A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,69

other warriors—you’re pitting yourself, your very soul, against the mountain. It’s usually that fact that breaks anyone who tries to scale it.”

“And what—you make it to the top and get a trophy?”

Cassian snorted, but his words were serious. “There’s a sacred stone atop it. Touch the stone first, and you win. It will transport you out immediately.”

“And everyone else when the week is done?”

“Whoever is left standing is considered a warrior. Where you are when it ends sorts you into one of the three echelons of warrior, named after our holy stars: Arktosian, the ones who don’t make it to the mountain but survive; Oristian, the ones who make it to the mountain but don’t reach the top; and Carynthian, the ones who scale the summit and are considered elite warriors. Touching the stone atop Ramiel is to win the Rite. Only a dozen warriors in the past five centuries have reached the mountain.”

“You touched the stone, I take it.”

“Rhys, Az, and I touched it together, even though we were deliberately separated from each other at the beginning.”

“Why?”

“The leaders feared us and what we’d become. They thought the warriors or beasts would handle us, if we didn’t have each other to lean against. They were wrong.” His eyes glittered fiercely. “What they learned was that we love each other as true brothers. And there was nothing that we wouldn’t do, no one we wouldn’t kill, to reach each other. To save each other. We killed our way across the mountains, and made it through the Breaking—the worst of Ramiel’s three routes to the top—and we won the damn thing. We touched the stone in the same moment, the same breath, and entered the Carynthian tier of warriors.”

Nesta failed to keep the shock off her face. “And you say only twelve have become Carynthian … in five hundred years?”

“No. Twelve made it to the mountain and became Oristian. Only three others, besides us, won the Blood Rite and became Carynthian.” His throat bobbed. “They were fine warriors, and led exemplary units. We lost two of them against Hybern.”

Likely in that blast that had decimated a thousand of them. The blast she’d shielded him from. Him, and only him.

Nesta’s stomach clenched, nausea sliding through her. She forced herself to take a long breath. “So you think females can’t participate in the Rite?”

“Mor would likely win the damn thing in record time, but no. I wouldn’t want even her participating in the Rite.” The unspoken part of his reasoning lay coldly in his eyes. There would be a different, worse kind of violence to defend against, even if the females were as highly trained as the males.

Nesta shivered. “Could you have a female unit without them taking the Blood Rite?”

“They would never be honored as true warriors without it—without one of those three titles. Well, I would consider them warriors, but not the rest of the Illyrians. No other units would fly with them. They’d consider it a disgrace and an insult.” She frowned and he held up his hands. “Like I said: change comes slowly. You heard the bullshit Devlon spewed about your cycle. That’s considered progress. In the past, they’d kill a female for picking up a weapon. Now they ‘decontaminate’ the blade and call themselves modern thinkers.” Disgust contorted his features.

Nesta eased to her feet and scanned the sky. Her head had cleared—only slightly. She didn’t relish the prospect of shelving books when her body was already aching … But perhaps she’d see Gwyn.

“Training the Illyrian females,” Cassian went on, “wouldn’t be about fighting in our wars. It would be about proving they’re equally as capable and strong as the males. It would be about mastering their fear, honing the strength they already have.”

“What do they fear?”

“Becoming my mother,” he said softly. “Going through what she endured.”

What the priestesses beneath the mountain had endured.

Nesta thought of the quiet priestesses who did not leave the mountain, who dwelled in the dimness. Riven flashed through her memory, hurrying past, unable to stomach a stranger’s presence. Gwyn, with her bright eyes that sometimes darkened with shadows.

Cassian tilted his head to the side at her silence. “What is it?”

“Would you train non-Illyrian females?”

“I’m training you, aren’t I?”

“I mean, would you consider …” She didn’t know how to elegantly phrase it, not like silver-tongued Rhysand. “The priestesses in the library. If I invited them to train with us here, where it’s private and safe. Would you train them?”

Cassian blinked slowly. “Yes. I mean, of course,