A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,194

“Such exquisite music it makes. What wonder it spins. Everything pays fealty to that Harp: seasons, kingdoms, the order of time and worlds. These are of no consequence to it. And its last string …” He laughed. “Even Death bows to that string.”

Nesta swallowed again. Cassian squeezed her hand tighter and said casually, “You true immortals are all the same: arrogant windbags who love to hear yourselves talk.”

“And you faeries are all blind to your own selves.” Lanthys crooned, circling again, and Cassian readied his blade. “Based upon scent alone, I would say that you two are—”

Cassian released Nesta’s hand and lunged forward, spearing his blade into the mist before Lanthys could say one more damning word.

Lanthys screamed in rage as Cassian’s Siphons flared, and Cassian roared, “RUN!” before he struck again. Lanthys retreated, and Cassian used the breath to free the Siphon from his left hand before chucking it to her, willing it to light. “Go!” he commanded as he tossed the stone to her. Red splashed across her fear-tight face as she caught his Siphon, but Cassian was already pivoting to Lanthys.

The crunching, fading steps told him Nesta obeyed.

Good.

Lanthys gathered in the darkness, a cobra readying to strike.

Cassian just prayed Nesta made it out of the gates before he died.

Nesta ran from the voice that was hate and cruelty and hunger entwined. The voice that robbed her of joy, of warmth, of anything but primal, basic fear.

Her thighs protested at the path’s steepness, but she sprinted up toward the gates, obeying Cassian’s command, the roaring from the warrior and the monster echoing off the stones. Red light flashed behind her. The doors of the Prison’s cells rattled. Beasts screamed behind them, as if realizing one of them had gotten out. Wanting out themselves.

She clenched the Harp in one hand, Cassian’s Siphon blazing in the other. She had to reach the gates. Then make it down the mountain. And then holler for Rhysand, and pray he had some sort of spell to sense his name on the wind. Then he’d have to race back up the mountain, down the path, and …

Cassian might be dead by the time she reached the gates so high above. He might be dying now.

A cold bolt shot through her heart.

She had run from him. Left him.

The Harp warmed in her hand, humming. The gold gleamed as if molten.

We shall open doors and pathways; we shall move through space and eons together, it had sung during her unintentional scrying. Our music will free us of earthly rules and borders.

Open doors … She had opened a door with it—to Lanthys’s cell. Opened a door through its own power pressing on her. But to move through space …

The small strings are for games—light movement and leaping—but the longer, the final ones … Such deep wonders and horrors we could strum into being.

Nesta counted the strings. Twenty-six. She’d touched the first, the smallest, to free herself from the Harp’s power, but what did the others do?

Twenty-six, twenty-six, twenty-six …

Gwyn’s voice floated from far away, recounting Merrill’s earlier research on dimensions. The possibility of twenty-six dimensions.

We shall move through space and eons together … The small strings are for games—light movement and leaping … Could the Harp … Nesta’s breath caught in her throat. Could the Harp transplant her from one place to another? Not only open a door, but create one she might walk through?

Free us of earthly rules and borders …

She had to try it. For Cassian.

Motion stirred in the gloom above, rushing steps headed her way. Someone had entered the Prison through the gates. Nesta angled Cassian’s Siphon toward the sound, bracing for whatever monster might come barreling down—

Fae males in worn, dirty armor charged toward her. At least ten Autumn Court soldiers.

She knew who’d sent them, winnowing them on Koschei’s power. Who controlled them, even from across the sea.

I know where you are, Nesta Archeron.

And since Rhys had lowered the shields around the Prison … they’d walked right in.

Nesta didn’t think. She seized that silver fire within her. Let it wreathe her hands.

“Take me to Cassian,” she whispered, and plucked the first silver string of the Harp.

The world and oncoming soldiers vanished, and she had the sense of being thrown, even as she stood still, and she prayed and prayed—

Metal flashed, and red light flared, and there was Cassian, bleeding on the ground, Siphons blazing, fighting the mist in front of him.

There was nowhere to strike a fatal blow. The mist scattered at every