A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,236

over the hill’s edge on the other side of the tree.

They tumbled toward the streambed a hundred feet below, flipping as they careened down the side of the hill. Rocks and leaves cracked and scratched against her, wings snapped above and below her, her hair lashed her face as her hands grappled—

Nesta slammed into the streambed so hard her spine groaned, the male landing atop her, sending every remaining scrap of breath exploding from her lungs.

His wings twitched. But he did not move.

Nesta opened her eyes to find herself staring into his unseeing gaze. To find her hand clenching the dagger she’d buried in his throat soaked in warm blood.

Grunting, Nesta rolled him off. Left the dagger sticking out of his throat, blood still leaking from the wound. The knife had pierced all the way through to the nape of his neck.

Nesta spat a mouthful of blood onto the dry stones. Her nightgown was covered in blood and dirt, her skin raw and stinging. But she was alive. And the male was not.

Nesta allowed herself to inhale slowly through her nose for a count of six. She held the breath, then slowly loosed it. Did the breathing exercise twice more. Assessed the state of her body, from her pounding head to her torn feet. Breathed again.

When her mind had stilled, Nesta pulled the knife from the male’s throat. Then stripped off his clothes, item by item, including his boots. She dressed herself with cold efficiency, shucking off the bloody nightgown and dropping it onto the male’s face in a mockery of a funeral shroud, then tucked the knife into the belt she cinched as tight as it would go. The clothes hung off her, and the too-big boots might be a liability, but it was better than the nightgown.

And then she went to find her friends.

CHAPTER

65

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