Page 103

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.”