Chapter Fifty-Five #2
Rhys frowned. “Even with just the Crown, though, Briallyn can do a great deal of damage. For all we know, Beron is under her control, as in thrall to her as Eris’s soldiers are. We need to put an end to her and retrieve the Crown. Before war truly erupts.”
“It’s too risky,” Feyre countered. “We pursued the Cauldron in Hybern and it went badly.”
“Then we learn from our mistakes,” Rhys challenged.
“She’ll have set a trap,” Feyre said. “We don’t go after it.”
Silence fell before Rhysand said, “Then we need to secure wartime alliances again—and fast. And do some damage control on the ones we already have that might be strained.”
Cassian arched a brow, worry shining in his eyes. “You sound as if you have an idea.”
“Eris is coming to the Winter Solstice celebration at the Hewn City,” Rhys said.
It was fast approaching, Nesta realized.
“He’s shaken by Tamlin catching you two meeting with him, and wondering if we’ll balk from the alliance now that there’s the slim chance Tamlin might reveal it.
Or decide to sell him out first. We need to remind Eris of our continued commitment, and that he is …
important to us. That we have his back.”
Cassian snarled with disgust; Feyre echoed the expression.
“So buy him a present,” Feyre said, waving a hand, “and tell him we all send our love.”
“He’ll want more than that,” Rhys said, mouth twitching, and his eyes fell upon Nesta.
Cassian straightened before Rhys could even speak. “You’re not going to use her.”
Feyre glanced between them, and after a second, as if her mate had spoken into her mind, she demanded, “Really, Rhys?”
Rhys leaned back, and Nesta frowned, the only one of them apparently not aware of what this meant.
Rhys said to her, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to.
But Elain mentioned that you have particular skill on the dance floor.
Skill that once won you the hand of a duke in a single waltz. ”
She’d forgotten that night, the blur of jewels and silks and that duke’s handsome face. All she’d felt then was wild, savage triumph.
“Over my dead fucking body,” Cassian exploded.
Nesta asked, “You want me to dance with Eris?” Her heart began to pound, not entirely with fear.
“I want you to seduce him,” Rhys said. “Not into bed, but to make him realize what he might attain once he understands that we have no plans to break this alliance. To weigh the benefits more strongly than the risks.”
Nesta crossed her arms, ignoring Cassian’s pointed glare, silently demanding that she dismiss this notion entirely. “You really think my dancing with Eris will solidify his loyalty?”
“I think Eris is our ally, and will expect to dance with a lady of this court at the ball no matter what. I won’t let Feyre within five feet of him, Mor might kill him, and Amren is more likely to scare him off than win him over, so you and Elain are the only options.”
“Elain doesn’t go near him,” Feyre said. “And you won’t let me near him?”
Rhys threw her a charming smile. “You know what I mean.”
Feyre rolled her eyes. “You’re becoming insufferable.” She turned to Nesta. “Eris isn’t … He’s not good. He’s not like Beron, but he …”
“I know what he did to Morrigan,” Nesta said.
Or rather, what he didn’t do: help her, when her family had brutalized her and dumped her over the Autumn Court border as punishment for ruining their marriage alliance.
Eris had found her, and then merely walked away.
“I dealt with him the other day. I know what I’d be getting into with him. ”
“Mor,” Rhys went on, “can teach you the dances. She had to learn all of them, and since she still presides over the Court of Nightmares, she’s the best one to instruct you.”
“Nesta hasn’t agreed to anything,” Cassian snapped. “Even one dance with that prick is too much—”
“I’ll do it,” Nesta cut in, if only to spite him for being so …
territorial. She glanced to the sword still in her hand.
“I just killed an immortal being. Eris is nothing. And if it will make him remember why he wants to be allied with us, make him think he might attain me if he holds up his end, then fine.”
“He’s already our ally,” Cassian countered. “One dance is really going to secure his continued cooperation?”
“We need to show Eris that we respect and trust him,” Feyre conceded with a defeated sigh.
“Even if we don’t. And letting him dance with one of our family is proof of that—at least for someone from the Autumn Court.
If he winds up eating out of Nesta’s hand, fantastic.
If it just makes him remember that we’re on his side, good. But these bonds have to be maintained.”
“I don’t like it,” Cassian growled.
“You don’t have to like it,” Feyre said, head lifting, full of that High Lady’s authority. “You just have to watch from the sidelines and not look like you want to rip his head off.”
Nesta cut in, “Tell Morrigan I’ll meet with her for dancing lessons whenever she’s available.”
Feyre and Cassian, still bristling at each other, silently turned toward her.
Nesta approached the desk, laying Ataraxia there. “Here,” she said to Rhys. “You can take it back.”
Rhys said nothing, but Feyre’s brows rose. “Why don’t you keep it?”
Cassian’s curious stare seared her like a brand, but Nesta only said, “I have no interest in more death.”
Nesta inhaled through her nose for a count of six, held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled through her mouth for another six beats. In the quiet of her bedroom that night, settled in the chair, she focused on her breath, nothing more.
Any thoughts that came in, she acknowledged and let pass. Even if some kept returning.
She didn’t care where they hid the Harp. If they needed her blood to ward it as they had for the Mask, they’d let her know. But the thought of what came next—
Breathe. Count.
Nesta inhaled again, attention fixing on her expanding ribs, the feeling of the breath in her body. Even weeks into it, some days’ Mind-Stilling exercises were harder than others. But she kept at it, ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night.
Nesta exhaled, counting. Kept going.
That was all she supposed she could do: just keep going. One day, one breath at a time.
She let that thought go, too. Breathed and breathed, and then stopped the counting altogether. Let her mind wander.
But her mind did not shoot in every direction. It remained calm. Resting.
Content right where it was.
War had left the cottage untouched. But the harsh winters since Nesta had last seen it had not been so kind.
Azriel had winnowed her and Cassian here after training, but hadn’t lingered. Apparently, Gwyn wanted him to go over dagger handling, so he’d left them with a promise to return in an hour.
Nesta had no idea if an hour would be too much, or too little. Had no idea why she’d asked Cassian to come here with her, really. But she’d gotten it into her head that she needed to visit. To see this place.
The midday autumn sun made the disrepair all the more stark: the thatched roof that had molded or balded in spots, the overgrown weeds already turning brown before the winter, rising up to the small windows in the stone walls.
Nesta’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to walk toward the entry.
Cassian remained silent behind her, footsteps so quiet he could have been the brisk wind through the too-tall grasses.
His head and arm had been fully healed by this morning, two days after Nesta had agreed to bewitch Eris.
Cassian had even exercised alongside her earlier, though at a slower pace than usual.
Like he was indeed heeding Rhys and Madja’s warning to go easy.
That he’d gone through the exercises without grimacing had caused some intrinsic part of her to sigh with relief—and dare ask him to join her today.
She’d never have invited him along if he’d still been injured.
Not that there was much of an enemy here to pose a threat. No humans wandered the leaf-strewn road beyond the cottage; only a few birds chirped a halfhearted melody from the almost barren trees.
Muted, drab, and empty. That was how this land felt, even with autumn upon it. As if even the sun couldn’t be bothered to shine properly here.
Nesta’s heart thundered as she laid a hand against the cold wooden door. Claw marks still gouged it.
“Tamlin’s handiwork, I take it?” Cassian asked behind her.
Nesta shrugged, unable to find the words. She and Elain had rehung the door after Tamlin had broken it. Their father, his leg wrecked beyond repair and unable to bear weight, had watched them, offering unhelpful advice.
Her fingers curled into a fist and she shouldered the door open. Its rusted hinges objected, creaking, and a dusty, half-rotten scent swarmed her nose.
Her cheeks heated. For Cassian to be here, to see this—
“Just a brute, remember?” He stepped to her side. “I’ve lived in far worse. At least you had walls and a roof.”
Nesta hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words, and her shoulders loosened as she stepped into the cottage proper.
In the chill dimness, broken only by rays of sunlight, she frowned at the ceiling.
“This house used to have a roof.” The damage had let in all manner of creatures and weather—the former had made themselves comfortable, judging by the nests and various scattered droppings.
Nesta’s mouth turned dry. This horrible, awful, dark place.
She couldn’t stop her shaking.
Cassian laid a hand on her shoulder. “Walk me through it.”
She couldn’t. Couldn’t find the words.
He pointed to a long worktable. One leg had collapsed, and the whole thing lay at a slant. “You ate here?”
She nodded. They’d eaten here, some meals in silence, some with her and Elain trying to fill the quiet with their idle chatter, some with her and Feyre at each other’s throats. Like those last meals they’d had with her in this house.