A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,61

into the Cauldron and turned High Fae.” Nesta swallowed again. “It … imparted some of itself to me.”

Gwyn considered the railing, the open drop into the darkness beyond it. “Like calls to like.”

“Yes.”

Gwyn shook her head, hair swaying. “Well, perhaps don’t go down to Level Six again.”

“It’s my job to shelve the books.”

“Make it known to Clotho and she’ll ensure those books are given to others.”

“It seems cowardly.”

“I don’t wish to learn what might come crawling out of that darkness if you, Cauldron-Made, fear it. Especially if it’s … drawn to you.”

Nesta sank into the chair beside Gwyn’s. “I’m not a warrior.”

“You slew the King of Hybern,” Gwyn repeated. “With the shadowsinger’s knife.”

“Luck and rage,” Nesta admitted. “And I had made a promise to kill him for what he did to me and my sister.”

A priestess walked by, beheld them lounging there, and scurried off. Her fear left a tang in the air like burned food.

Gwyn sighed after her. “That’s Riven. She’s still uncomfortable with any manner of contact with strangers.”

“When did she arrive?”

“Eighty years ago.”

Nesta started. But sorrow filled Gwyn’s eyes as she explained, “We do not gossip about each other here. Our stories remain our own to tell or to keep. Only Riven, Clotho, and the High Lord know what happened to her. She will not speak of it.”

“And there has been no help for her?”

“I am not privy to that information. I know of the resources available to us, but it is not my business whether Riven has utilized them.” From the worry that now etched Gwyn’s face, Nesta knew she had used those services. Or had at least tried.

Gwyn tucked her hair behind her arched ears. “I meant to find you yesterday to thank you again for switching out that book, but I got tied up with Merrill’s work.” She inclined her head. “I’m in your debt.”

Nesta rubbed at a persistent cramp in her thigh. “It was nothing.”

Gwyn noted the movement. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Nesta gritted her teeth. “Nothing. I’m training every morning with Cassian.” She had no idea if Gwyn knew of him, so she clarified, “The High Lord’s general—”

“I know who he is. Everyone knows who he is.” It was impossible to read Gwyn’s face. “Why do you train with him?”

Nesta brushed a clump of dust off her knee. “Let’s just say that I was presented with several options, all designed to … curb my behavior. Training with Cassian in the morning and working here in the afternoon was the most palatable.”

“Why do you need to curb your behavior?”

Gwyn truly didn’t know—about what a horrible, wretched waste she’d become. “It’s a long story.”

Gwyn seemed to read her reluctance. “What manner of training is it? Combat?”

“Right now, it’s a whole lot of balancing and stretching.”

She nodded toward Nesta’s leg. “Such things are painful?”

“They are when you’re as out of shape as I am.” A pathetic weakling.

Two more priestesses passed by, and apparently the presence of one of them was enough to send Gwyn launching to her feet. “Well, I should be getting back to Merrill,” she declared, any trace of solemnity gone. She nodded to the drop into the pit. “Don’t go looking for trouble.”

Gwyn turned on her heel, blue flashing in her hand.

The sight of that blue made Nesta blurt, “Why don’t you wear that stone on your head like the others?”

Gwyn pocketed the gem. “Because I don’t deserve to.”

“Is this really all we’ll be doing?” Nesta demanded the next morning in the training ring as she rose from what Cassian had called a curtsy-squat. “Balance and stretching?”

Cassian crossed his arms. “So long as you keep having shit balance, yes.”

“I don’t fall that often.” Only every few minutes.

He motioned for her to do another squat. “You still keep your weight on your right leg when you stand. It opens up your hip, and your right foot rolls slightly to the side. Your entire center is off. Until we correct that, you’re not starting anything more intense, no matter how nimble you are on your feet. You’d only injure yourself.”

Nesta puffed out a breath as she did another squat, her right leg sweeping out behind her left as she ducked low. Fire quivered along her left thigh and knee. How many curtsies had she practiced under her mother’s sharp eye? She’d forgotten they were this demanding. “Like you stand so perfectly.”

“I do.” Unflinching arrogance laced every word. “I’ve been training since I was a child. I was never given the chance to learn how