A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,239

surviving that.

Nesta’s throat dried out.

And dried out further as she beheld what lay across the river, caught on a fallen tree jutting from the rocky bank directly before the plunge to the falls.

Emerie.

Nesta rushed to the edge of the water, but snatched her foot back from its icy fingers. Emerie appeared unconscious, but Nesta didn’t dare risk shouting her name. A glance at the sky revealed the sun at its midafternoon point, but it offered no heat, no salvation.

How long had Emerie been in the frigid water?

“Think,” Nesta murmured. “Think, think.”

Each minute in the water risked killing Emerie. She lay too far away to discern any injuries, but she didn’t stir against the branch. Only her twitching wings showed any sign of life.

Nesta peeled off her clothes. Wished she’d taken the nightgown to tie her knife and two arrows around her leg, rather than leave them on the shore, but she had no choice. She took the Illyrian bow, though, strapping it across her chest, the string digging into her bare skin.

Naked, she eyed the distance between the falls, the rapids, the rocks, and Emerie.

“Rock to rock,” she told herself. Braced for the cold.

And leaped into the water.

Nesta gasped and sputtered at the icy shock, hands shaking so hard she feared she’d lose her grip on the slick rocks and be hurtled over the falls. But she kept going. Aiming for Emerie. Closer and closer, until finally she swam frantically between the last rock and the riverbank—and Emerie draped over the half-submerged tree beyond it.

Shaking, teeth chattering, Nesta dragged Emerie free of the branches and farther up the bank, then crouched over her.

Emerie’s face was battered, her arm bleeding from a gash in her biceps. But she breathed.

Nesta reined in her sob of relief and gently shook her friend. “Emerie, wake up.”

The female didn’t so much as moan in pain. Nesta searched through Emerie’s dark hair, and her fingers came away bloody.

She had to get her across the river. Find shelter. Make a fire and get them warm. The bow she’d carried wasn’t enough to protect them. Not nearly.

“All right, Emerie.” Nesta’s teeth chattered so hard her face ached. “Sorry about this.”

She gripped her friend’s nightgown and ripped it down the middle, baring Emerie’s thin, toned body to the elements. Nesta peeled off the nightgown and twisted it into a long rope, then unshouldered the bow.

“You’re not going to enjoy this part,” Nesta said through her clacking teeth, hauling Emerie back to the water. “Neither am I,” she muttered, the icy water biting into her numbed feet.

Cold as the Cauldron. Cold as—

Nesta let the thought pass, willing it to drift by like a cloud. Focused.

She managed to get Emerie into the water up to their waists, holding her as tightly as her shaking fingers would allow. Then she hoisted her friend onto her back and hooked the Illyrian bow around them both, letting the near-unbreakable string dig into her own chest so the wood rested against Emerie’s spine, tethering them together.

“Better than nothing.” She looped Emerie’s limp arms around her shoulders, then took Emerie’s nightgown and wrapped it around her wrists, tying them in place. “Hold on,” she warned, even though Emerie remained an unmoving weight across her back.

Rock to rock. Just as she’d done before. Rock to rock and then back to the shore.

Rock to rock. Step to step.

She’d done ten thousand steps in the House of Wind. Had done more than that over these months. She could do this.

Nesta moved deeper into the water, biting back her cry at its cold.

Emerie swayed and banged into her, and the Illyrian bow’s string dug into Nesta’s chest hard enough to slice the skin. But it held.

Step to step to step.

By the time Nesta returned to the far bank, shaking, near sobbing, the bowstring had drawn blood. But they were on solid land, and her clothes and weapons were there, and—and now to find warmth and shelter.

Nesta laid Emerie on the pine needles, covering her friend with the dry clothes she’d left behind, and gathered what wood she could carry. Naked, shaking, she could barely hold on to the sticks in her arms as she piled them near Emerie. Her trembling fingers struggled to twist the sticks long enough to ignite a spark, to coax the kindling to a flame, but—there. Fire. She raided the area for fallen logs, praying they weren’t too wet from the mists off the rapids to catch flame.

When the fire was crackling steadily, Nesta slithered under