A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,136

The silence in the room was palpable. “I went to find you.”

Cassian didn’t dare say that he’d only been gone thirty minutes. Thirty minutes, and she’d been in a panic like that? “We wouldn’t have left you,” he said carefully.

“I wasn’t afraid of being left. I was afraid both of you were dead.”

That she kept emphasizing both of you tightened his chest. He knew what she was carefully avoiding saying. She’d been worried enough that she’d ventured into Oorid’s perils for him.

Nesta turned from his stare. “I was about to go into the water when the kelpie appeared. It crawled onto the bank, spoke to me, and then dragged me in.”

“It spoke to you?” Rhys asked.

“Not in a language I knew.”

Rhys’s mouth quirked to the side. “Can you show me?”

Nesta frowned, as if unwilling to relive the memory, but nodded. Both of their gazes went vacant, and then Rhys pulled back.

“That thing …” He surveyed Nesta with blatant shock that she had survived. Rhys turned to Amren. “Have a listen.”

Their eyes became glazed, and none of them spoke as Rhys showed Amren.

Even Amren’s face paled at whatever Rhys showed her, and then she was shaking her head, her black bob of hair swaying. “That is a dialect of our tongue that has not been spoken in fifteen thousand years.”

“I could only pick up every other word,” Rhys said.

Feyre arched a brow. “You speak the language of the ancient Fae?”

Rhys shrugged. “My education was thorough.” He waved an idle, graceful hand. “For exactly these situations.”

Azriel asked, “What’d the kelpie say?”

Amren shot an alarmed glance at Nesta, then answered, “He said: Are you my sacrifice, sweet flesh? How pale and young you are. Tell me, are they resuming the sacrifices to the waters once more? And when she didn’t respond, the kelpie said, No gods can save you. I shall take you, little beauty, and you shall be my bride before you are my supper.”

Nesta’s hand drifted to the marks on her face, then recoiled.

Horror slid through Cassian—then molten rage.

“People used to sacrifice to kelpies?” Feyre asked, nose crinkling with disgust and dread.

“Yes,” Amren said, scowling. “The most ancient Fae and humans believed kelpies to be river and lake gods, though I always wondered if the sacrifices started as a way to prevent the kelpies from hunting them. Keep them fed and happy, control the deaths, and they wouldn’t crawl out of the water to snatch the children.” Her teeth flashed. “For this one to still be speaking that ancient dialect … He must have retreated to Oorid a long time ago.”

“Or been raised by parents who spoke that dialect,” Azriel countered.

“No,” Amren said. “The kelpies do not breed. They rape and torment, but they do not reproduce. They were made, legend says, by the hand of a cruel god—and deposited throughout the waters of this land. The kelpie you slew, girl, was perhaps one of the last.”

Nesta gazed at the Mask again.

Rhys said, “It flew to you. The Mask.” He must have seen it in her head.

“I was trying to reach for my power,” Nesta murmured, and they all stilled—she’d never spoken of her power so explicitly. “This answered instead.”

“Like calls to like,” Feyre repeated. “Your power and the Mask’s are similar enough that to reach for one was to reach for the other.”

“So you admit your powers remain, then,” Amren said drily.

Nesta met her stare. “You already knew that.”

Cassian stepped in before things went south. “All right. Let Lady Death get some rest.”

“That’s not funny,” Nesta hissed.

Cassian winked, even as the others tensed. “I think it’s catchy.”

Nesta glowered, but it was a human expression, and he’d take that any day over that silver fire. Over the being who had walked on water and commanded a legion of the dead.

He wondered if Nesta would agree.

Nesta stayed at the moonstone palace atop the Hewn City. Feyre had suggested that the bright openness would be better than the dim, red halls of the House of Wind. At least for tonight.

Nesta had been too tired to disagree, to explain that the House was her friend, and would have pampered and fussed like an old nursemaid.

She barely noted the opulent bedroom—overhanging the side of the mountain, snowcapped peaks gleaming in the sunshine all around, a bed piled with glowingly white linens and pillows, and … Well, she did notice the sunken bathing pool, open to the air beyond, water spilling over the lip that projected above the drop and trickling into the endless fall below.

Ribbons