House of Flame and Shadow (Crescent City #3) by Sarah J. Maas

With that, she left. For a long moment, none of them could speak.

“Well, Flynn,” Declan finally rasped, “looks like you got your wish.”





11


Rushing water roared through the cavern, its spray coating Bryce’s face with drops so cold they were kisses of ice.

The strange carvings had continued all the way here, showing great Fae battles and lovemaking and childbirth. Showing a masked queen, a crown upon her head, bearing instruments in her hand and standing before an adoring crowd. Behind her, a great mountaintop palace rose toward the sky, winged horses soaring among the clouds. No doubt some religious iconography of her divine right to rule. Beyond the mountaintop palace, a lush archipelago spread into the distance, rendered with remarkable detail and skill.

Scenes of a blessed land, a thriving civilization. One relief had been so similar to the frieze of the Fae male forging the sword at the Crescent City Ballet that Bryce had nearly gasped. The last carving before the river had been one of transition: a Fae King and Queen seated on thrones, a mountain—different from the one with the palace atop it—behind them with three stars rising above it. A different kingdom, then. Some ancient High Lord and Lady, Nesta had suggested before approaching the river.

She hadn’t commented on the lower half of the carving, which depicted a Helscape beneath their thrones, some kind of underworld. Humanoid figures writhed in pain amid what looked like icicles and snapping, scaly beasts—either past enemies conquered or an indication of what failure to bow to the rulers would bring upon the defiant.

The suffering stretched throughout, lingering even underneath that archipelago and its mountaintop palace. Even here, in paradise, death and evil remained. A common motif in Midgardian art, too, usually with the caption: Et in Avallen ego.

Even in Avallen, there am I.

A whispered promise from Death. Another version of memento mori. A reminder that death was always, always waiting. Even in the blessed Fae isle of Avallen.

Maybe all the ancient art that glorified the idea of memento mori had been brought to Midgard by these people.

Maybe she was thinking too much about shit that really didn’t matter at the moment. Especially with an impassable river before her.

Bryce and Nesta peered down at the cascade rushing past, the night-dark waters flowing deeper into the caverns. The scent of iron was stronger here, likely because they now stood closer to the river than they had before. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fact that the tunnel continued on the other side, and the gap was large enough that jumping wasn’t an option.

“Now would be a good time for your friends with wings to find us,” Bryce muttered. Her star shone ahead, faint but still pointing the way to the path across the river.

Nesta glanced over a shoulder. “You winnowed out of the cell.” So the shadows had told Nesta and the others everything. “You can’t do so again?”

“I, ah … It drained me.” She hated to reveal any sort of weakness, but didn’t see a way around it. “I’m still recovering.”

“Surely your magic should have replenished by now. You were able to use some against me before the cave-in. And the star on your chest still glows. Some magic must remain in you.”

“I was always able to get it to glow,” Bryce confessed, “long before I ever had true power.” For a heartbeat, Bryce debated telling Nesta how she’d attained her depth of power, how she could get even more if someone fueled her up. Just to let the warrior know she wasn’t some loser who froze in the face of an enemy, giant Wyrm or no.

But that would reveal more about her abilities than was wise.

“You can’t, uh … winnow?” Bryce asked Nesta.

“I’ve never tried,” Nesta admitted. “My powers are unusual amongst the High Fae.”

“High Fae? As opposed to … normal Fae?”

Nesta shrugged. “They use the High part to make themselves sound more important than they are.”

Bryce’s mouth twitched upward. “Sounds like the Fae in my world.” She angled her head. “But you’re High Fae. You … talk about them like you’re not.”

“I’m new to the Fae realms,” Nesta said, her focus again on the river. “I was born human and turned High Fae against my will.” She sighed. “It’s a long story. But I’ve only lived in the faerie lands for a handful of years now. Much of this is still strange to me.”

“I know the feeling,” Bryce said. “My mother is human, my father Fae. I’ve lived between two worlds my entire life.”

Nesta nodded shallowly. “None of that helps us get across the river.”

Bryce surveyed her companion. If Nesta was originally human and had been turned Fae—however the fuck that was possible—maybe her sympathies still lay with humankind. Maybe she’d understand how it was to be powerless and frightened in a world designed to oppress and kill her—

Or maybe she’d been sent to win Bryce’s sympathy and trust, working for a so-called High Lord. Everything she’d said in these tunnels could have been a lie. And she was powerful enough that she’d been called in to look at the Horn on Bryce’s back—she was no defenseless lamb.

“Up for a swim?” Bryce asked the warrior, kneeling to dip a hand into the river. She hissed at its ice-cold bite.