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

“No fire,” she said, focused upon Cassian, though her words were not to him.

The House seemed to ignore her.

“No fire,” she ordered. He could have sworn she blanched slightly.

For a heartbeat, he was again in Rhys’s mother’s house in Windhaven. She’d been staring and staring into the fire, as if speaking to it, as if unaware that even he was there.

The fire crackled and popped. Nesta seethed to the open air, “I said—”

A log cracked, as if the House were merrily ignoring her, adding heat to the flame.

But Nesta flinched. Barely a blink and half a shudder, but her entire body went rigid. Fear and dread flashed over her features, then vanished.

Strange.

Whatever curiosity Nesta noted on his face had her bristling again before launching toward the open doors of the library.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, unable to keep the temper from his voice.

“Out.” She hit the hall and aimed for the stairwell.

Cassian stalked after her, a snarl ripping from his throat. He quickly closed the distance between them.

“Leave me alone,” she bit out.

“What’s the plan, Nes?” He trailed her to the lowest level of the House and the stairwell halfway down the corridor. “You tear into the people who love you until they eventually give up and leave you alone? Is that what you want?”

She yanked on the handle of the ancient door and threw him a withering glare over a shoulder. She opened her mouth, then shut it against whatever had been about to come out.

As if she’d bank herself for him. Pity him. Spare him. Like he needed shielding from her.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Just fucking say it.”

Nesta’s gaze lit with that silver fire. Her nose crinkled with animalistic rage.

The Siphons atop his hands warmed, readying for an enemy he refused to acknowledge.

Her eyes slid down to the red stones. And when they again lifted to his face, the unholy fire in her stare was gone. Replaced by something so dead and vacant it was like gazing into the unseeing eyes of a fallen soldier on a battlefield. He’d seen crows pick at eyes that dead.

Nesta said nothing as she turned back to the stairwell and began her descent.





CHAPTER

18

There was only the red stone of the stairwell, and her jagged breathing, and the knives that had turned inward and sliced and sliced, the walls pushing in, her legs burning with each step downward.

She didn’t want to be in her head, didn’t want to be in her body. Wanted the beating of drums and the riotous song of a fiddle to fill her with sound, to silence any thought. Wanted to find a bottle of wine and drink deep, let the wine pull her out of herself, set her mind drifting and numb.

Down and down and down.

Around and around and around.

Nesta passed the step with her burning handprint. Passed step two hundred fifty. Three hundred. Five hundred. Eight hundred.

It was on step eight hundred and three that her legs began to wobble.

The roaring in her head dulled as she focused upon keeping upright.

By step one thousand, she had stopped entirely.

There was only the spinning silence.

Nesta closed her eyes and leaned her brow into the cool stone to her right, bringing up an arm to rest against it, as if she were clinging tight to a lover. She could have sworn a heartbeat thumped within the stone, as surely as if it beat within a chest beneath her ear.

It was her own pounding blood, she told herself. Even as she clung to the wall, that heartbeat.

She let her breathing saw in and out of her. Let the trembling of her body ease.

The heartbeat in the stone faded. The wall turned icy beneath her flushed cheek. Rough against her fingertips.

She began the walk upward. One step after another after another. Thighs straining, knees groaning, chest on fire.

Her head had emptied by the time she half-crawled up the last twenty steps. She’d had to stop five times to rest. Five times, only for as long as it took to catch her breath and steady herself—just until the roaring threatened to press in again.

She was wrung out, utterly empty, by the time she arrived back at the landing. Cassian leaned against the opposite wall, his face grave.

“I don’t feel like sparring with you,” she said flatly, too drained to be angry. She knew she could call in their bargain to order him to fly her down to the city, but she didn’t possess the energy to even bother. “Good night.”

He moved into her path, wings blocking her. “What step did you reach this time?”

As if it mattered. “One thousand.” Her legs throbbed and throbbed.

“Impressive.”

Nesta lifted her stare to his face, and found him earnest. She didn’t bother to hide the weariness weighing on every part of her.

She made to walk past him, but he didn’t lower his wings. Short of punching her way through, she wasn’t getting by. “What?”

“What set you off today?”

“Everything.” She didn’t want to say more.

“What did Elain say to you?”

She couldn’t revisit that conversation, couldn’t talk about her father or his death or any of it. So she shut her heavy eyes. “Why don’t they sign up for training?”

He knew who she meant. “Maybe they’re not ready.”

“I thought they’d sign up.”