A Court of Wings and Ruin

  It shredded Azriel’s shield. Then Rhysand’s. And then shredded any Siphon-made ones.

  It hollowed out my ears and seared my face.

  And where a thousand soldiers had been a heartbeat before …

  Ashes rained down upon our foot soldiers.

  Nesta had known. She gaped up at me, terror and agony on her face, then scanned the sky for Cassian, who flapped in place, as if torn between coming for us and charging back to the scattering Illyrian and Peregryn ranks. She’d known where that blast was about to hit.

  Cassian had been right in the center of it.

  Or would have been, if she hadn’t called him away.

  Rhys was looking at her like he knew, too. Like he didn’t know whether to scold her for the guilt Cassian would no doubt feel, or thank her for saving him.

  Nesta’s body went stiff again, a low moan breaking from her.

  I felt Rhys cast out his power—a silent warning signal.

  The other High Lords raised shields this time, backing the one he rallied.

  But the Cauldron did not hit the same spot twice. And Hybern was willing to incinerate part of his own army if it meant wiping out a strength of ours.

  Cassian was again hurtling for us, for Nesta sprawled on the ground, as the light and unholy heat of the Cauldron were unleashed again.

  Right into its own lines. Where the Bone Carver was gleefully shredding apart soldiers, draining the life from them in sweeps and gusts of that deadly wind.

  An unearthly, female shriek broke from deep in the Hybern forces. A sister’s warning—and pain. Just as that white light slammed into the Bone Carver.

  But the Carver … I could have sworn he looked toward me as the Cauldron’s power crashed into him. Could have sworn he smiled—and it was not a hideous thing at all.

  There—and gone.

  The Cauldron wiped him away without any sign of effort.

  CHAPTER

  71

  I could barely hear, barely think in the wake of the Cauldron’s power.

  In the wake of the empty, blasted bit of plain where the Carver had been. The sudden cold that shuddered down my spine—as if erasing the tattoo inked upon it.

  And then the silence—silence in some pocket of my mind as a section of that two-pronged leash of control faded into darkness without end. Leaving nothing behind.

  I wondered who would carve his death in the Prison.

  If he had perhaps already carved it for himself on the walls of that cell. If he had wanted to make sure I was worthy not to taunt me, but because he wanted his end … he wanted his end to be worth carving.

  And as I gazed at that decimated part of the plain, the ashes of the Illyrians still raining down … I wondered if the Carver had made it. To wherever he had been so curious about going.

  I sent up a quiet prayer for him—for all the soldiers who had been there and were now ash on the wind … sent up a prayer that they found it everything they’d hoped it would be.

  It was the Illyrians who drew me out of the quiet, the ringing in my ears. Even as our army began to panic in the wake of the Cauldron’s might, the remaining bulk of the Illyrian legions re-formed their lines and charged ahead, Thesan’s Peregryns wholly interspersed with them now.

  Jurian’s human army, made up of Graysen’s men and others … To their credit, they did not falter. Did not break, even as they went down one by one.

  If the Cauldron dealt another blow …

  Nesta had her brow in the grass as Cassian landed so hard the ground shuddered. He was reaching for her as he panted, “What is it, what—”

  “It’s gone quiet again,” Nesta breathed, letting Cassian haul her into a sitting position as he scanned her face. Devastation and rage lay in his own. Did he know? That she had screamed for him, knowing he’d come … That she’d done it to save him?

  Rhys only ordered him, “Get back in line. The soldiers need you there.”

  Cassian bared his teeth. “What the hell can we do against that?”

  “I’m going in,” Azriel said.

  “No,” Rhys snapped. But Azriel was spreading his wings, the sunlight so stark on the new, slashing scars down the membrane.

  “Chain me to a tree, Rhys,” Azriel said softly. “Go ahead.” He began checking the buckles on his weapons. “I’ll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back.”

  Rhys just stared at him—the wings. Then the decimated Illyrian forces.

  Any chance we had of victory …

  Nesta wasn’t going anywhere. She could barely stay sitting. And Elain … Amren was holding Elain upright as she vomited in the grass. Not from the Cauldron. But pure terror.

  But if we did not stop the Cauldron before it refilled again … We’d be gone within a few more strikes. I met Amren’s gaze. Can it be done—with just me?

  Her eyes narrowed. Maybe. A pause. Maybe. It never specified how many. Between the two of us … it could be enough.

  I eased to my feet. The view of the battle was so much worse standing.

  Helion, Tarquin, and Kallias struggled to hold our lines. Jurian, Tamlin, and Beron still battered the northern flank, while the Illyrians and Peregryns slammed back the aerial legion; Keir’s Darkbringers now little more than wisps of shadow amid the chaos, but …

  But it was not enough. And Hybern’s sheer size … It was beginning to push us back.

  Beginning to overwhelm us.

  Even by the time Amren and I crossed the miles of battlefield … What would be left?

  Who would be left?

  There was another horn, then.

  I knew it did not belong to any ally.

  Just as I knew Hybern had not only picked this battlefield for its physical advantages … but geographical ones.

  Because toward the sea, sailing out of the west, out of Hybern …

  An armada appeared.

  So many ships. All teeming with soldiers.

  I caught the look between Cassian, Azriel, and Rhys as they beheld the other army sailing in—at our backs.

  Not another army. The rest of Hybern’s army.

  We were trapped between them.

  Amren swore. “We might need to run, Rhysand. Before they make landfall.”

  We could not fight both armies. Couldn’t even fight one.

  Rhys turned to me. If you can get across that battlefield in time, then do it. Try to stop the army. The king. But if you can’t, when it all goes to hell … When there are none of us left …

  Don’t, I begged him. Don’t say it.

  I want you to run. I don’t care what it costs. You run. Get far away, and live to fight another day. You don’t look back.

  I began to shake my head. You said no good-byes.

  “Azriel,” Rhys said quietly. Hoarsely. “You lead the remaining Illyrians on the northern flank.” Guilt—guilt and fear rippled in my mate’s eyes at the command. Knowing that Azriel was not fully healed—

  Azriel didn’t give Rhys a chance to reconsider. Didn’t say good-bye to any of us. He shot into the sky, those still-healing wings beating hard as they carried him toward the scrambling northern flank.

  That armada sailed nearer. Hybern, sensing their reinforcements were soon to make landfall, cheered and pushed. Hard. So hard the Illyrian lines buckled. Azriel sailed closer and closer to them, Siphons trailing tendrils of blue flame in his wake.

  Rhys watched him for a moment, throat bobbing, before he said, “Cassian, you take the southern flank.”

  This was it. The last moments … the last time I would see them all.

  I wouldn’t run. If it all went to hell, I would make it count and use my own last breath to get that army and king wiped off the earth. But right now …

  Hybern’s armada sailed directly for the distant beach. If I didn’t go now, I’d have to charge right through them. The Weaver was already slowing on the eastern front, her death-dance hindered by too many enemies. Bryaxis continued to shred through the lines, swaths of the dead in its
wake. But it was still not enough. All that planning … it was still not enough.

  Cassian said to Rhys, to me, to Nesta, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  I knew he didn’t mean the battlefield.

  His wings shifted, readying to lift him.

  A horn blast cleaved the world.

  A dozen horns, lifted in perfect, mighty harmony.

  Rhys went still.

  Utterly still at the sound of those horns from the distance. From the east—from the sea.

  He whipped his head to me, grabbed me by the waist, and hauled me into the sky. A heartbeat later, Cassian was beside us, Nesta in his arms—as if she’d demanded to see.

  And there … sailing over the eastern horizon …

  I did not know where to look.

  At the winged soldiers—thousands upon thousands of them—flying straight toward us, high above the ocean. Or the armada of ships stretching away beneath them. More than Hybern’s armada. Far, far more.

  I knew who they were the moment the aerial host’s white, feathered wings became clear.

  The Seraphim.

  Drakon’s legion.

  And in those ships below … So many different ships. A thousand ships from countless nations, it seemed. Miryam’s people. But the other ships …

  Out of the clouds, a tan-skinned, dark-haired Seraphim warrior soared for us. And Rhys’s choked laugh was enough to tell me who it was. Who now flapped before us, grinning broadly.

  “You could have asked for aid, you know,” drawled the male—Drakon. “Instead of letting us hear of all this through the rumor mill. Seems we arrived just in time.”

  “We came looking for you—and found you gone,” Rhys said—but those were tears in his eyes. “Makes it hard to ask someone for aid.”

  Drakon snorted. “Yes, we realized that. Miryam figured it out—why we hadn’t heard from you yet.” His white wings were almost blindingly bright in the sun. “Three centuries ago, we had some trouble on our borders and set up a glamour to keep the island shielded. Tied to—you know. So that anyone who approached would only see a ruin and be inclined to turn around.” He winked at Rhys. “Miryam’s idea—she got it from you and your city.” Drakon winced a bit. “Turns out, it worked too well, if it kept out both enemies and friends.”

  “You mean to tell me,” Rhys said softly, “that you’ve been on Cretea this entire time.”

  Drakon grimaced. “Yes. Until … we heard about Hybern. About Miryam being … hunted again.” By Jurian. The prince’s face tightened with rage, but he surveyed me, then Nesta and Cassian, with a sharp-eyed scrutiny. “Shall we assist you, or just flap here, talking?”

  Rhys inclined his head. “At your leisure, Prince.” He glanced to the armada now aiming for Hybern’s forces. “Friends of yours?”

  Drakon’s mouth quirked to the side. “Friends of yours, I think.” My heart stopped. “Some of Miryam’s boats are down there, she with them, but most of that came for you.”

  “What,” Nesta said sharply, not quite a question.

  Drakon pointed to the ships. “We met up with them on the flight here. Saw them crossing the channel and decided to join ranks. It’s why we’re a little late—though we gave them a bit of a push across.” Indeed, wind was now whipping at their white sails, propelling those boats faster and faster toward that Hybern armada.

  Drakon rubbed his jaw. “I can’t even begin to explain the convoluted story they told me, but …” He shook his head. “They’re led by a queen named Vassa.”

  I began crying.

  “Who apparently was found by—”

  “Lucien,” I breathed.

  “Who?” Drakon’s brows narrowed. “Oh, the male with the eye. No. He met up with them later on—told them where to go. To come now, actually. So pushy, you Prythian males. Good thing we, at least, were already on our way to see if you needed help.”

  “Who found Vassa,” Nesta said with that same flat tone. As if she somehow already knew.

  Closer, those human ships sailed. So many—so, so many, bearing a variety of different flags that I could just start to make out, thanks to my Fae sight.

  “He calls himself the Prince of Merchants,” Drakon said. “Apparently, he discovered the human queens were traitors months ago, and has been gathering an independent human army to face Hybern ever since. He managed to find Queen Vassa—and together they rallied this army.” Drakon shrugged. “He told me that he’s got three daughters who live here. And that he failed them for many years. But he would not fail them this time.”

  The ships at the front of the human armada became clear, along with the gold lettering on their sides.

  “He named his three personal ships after them,” Drakon said with a smile.

  And there, sailing at the front … I beheld the names of those ships.

  The Feyre.

  The Elain.

  And leading the charge against Hybern, flying over the waves, unyielding and without an ounce of fear …

  The Nesta.

  With my father … our father at the helm.

  CHAPTER

  72

  The wind whipped away the tears rolling down Nesta’s face at the sight of our father’s ships.

  At the sight of the ship he’d chosen to sail into battle, for the daughter who had hated him for not fighting for us, who had hated him for our mother dying, for the poverty and the despair and years lost.

  Drakon said drily, “I take it you’re acquainted?”

  Our father—gone for months and months with no word.

  He had left, my sisters had once said, to attend a meeting regarding the threat above the wall. At that meeting, had it become clear that we had been betrayed by our own kind? And had he then departed, under such secrecy he would not risk the messages to us falling into the wrong hands, to find help?

  For us. For me, and my sisters.

  Rhys said to Drakon, “Meet Nesta. And my mate, Feyre.”

  Neither of us looked to the prince. Only at our father’s fleet—at the ships he’d named in honor of us.

  “Speaking of Vassa,” Rhys said to Drakon, “was her curse—ended?”

  The human armada and the Hybern host neared, and I knew the impact would be lethal. Saw Hybern’s magic shields go up. Saw the Seraphim raise their own. “See for yourself,” Drakon said.

  I blinked at what began to shoot between the human boats. What soared over the water, fast as a shooting star. Spearing for Hybern. Red and gold and white—vibrant as molten metal.

  I could have sworn Hybern’s fleet began to panic as it broke from the lines of the human armada and closed the gap between them.

  As it spread its wings wide, trailing sparks and embers across the waves, and I realized what—who—now flew at that enemy host.

  A firebird. Burning as hot and furious as the heart of a forge.

  Vassa—the lost queen.

  Rhys kissed away the tears sliding down my own face as that firebird queen slammed into Hybern’s fleet. Burning husks of ships were left in her wake.

  Our father and the human army spread wide. To pick off the others.

  Rhys said to Drakon, “Get your legion on land.”

  A slim chance—a fool’s chance of winning this thing. Or staunching the slaughter.

  Drakon’s eyes went glazed in a way that told me he was conveying orders to someone far away. I wondered if Nephelle and her wife were in that legion—if the last time they had drawn swords was that long-ago battle at the bottom of the sea.

  Rhys seemed to be thinking of the past, too. Because he muttered to Drakon over the din exploding off the sea and the battle below, “Jurian is here.”

  The casual, cocky grace of the prince vanished. Cold rage hardened his features into something terrifying. And his brown eyes … they went wholly black.

  “He fights for us.”

  Drakon didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. He jerked his chin to Cassian. “I assume you’re Cassian.” The general’s chin dipped. I co
uld already see the shadows in his eyes—at the loss of those soldiers. “My legion is yours. Command them as you like.”

  Cassian scanned our foundering host, the northern flank that Azriel was reassembling, and gave Drakon a few terse orders. Drakon flapped those white wings, so stark against his honey-brown skin, and said to Rhys, “Miryam’s furious with you, by the way. Three hundred fifty-one years since you last visited. If we survive, expect to do some groveling.”

  Rhys rasped a laugh. “Tell that witch it goes both ways.”

  Drakon grinned, and with a powerful sweep of his wings, he was gone.

  Rhys and Cassian looked after him, then at the armadas now engaged in outright bloodshed. Our father was down there—our father, who I had never seen wield a weapon in his life—

  The firebird rained hell upon the ships. Literally. Burning, molten hell as she slammed into them and sent their panicking soldiers to the bottom of the sea.

  “Now,” I said to Rhys. “Amren and I need to go now.”

  The chaos was complete. With a battle raging in every direction … Amren and I could make it. Perhaps the king would be preoccupied.

  Rhys made to shoot me back down to the ground, where Amren and Elain were still waiting. Nesta said, “Wait.”

  Rhys obeyed.

  Nesta stared toward that armada, toward our father fighting in it. “Use me. As bait.”

  I blinked at the same moment Cassian said, “No.”

  Nesta ignored him. “The king is probably waiting beside that Cauldron. Even if you get there, you’ll have him to contend with. Draw him out. Draw him far away. To me.”

  “How,” Rhys said softly.

  “It goes both ways,” Nesta murmured, as if my mate’s words moments before had triggered the idea. “He doesn’t know how much I took. And if … if I make it seem like I’m about to use his power … He’ll come running. Just to kill me.”

  “He will kill you,” Cassian snarled.

  Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.”

  To guard her. Protect her. To lay a trap for the king.

  “No,” Rhys said.

  Nesta snorted. “You’re not my High Lord. I may do as I wish. And since he’ll sense that you’re with me … You need to go far away, too.”