Chapter Sixteen #2
“That’s not the half of it. A spell is in place so our wings are rendered useless and no magic may be used.
” He held up a hand, displaying the red Siphon on its back.
“Magic is rare amongst Illyrians, but when it does manifest, it requires Siphons to be controlled, filtered into something usable. But it gives us an advantage over the other Illyrians without it—so the spell levels the playing field. Illyrians do possess magic on one night a year, though: the night before the Blood Rite, when the war-band leaders can winnow the drugged novices into the wilds. Don’t even ask me why that is. No one knows.”
“Azriel can winnow all the time, though.”
“Az is different. In a lot of ways.” His tone didn’t invite further questioning.
“So without the use of magic in the Rite, you kill each other the normal way? Swords and daggers?”
“Weapons are banned, too. At least ones that are brought in from the outside. But you can build your own. You need to build your own. Or else you’ll be slaughtered.”
“By the other warriors?”
“Yes. Rival clans, enemies, assholes seeking notoriety—all of it. In some villages, the higher the kill count, the more glory you bring. The most backward clans claim the slaughter is to thin out the weaker warriors, but I always thought it was a grand waste of any potential talent.” Cassian dragged a hand through his hair.
“And then there are the creatures that roam the mountains—ones that can easily bring down an Illyrian warrior with claws and fangs.”
A murky memory surfaced, of Feyre telling her about the horrible beasts she’d once encountered in the region.
Cassian went on, “So you’re facing all of that while trying to make your way to Ramiel’s slopes.
The majority of the males forget to save enough strength for the end of the week to make the climb.
It’s a full day and night of brutal climbing, where one fall can kill you.
Most don’t even make it to the base of the mountain.
But if they do, the opponent changes. You’re not facing other warriors—you’re pitting yourself, your very soul, against the mountain.
It’s usually that fact that breaks anyone who tries to scale it. ”
“And what—you make it to the top and get a trophy?”
Cassian snorted, but his words were serious. “There’s a sacred stone atop it. Touch the stone first, and you win. It will transport you out immediately.”
“And everyone else when the week is done?”
“Whoever is left standing is considered a warrior. Where you are when it ends sorts you into one of the three echelons of warrior, named after our holy stars: Arktosian, the ones who don’t make it to the mountain but survive; Oristian, the ones who make it to the mountain but don’t reach the top; and Carynthian, the ones who scale the summit and are considered elite warriors.
Touching the stone atop Ramiel is to win the Rite.
Only a dozen warriors in the past five centuries have reached the mountain. ”
“You touched the stone, I take it.”
“Rhys, Az, and I touched it together, even though we were deliberately separated from each other at the beginning.”
“Why?”
“The leaders feared us and what we’d become.
They thought the warriors or beasts would handle us, if we didn’t have each other to lean against. They were wrong.
” His eyes glittered fiercely. “What they learned was that we love each other as true brothers. And there was nothing that we wouldn’t do, no one we wouldn’t kill, to reach each other.
To save each other. We killed our way across the mountains, and made it through the Breaking—the worst of Ramiel’s three routes to the top—and we won the damn thing.
We touched the stone in the same moment, the same breath, and entered the Carynthian tier of warriors. ”
Nesta failed to keep the shock off her face. “And you say only twelve have become Carynthian … in five hundred years?”
“No. Twelve made it to the mountain and became Oristian. Only three others, besides us, won the Blood Rite and became Carynthian.” His throat bobbed. “They were fine warriors, and led exemplary units. We lost two of them against Hybern.”
Likely in that blast that had decimated a thousand of them. The blast she’d shielded him from. Him, and only him.
Nesta’s stomach clenched, nausea sliding through her. She forced herself to take a long breath. “So you think females can’t participate in the Rite?”
“Mor would likely win the damn thing in record time, but no. I wouldn’t want even her participating in the Rite.” The unspoken part of his reasoning lay coldly in his eyes. There would be a different, worse kind of violence to defend against, even if the females were as highly trained as the males.
Nesta shivered. “Could you have a female unit without them taking the Blood Rite?”
“They would never be honored as true warriors without it—without one of those three titles. Well, I would consider them warriors, but not the rest of the Illyrians. No other units would fly with them. They’d consider it a disgrace and an insult.
” She frowned and he held up his hands. “Like I said: change comes slowly. You heard the bullshit Devlon spewed about your cycle. That’s considered progress.
In the past, they’d kill a female for picking up a weapon.
Now they ‘decontaminate’ the blade and call themselves modern thinkers. ” Disgust contorted his features.
Nesta eased to her feet and scanned the sky. Her head had cleared—only slightly. She didn’t relish the prospect of shelving books when her body was already aching … But perhaps she’d see Gwyn.
“Training the Illyrian females,” Cassian went on, “wouldn’t be about fighting in our wars. It would be about proving they’re equally as capable and strong as the males. It would be about mastering their fear, honing the strength they already have.”
“What do they fear?”
“Becoming my mother,” he said softly. “Going through what she endured.”
What the priestesses beneath the mountain had endured.
Nesta thought of the quiet priestesses who did not leave the mountain, who dwelled in the dimness. Riven flashed through her memory, hurrying past, unable to stomach a stranger’s presence. Gwyn, with her bright eyes that sometimes darkened with shadows.
Cassian tilted his head to the side at her silence. “What is it?”
“Would you train non-Illyrian females?”
“I’m training you, aren’t I?”
“I mean, would you consider …” She didn’t know how to elegantly phrase it, not like silver-tongued Rhysand. “The priestesses in the library. If I invited them to train with us here, where it’s private and safe. Would you train them?”
Cassian blinked slowly. “Yes. I mean, of course, but …” He winced. “Nesta, many of the females in the library do not want to be—cannot stand to be—around males again.”
“Then we’ll ask one of your female friends to join. Mor or anyone else you can think of.”
“The priestesses might not even be able to stomach having me present.”
“You’d never hurt anyone like that.”
His eyes softened slightly. “It’s not about that for them. It’s about the fear—the trauma they bear. Even if they know I’d never do that to them, I might still drag up memories that are incredibly difficult for them to face.”
“You said this training would help me with my … problems. Perhaps it could help them. At the very least give them a reason to get outside for a bit.”
Cassian watched her for a long moment. Then he said, “Whoever you can get up here with us, I’ll gladly train. Mor’s away, but I can ask Feyre—”
“Not Feyre.” Nesta hated the words. The way his back stiffened. She couldn’t look at him as she said, “I just …” How could she explain the tangle between her and her sister? The self-loathing that threatened to consume her every time she looked at her sister’s face?
“All right,” Cassian repeated. “Not Feyre. But I need to give her and Rhys a heads-up. You should probably ask Clotho for permission, too.” A warm hand clasped her shoulder and squeezed. “I like this idea, Nes.” His hazel eyes shone bright. “I like it a lot.”
And for some reason, the words meant everything.