, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Her mouth thinned. It had been the wrong thing to say. “You don’t do anything with me. You are my mate, not my keeper. Though Rhys seems to think otherwise.”

He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, the red Siphons tethered to the backs of his hands glinting. “That’s not what I meant. Do whatever the fuck you want—burn everything to ashes if that’s what pleases you—”

“Keep talking to me like that and I will.”

He dragged both hands through his hair. “This thing,” he said, motioning between them to indicate the bond, the fraying threads along it these days, “wasn’t only my doing, you know. You’re not some victim we’re all ganging up on—”

Silver fire gleamed in her eyes. As it always did, the sight of that power stirred something deep in his soul, beckoning to him. His Siphons blazed in answer. “You’re right. I am not a victim,” she seethed. “And I do not see any of you as ganging up on me. I see you as a bunch of idiots who are holding a grudge at a time when such things are pointless.”

He blinked.

She gave him a simpering grin that set his temper surging to answer her own. “Don’t tire yourself too much trying to come up with a witty answer,” she said, pure venom, and turned on her heel.

He lifted a hand to reach for her but stopped himself. What was the point? They couldn’t have it all out in this hallway, with the others probably listening with ears pressed to the door. And he had to sort out his thoughts first. Figure out what the fuck he wanted and needed to say. They were mates—they owed it to each other to at least try to talk it out. Even if they wound up killing each other in the process.

So Cassian let her go. Let her keep walking down the hall, and out the front door.

Nesta didn’t look back at him. Not once.

Panting, Nesta gazed out at the gray sea, the waves thrashing against the towering pale cliffs on which she stood. There was nothing on the horizon save storm-tossed ocean. But there, due north, several miles off the coast, beyond her sight . . . there lay the Prison.

The icy wind ripped her hair free from its braid, and even in her warmest Illyrian leathers, a numbness settled through her body that belied the sweat running down her face and neck. She’d winnowed all the way out to the coast today—the farthest she’d gone yet.

But to make the last jump, from these cliffs to the misty, barren rock that was the Prison . . . she hesitated. Nesta flexed her fingers at her sides, willing some warmth into them.

She’d never had a desire to winnow before, but she’d spent days traversing the caves and tunnels under the Prison with Azriel and Bryce Quinlan, and something had shifted. Bryce had winnowed clumsily—she was clearly just learning. But it was the sight of Bryce, mastering this skill imperfectly but doggedly, that had awoken in Nesta a curiosity. A yearning. Watching Bryce had ignited a spark that couldn’t be extinguished. What had been merely one more oddity of the Fae world became a goal, a new mountain she strove to summit. If Bryce could do it, Nesta knew she could, too.

But she’d told no one about the winnowing. It wasn’t anyone’s business.

Her nose tickled, and Nesta wiped away the itch with the back of a hand. The smell of copper filled the air—a nosebleed.

She wasn’t expected back at the house until dinner. Cassian certainly wouldn’t be seeking her out after that conversation in the hall. She’d gained the upper hand, and yet it had killed something in her to walk away and not have him call after her again. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, not after all these weeks, but there was a hollowness in her chest that she couldn’t ease.

So she’d opted for space instead. Open air.

Besides, she needed to do something after Amren had spoken so gently. Which was perhaps one of the more terrifying things she’d ever heard from the female’s mouth. Even worse than Amren’s ugly fight with Feyre moments before. Amren’s tone at the end had made Nesta wonder whether the petite female knew something they didn’t. Like finding the Made object, winning allies either in Prythian or across the sea, might be an impossible task after all.

So Nesta had come here. Alone.

She’d started trying to winnow two weeks ago. It hadn’t been easy, had sapped her so fast it stunned her, but she’d kept at it, in those quiet afternoon hours when everyone else was occupied and had happily forgotten she existed.

Nesta stared down at the stormy sea, blinking away the sting of salty spray.

If Koschei’s recent stirring had caused other Made or wicked magical items to awaken, possibly ones affiliated with Death itself . . . the Prison should be the first place they looked. It had held the Harp, after all, with no detection for millennia. What else was in there?

Nesta knew she could have asked any of the Night Court to transport her to the Prison, but then they’d have questions, and she couldn’t bear the thought of asking for their help if there was a chance she’d emerge empty-handed. She had to try, though. She owed that much to Feyre.

Feyre alone had defended her choice to hand over the Mask to Bryce. Even Cassian hadn’t done so. But Feyre didn’t look at her with disappointment or rage or fear. Only understanding. I would have done the same, her sister had said.

And that had gotten the others to back down. Not enough to be nice to her these past weeks, but at least Rhys hadn’t killed her. And he wouldn’t, not after Ember and Randall’s brief stay and the motherly talking-to Ember had given Rhys on the subject.

Ember’s pretty, mortal face flashed before her, and Nesta’s chest tightened. She’d never see the human woman again. But her words—you’ll find your way—lingered. Every day, they lingered. Along with what her daughter, Bryce, had said: I think that eight-pointed star was tattooed on you for a reason. Her last words to Nesta before vanishing back into her own world.

Nesta wiped her bloody nose again, staring at the back of her hand as it came away red and wet. That eight-pointed star tattoo was long gone. Though she could have sworn she sometimes felt something tingling down her spine.

. . . for a reason.

For a reason.

A reason.

Nesta closed her eyes, lowering her bloody hand. She pictured the Prison: the mossy, rocky island, the behemoth mountain rising in its center like the spine of some great beast breaking from the ocean depths.

Would the wards on the bone gates even allow her in?

There was only one way to find out. Nesta dove deep into her power, into a core of silver fire that churned like a maelstrom. It was nothing like it had been before, but it was still potent. It still made her balk to behold.

She willed it to her, let it build. Shards of rock shuddered away from her booted feet. The silver flame heated in her body, her mind. Heated, and burned.

The Prison. To its doorstep. To what we need.

Her body ached. No more, it seemed to beg. No more. The nosebleed had been its first signal of alarm. But her body would recover. She hoped.

Her hair began to drift upward. She drew a few more silvery embers to fuel the jump across the endless miles of stormy sea. If she misjudged the distance, if her power drained to the dregs . . . there was nowhere to stop. Not even a shard of rock to cling to.

More—a bit more—

To the base of the Prison, she ordered her magic. That was the closest anyone could get by magical means. The mountain’s wards wouldn’t allow winnowing past that point.

The next splatter of sea spray from the gargantuan waves below dissolved into mist before it could hit her.

Winnowing hadn’t been that hard to figure out. The difficult part had been calculating and summoning the precise amount of power to take her exactly where she willed. With this unknown leap, she was totally in the dark about the exact distance save for the map she’d studied that morning while waiting for Feyre, Rhys, and Mor to return from Storr.

A reason.

Nesta’s fingers bit into her palms. And with a final gasp of air, she winnowed. Darkness, wind, pressure all around her, spinning through the in-between, and then—

Icy, towering waves slammed into her body, so frigid they knocked the breath from her. Her boots became a weight pulling her down, down, down.

Instinct had her limbs flailing, kicking and pushing toward the surface. It was so dark, so cold. She was in the Cauldron again—

She’d winnowed right into the middle of the thrashing sea. Her body locked up, the surface so far, too far, and no matter what she did, she’d never reach it—

No. She wouldn’t let panic drag her down, as surely as the ocean was trying to. She closed her eyes, just for a beat. A pause, enough to settle her mind. Assess her surroundings. Mind-Stilling—without the breathing, of course.

Up and down aligned properly. The surface was that way—she could make it. Stay calm, stay steady, and she could make it.

Nesta focused on her legs. Her arms. On the breath she’d barely managed to hold in her chest as she pulled and kicked her way upward.

The air above the water was worse. Spray stung her cheeks, the wind howled so loud her gasp was instantly swallowed, and a wave came cascading onto her head, shoving her back under.

She pushed and thrashed her way up once more, breaking the surface again, desperate for air. Nothing but wild waves and wind and blinding spray surrounded her, no sign of land, no sign of help.

Another wave rose, this one bigger, slamming her back into the silence below. Hitting her so hard that any stillness, any calm, was knocked from her. Along with any remaining breath.

Air. She needed air.

The effort to reach the surface this time sent every muscle in her body burning. And that silver fire in her . . . it was doused. She’d depleted it. There was nothing left.

No air. No magic. No strength. She’d never be able to survive out here long enough for it to slowly replenish. She was going to drown.

The next wave struck in a stunning blow to the top of her head, sending her flipping into the silent depths. The impact echoed through her very bones.

She twisted, trying to find her way up again, to find that calm in her mind, but the force pulling her down was so strong, and up was increasingly so, so far away—

There was something below her. Shining. Not the Mask. Not the Harp or the Crown. But of a similar ilk, somehow.

It was one, and yet—not. Two pieces, together forming a whole. Twins, joined in spirit, hardened into something razor-sharp and unified.

It was there, glimmering on the ocean floor, and then it was gone, as if it had been spirited away by dark hands. It seemed to cry out, to summon her to it.

Her lungs were burning. The surface was too far. She had to take a breath, had to open her mouth.

Find me.

Was it her imagination in her last moments? Or was whatever she had seen truly calling out? She couldn’t tell.

Find me. Find me. Find me.

She couldn’t stand it, the pressure in her chest. The urge to take a breath, even if it would kill her. Couldn’t stop herself—

Nesta opened her mouth, and water flooded in. A force like a boulder barreled into her side. And then she was surrounded by light and warmth and air and air and air.

“What”—a male voice panted nearby—“were you”—another pant—“thinking?”

Nesta gasped down another breath, and nothing had ever tasted so precious and beautiful. Her eyes stung with tears or salt water, she didn’t know, didn’t care. She lifted her head—she was on a carpet, in a room—and found Rhysand gaping at her. Dripping water. All his finery soaked. Utterly shocked. His eyes were as wide as she’d ever seen them.

The High Lord’s expression didn’t improve when Nesta vomited seawater all over the woven carpet between them.