Nesta scaled the other side of the valley to find the land beyond empty of warriors. Behind her, across the small ravine, the others still slept. No sign of Emerie or Gwyn amongst them. No sign of where they might be, either.
Cassian had told her while lying in bed one night, sweaty and spent, that there were three dumping grounds for the Rite—one in the north, one in the west, and one in the south. Her friends had to be in the others, either together or one in each. They’d be terrified when they awoke.
Gwyn—
Nesta refused to consider it as she hurried through the pines, putting distance between herself and the sleeping warriors before she found a towering tree. She climbed, sap quickly coating her fingers, and when she cleared the canopy …
Ramiel might as well have been across an ocean. It loomed straight ahead, with two mountains and a sea of forest and the gods knew what else between her and its barren slopes. It looked identical to Feyre’s painting. She peered at the sun, then at the trunk below her, searching for moss. There—just below her left foot.
Ramiel was east. So she’d been dumped in the west, and the others …
She had to pick either north or south. Or would she be better off heading for the mountain and hoping she found them along the way?
She scoured her memory for any advice Cassian might have offhandedly given her. Cassian … Maybe he was already on his way to save her.
The bubble of hope in her chest ruptured. He couldn’t rescue her. He’d informed her himself about the laws forbidding such a thing. He’d be executed, and so would she. Even Rhysand or Feyre couldn’t stop it.
Cassian wasn’t coming to save her. No one was coming to save her, or Emerie, or Gwyn.
Nesta flexed her fingers, working some movement back into them after sitting still for so long. She swore softly at the blood that dribbled from the few small cuts on her hands.
They should have healed by now. But the magic that bound the Rite also suppressed any healing magic within a faerie’s blood, apparently. Including her own.
Any wounds could be fatal. Would heal at a human, mortal pace. Nesta allowed herself to take another few slow, steadying breaths. She could do this. Would do this.
She’d save her friends. And herself.
Shouting echoed from far behind her. The others were waking. Cursing, Nesta hurried down the tree, bark and pine needles sticking to her sap-crusted hands. She had to pick a direction, and be running by the time she hit the bottom.
The shouting behind her became accented by screams.
She glanced back, making sure no one was gaining on her. And as she did, she caught a flash of light from the woven bracelet on her left wrist. From the little silver charm in the middle, glinting in the light.
No—it was glowing.
Nesta brushed a fingertip over the charm. It buzzed against her skin. Dread sluiced through her—a pricking at her nape, as if a soft voice whispered, Hurry.
Nesta twisted to better see it against the sun, but the light within the charm vanished. Nesta pivoted northward. The charm shone again.
Brows rising, she angled her arm to the east: nothing. South: only a faint glow. No sense of urgency, of pure panic. But north … The charm blazed, and again that dread filled her.
Nesta sucked in a breath, remembering that night in the House when they’d made the bracelets. Remembering her wish for them: the courage to go out into the world when we are ready, but to always be able to find our way back to each other. No matter what.
She’d Made the charms. Into beacons. And whichever of her friends lay to the south wasn’t in nearly as much danger as the one to the north.
The land that way was uphill. A small blessing. The other warriors would likely choose the fastest and easiest way to Ramiel and avoid a route that involved climbing.
But how could the charms work here? The Rite banned magic, both from a wielder and from any objects. Unless the power surrounding the Rite didn’t stifle Made items. Fae spells had to be carefully worded—perhaps whoever had woven this spell for the Illyrians had never considered the possibility of a Made item winding up in the Rite.
Her own power lay dormant, though. She strained inward, reaching for it, but only emptiness met her.
Her throat tightened. She was herself a Made thing—and yet she was a person, too. The magic recognized her as a person and not a thing.
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to be shown that distinction. She inhaled the pine and distant promise of snow. Alive. Even in this hellscape, she was alive.
And she’d make sure her friends were, too.
Exhaling slowly, mastering her breath, Nesta lowered her arm and began moving.
Her too-big boots hit the ground, her toes shifting within them.
By the time Nesta straightened, checking the knife at her side, she was already heading north.
It occurred to Nesta after ten minutes of running uphill, the glimmering charm still urging her along, her feet in those infernal boots slipping this way and that, that she needed water. And food. And would need shelter before sunset. And would have to decide whether to risk a fire, or possibly die from cold just to avoid being found.
The clothes she’d swiped off the male weren’t thick enough to help her survive the night. And if the gray sky was any indication, snow or rain might be imminent.
But no warriors were on her tail. At least she had that. Unless they were as stealthy as Cassian and Azriel.
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.
