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

The thought had her checking her frantic pace, silencing her steps. Tucking the bracelet and glowing charm into her sleeve to hide its gleam in the dimness. Trying to leave scant evidence of her passing as she scaled a particularly steep hill and surveyed the terrain beyond.

More trees and rocks and—

Nesta dropped to the ground as an arrow whizzed past. A fucking arrow—

The knife hadn’t been a fluke. Someone had dumped weapons in the Blood Rite. Nesta scanned the terrain behind her for the arrow. There—stuck in the base of a tree.

She slid back down the hill until she reached it, pried it free, and tucked it into her belt. Then climbed the hill again, keeping low, as she peered over the crest once more.

And came face-to-face with a razor-sharp arrowhead.

“Get up,” the warrior growled.



With every league Cassian flew around the queens’ once-shared castle, Cassian cursed Eris for being stupid enough to get captured. Now this was Briallyn’s stronghold, he supposed. Patches of snow still crusted the hilly, open land, though the first buds and sprouts of spring poked through. He kept high enough that breathing was difficult, so high that he’d appear no more than a very large bird to any human on the ground. But with his Fae eyesight, he could clearly make out what crossed the land.

He saw nothing of Eris, though. No red hair, no lick of fire, no hint of his soldiers. Azriel, circling in the opposite direction, signaled that he hadn’t seen anything, either.

It was an effort to stay focused. To keep flying, circling like vultures, when his mind drifted to the northwest. To the Illyrian Mountains and the Blood Rite and Nesta.

Had she survived the initial surge? The warriors would be waking by now.

Fucking Eris. How could he have been reckless enough to let those soldiers get close?

Cassian again scanned the terrain below, fighting to keep his breathing steady in the thin air. He’d find Eris swiftly. Kick his ass, if he had time.

And what then? He couldn’t do anything to help Nesta. But at least he could be closer to the Rite. Should the worst happen …

He shut down the thought. Nesta would survive. Gwyn and Emerie would survive.

He’d allow no other alternative.





CHAPTER

66

The Illyrian warrior was smaller than the one Nesta had killed, but this male had gotten his hands on a bow and arrow.

“Give me your weapons,” he ordered, eyes darting over her, noting the blood coating her face, crusting her chin and neck.

Nesta didn’t move. Didn’t so much as lower her chin.

“Give me your fucking weapons,” the male warned, voice sharpening.

“Where did you come from?” she demanded, as if he didn’t have an arrow pointed at her face. And then, before he had time to answer, “Was another female there?”

The male blinked—and it was the only confirmation Nesta needed before she handed over the arrow. Slowly, slowly reached for the knife. “Did you kill her, too?” Her voice had dropped to pure ice.

“The crippled bitch? I left her to the others.” He grinned. “You’re better prey anyway.”

Emerie. She couldn’t be far off, if this male had already seen her. Nesta pulled the knife free.

The male kept the arrow pointed. “Drop it and back up ten paces.”

Emerie was alive. And nearby. And in danger.

And this motherfucker wouldn’t stop Nesta from saving her.

Nesta bowed her head, shoulders slumping in what she hoped the male believed was a show of resignation. Indeed, he smiled.

He didn’t stand a chance.

Nesta lowered the knife. And flicked her wrist, fingers splaying as she let it soar toward the male.

Right into his groin.

He screamed, and she charged as his hand loosed on the bow. She slammed into him and the weapon, the string slapping her face hard enough to draw tears, but they crashed down, and he was shrieking—

No one would stand between her and her friends.

Her mind slid to a place of cold and calm. She grabbed the bow, flung it away. As the male writhed on the ground, trying to wrench out the knife piercing his balls, she leaped upon it, shoving it in harder. His scream sent birds scattering from the pines.

Nesta twisted the blade free, leaving him lying there. She grabbed the two arrows but didn’t bother freeing the quiver pinned beneath his back. She retrieved the Illyrian bow, snatched her knife, and ran in the direction from which he’d come.

His howls followed her for miles.



A river announced its presence well before Nesta reached it. So did the warriors on its near bank, tentatively speaking with each other—feeling each other out, she guessed—as they filled what seemed to be canteens. Like someone had left those, too.

No sign of Emerie.

She kept behind a tree, downwind, and listened.

Not a whisper about Emerie or another female. Just tense rule-making about the alliances they were forming, how to reach Ramiel, who had left the weapons and canteens for them …

She was about to hunt for an easy spot to cross the river, away from the males, when she heard, “Pity that bitch escaped. She’d have made for good entertainment on the cold nights.”

Everything in Nesta’s body went still. Emerie had made it to this river. Alive.

Another said, drinking from the rushing water, “She’s probably washed halfway down the mountain. If she isn’t dead from the rapids, the beasts will get her before dawn.”