Chapter Eight
CHAPTER
Nesta didn’t bother to go to the wine cellar. Or to the kitchen. They’d be locked.
But she knew where the stairs lay. Knew that particular door, at least, would not be locked.
Still snarling, Nesta yanked open the heavy oak door and peered down the steep, narrow stairwell. Spiral stairs. Each a foot high.
Ten thousand steps, around and around and around. Only the occasional slitted window to offer a breath of air and a glimpse of progress.
Ten thousand steps between her and the city—and then a half-mile walk at least from the bottom of the mountain to the nearest tavern. And awaiting, blessed oblivion.
Ten thousand steps.
She was no longer human. This High Fae body could do it.
She could do it.
She couldn’t do it.
The dizziness hit her first. Winding around, over and over, eyes trained downward to avoid a slip that would kill her, caused her head to spin.
Her empty stomach churned.
But she focused, counting each step. Seventy. Seventy-one. Seventy-two.
The city below barely drew any closer through the occasional slitted windows she passed.
Her legs started to shake; her knees groaned with the effort of keeping her upright, balancing on the steep drop of each step.
Nothing but her own breathing and the sound of her scuffing steps filled the narrow space. All she could see was the endlessly curving, perfect arc of the wall ahead. It never altered, save for those tiny, too-rare windows.
Around and around and around and around and around—
Eighty-six, eighty-seven—
Down and down and down and down—
One hundred.
She halted, no window in sight, and the walls pushed, the floor kept moving—
Nesta leaned into the red stone wall, let its coolness sink into her brow. Breathed.
Nine thousand nine hundred steps to go.
Bracing a hand on the wall, she renewed her descent.
Her head spun again. Her legs wobbled.
She got in eleven more steps before her knees buckled so suddenly she nearly slid. Only her hand grappling at the uneven wall kept her from wiping out.
The stairwell spun and spun and spun, and she shut her eyes against it.
Her jagged panting bounced off the stones. And in the stillness, she had no defenses against what her mind whispered. She couldn’t shut out her father’s final words to her.
I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms.
Please, she’d begged the King of Hybern. Please.
He’d snapped her father’s neck anyway.
Nesta gritted her teeth, blowing out breath after breath. She opened her eyes and stretched out her leg to take another step.
It trembled so badly that she didn’t dare.
She didn’t let herself dwell on it, rage about it, as she turned around. Didn’t even let herself feel the defeat. Her legs protested, but she forced them upward. Away.
Around and around again.
Up and up, one hundred and eleven steps.
She was nearly crawling by the last thirty, unable to get a breath down, sweat pooling in the bodice of her dress, her hair sticking to her damp neck.
What the hell were the benefits of becoming High Fae if she couldn’t endure this?
The pointed ears, she’d learned to like.
The infrequent cycle, which Feyre had warned would be painful, had actually been a boon, something Nesta was happy to worry about only twice a year.
But what was the point of it—of any of it—if she couldn’t conquer these stairs?
She kept her eyes on each step, rather than the twisting wall and the dizzying sensation it brought.
This hateful House. This horrible place.
She grunted as the oak door at the top of the stairwell became visible at last.
Fingers digging into the steps hard enough for the tips to bark in pain, she dragged herself up the last few, slithering on her belly onto the hallway floor.
And arrived face-first in front of Cassian, smirking as he leaned against the adjacent wall.
Cassian had needed some time before seeing her again.
He’d updated Rhys and the others immediately upon returning; they’d received his information with dour, somber faces.
By the end of it, Azriel was preparing for some reconnaissance on Briallyn as Amren pondered what powers or resources the queen and Koschei might possess, if they had indeed captured Eris’s soldiers so easily.
And then Cassian had been slapped with a new order: keep an eye on Eris.
Beyond the fact that he approached you, Rhys had said, you are my general.
Eris commands Beron’s forces. Be in communication with him.
Cassian had started to object, but Rhys had directed a pointed look at Azriel, and Cassian had caved.
Az had too much on his plate already. Cassian could deal with that piece of shit Eris on his own.
Eris wants to avoid a war that would expose him, Feyre had guessed.
If Beron sides with Briallyn, Eris would be forced to choose between his father and Prythian.
The careful balance he’s struck by playing both sides would crumble.
He wants to act when it’s convenient for his plans. This threatens that.
But no one had been able to decide which was the bigger threat for them: Briallyn and Koschei, or Beron’s willingness to ally with them. While the Night Court had been trying to make the peace permanent, the bastard had been doing his best to start another war.
After an unusually quiet dinner, Cassian had flown back up to the House. And found the oak door to the stairs open, Nesta’s scent lingering.
So he’d waited. Counted the minutes.
It had been worth it.
Seeing her claw her way onto the landing, panting, hair curling with the sweat sliding down her face—completely worth his generally shit day.
Nesta was still sprawled on the hall floor when she hissed, “Whoever designed those stairs was a monster.”
“Would you believe that Rhys, Az, and I had to climb up and down them as punishment when we were boys?”
Her eyes shimmered with temper—good. Better than the vacant ice. “Why?”
“Because we were young and stupid and testing boundaries with a High Lord who didn’t understand practical jokes regarding public nudity.
” He nodded toward the stairs. “I got so dizzy on the hike down that I puked on Az. He then puked on Rhys, and Rhys puked all over himself. It was the height of summer, and by the time we made the trek back up, the heat was unbearable, we all reeked, and the scent of the vomit on the stairs had become horrific. We all puked again as we walked through it.”
He could have sworn the corners of her mouth were trying to twitch upward.
He didn’t hold back his own grin at the memory. Even if they’d still had to hike back down and mop it all up.
Cassian asked, “What stair did you make it to?”
“One hundred eleven.” Nesta didn’t rise.
“Pathetic.”
Her fingers pushed into the floor, but her body didn’t move. “This stupid House wouldn’t give me wine.”
“I figured that would be the only motivator to make you risk ten thousand stairs.”
Her fingers dug into the stone floor once more.
He threw her a crooked smile, glad for the distraction. “You can’t get up, can you.”
Her arms strained, elbows buckling. “Go fly into a boulder.”
Cassian pushed off the wall and reached her in three strides. He wrapped his hands under her arms and hauled her up.
She scowled at him the entire time. Glared at him some more when she swayed and he gripped her tighter, keeping her upright.
“I knew you were out of shape,” he observed, stepping away when she’d proved she wasn’t about to collapse, “but a hundred steps? Really?”
“Two hundred, counting the ones up,” she grumbled.
“Still pathetic.”
She straightened her spine and raised her chin.
Keep reaching out your hand.
Cassian shrugged, turning toward the hall and the stairwell that would take him up to his rooms. “If you get tired of being weak as a mewling kitten, come to training.” He glanced over a shoulder. Nesta still panted, her face flushed and furious. “And participate.”
Nesta sat at the breakfast table, grateful she’d left her room soon after sunrise to make the trek up to the dining room.
It had taken her double the time it normally would, thanks to her stiff, throbbing legs.
Getting out of bed had required gritted teeth and a litany of cursing. Everything afterward had only gotten worse. Bending to put her legs into her pants, going to the bathroom, even just heaving open the door. There wasn’t one part of her legs that didn’t ache.
So she’d left her room early, not wanting to give Cassian the satisfaction of seeing her limp and grimace into the dining room.
The problem, of course, was that now she wasn’t entirely certain she could stand.
So she’d taken a good, long while eating her meal. Was choking down the porridge when Cassian prowled through the dining room doors, took one look at her, and smirked.
He knew. Somehow, the swaggering asshole knew.
She might have snapped something, but Azriel stalked into the room on his heels. Nesta straightened at the shadowsinger’s appearance, the darkness clinging to his shoulders as he offered her a grim smile.
Azriel was nothing short of beautiful. Even with those scarred hands and the shadows that flowed from him like smoke, she’d always found him to be the prettiest of the three males who called themselves brothers.
Cassian slid into the chair opposite hers, his food instantly appearing before him, and said with grating cheer, “Morning, Nesta.”
She threw him an equally saccharine smile. “Good morning, Cassian.”
Azriel’s hazel eyes danced, but he said nothing as he gracefully took his place beside Cassian, a plate of his own food appearing.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Nesta said to him. She couldn’t remember the last time, actually.
Azriel took a bite of his eggs before replying. “Likewise.” The shadowsinger nodded toward her clothes. “How’s training?” Cassian cut him a sharp look.
Nesta glanced between them. There was no way Azriel didn’t know about yesterday. Cassian had probably gloated about the incident with the stairs, too.