A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

The Harp gleamed in the darkness, as if it possessed its own sun within the metal and strings. Play me, it seemed to whisper. Let me sing again. Join your voice with mine.

Her hand reached toward the strings. Yes.

The Harp sighed, a low purr rolling off it as Nesta’s hand neared. We shall open doors and pathways; we shall move through space and eons together. Our music will free us of earthly rules and borders.

Yes. She’d play the Harp, and there would be nothing but music until the stars died out.

Play. I have so long wished to play, it said, and she could have sworn she heard a smile within the sound. What might my song unlock in here? A cold, humorless laugh skittered along Nesta’s bones. It sang again, Play, play—

The song halted, and the vision shattered.

Nesta’s knees gave out as the room swept in, and she collapsed onto the pew, earning an alarmed look from Gwyn through the crowd. Her heart thundered, her mouth was dry as sand, and she forced herself to rise to her feet again. To listen to the end of the service as she pieced it all together, realized what she had discovered in her unwitting scrying.



“You’re sure of this?”

Cassian leaned a hip against Rhys’s desk. “Nesta said the Harp is beneath the Prison.”

“She’s never been to the Prison,” Rhys said, frowning.

Cassian had honestly thought Nesta might be drunk when she’d burst into the dining room an hour earlier, breathless, and told him her wild story. He’d hardly been able to follow what she’d said, except for the fact that she believed the Harp was at the Prison.

Worse, that she’d woken up the Harp in the Prison. What havoc might it wreak unchecked? The thought chilled Cassian to the core.

So he’d flown down here and found Rhys in his study. Again poring over old healers’ volumes, trying to find some way to save his mate.

Rhys leaned back against his seat. Considered.

Az had winnowed to a meeting point on the eastern coast to get a report from Mor about the Vallahan situation, and Feyre was out to dinner with Amren, so it was just the two of them tonight. Cassian had suggested that Nesta come tell Rhys herself, but she’d refused. She’d been shaken—had needed some time to pull herself back together. He’d check in on her later. Make sure she hadn’t withdrawn too far into her head.

Rhys drummed his fingers on his biceps. Stared at his desk for a long moment. “When we heard about Beron’s treachery, I had Helion show me how to apply a shield like the one I had around Feyre to the Prison itself.”

“You guessed this would happen?”

“No.” A muscle ticked in Rhys’s jaw. “Feyre and I were concerned that Beron would try to free the inmates to use in a conflict—just as we used the Bone Carver in the war. Give me tonight, and I’ll get the shield untangled and open for you tomorrow.”

“It takes that long to undo a shield?”

Rhys dragged a hand through his hair. Worries etched deep lines into his brow. “It’s a combination of magic and spell work, so yes. And I’ll admit I’m distracted enough these days that I might need some extra time to make sure it’s done correctly.”

Cassian’s stomach bottomed out at the bleakness in Rhys’s face. But he only said, “All right.”

A blade appeared on the desk, summoned from wherever Rhys kept it. The great sword Nesta had Made.

“Take it with you,” his High Lord said quietly. “I want to see what happens if Nesta uses it.”

“A visit to the Prison isn’t the time for one of your experiments,” Cassian countered.

The stars in Rhys’s eyes winked out. “Then let’s hope she doesn’t need to draw it.”





CHAPTER

53

“Rhysand really gave this sword to me of his own free will?” Nesta asked Cassian the next morning as they hiked the mossy, rock-strewn side of the towering mountain known as the Prison. It was exactly as she’d pictured it in her trance—and even more horrible in person. The very land seemed abandoned. Like something great had once existed here and then vanished. Like the land still waited for it to return.

“Rhys said if we’re going into the Prison, we should be well armed,” Cassian said, his dark hair tossed by the cold, wet wind off the thrashing gray sea beyond the plain to their right. “And this is the best place he can think of for us to try out the sword you Made.”

“So if it goes badly, at least it will kill me, not anyone else?” Nesta couldn’t keep the sharpness from her tone. Rhys had winnowed them here, depositing them at the base of the mountain, as no magic could pierce its heavy wards. Nesta hadn’t been able to look him in the eye.

“You’re not going to be killed. Either by that blade or anything in there.” His jaw tightened as he surveyed the towering gates far above. He’d put many of the current inmates inside, and Nesta had heard Feyre’s harrowing tales of visiting the Prison on several occasions. Little frightened her sister—that Feyre found it to be petrifying didn’t help the twisting sensation in Nesta’s gut.

“You remember the rules?” Cassian asked as they neared the gates of bone, intricately carved with every manner of creature.

“Yes.” Hold Cassian’s hand the entire time, don’t speak of Amren, don’t speak of anything regarding the Trove or the court or Feyre’s pregnancy, don’t speak of the creatures he put in here, don’t do anything except walk and stay on high alert. And get that Harp out before it could unleash chaos.