A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses 3)

Somewhere deep in the room, I felt her move. Felt her stand. And take a step toward me.

“What are you,” the Weaver breathed.

“Feyre, you can be quite tedious,” Ianthe said. Right outside. I could barely make out her pale robes through the crack between the door and threshold. “Do you think you can ambush us in there? I saw your shield. You’re drained. And I do not think your glowing trick will help.”

The Weaver’s dress rustled as she crept closer in the gloom. “Who did you bring, little wolf? Who did you bring to me?”

Ianthe and her two guards stepped over the threshold. Then another step. Past the open door. They didn’t see me in the shadows behind it.

“Dinner,” I said to the Weaver, whirling around the door—to its outside face. And let go of the handle.

Just as the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the cottage, I saw the ball of faelight that Ianthe lifted to illuminate the room.

Saw the horrible face of the Weaver, that mouth of stumped teeth opening wide with delight and unholy hunger. A death-god of old—starved for life. With a beautiful priestess before her.

I was already hurtling for the trees when the guards and Ianthe began screaming.

Their unending screams followed me for half a mile. By the time I reached the spot where I’d seen the Suriel fall, they’d faded.

Sprawled out, the Suriel’s bony chest heaved unevenly, its breaths few and far between.

Dying.

I slid to my knees before it, sinking into the bloody moss. “Let me help you. I can heal you.”

I’d do it the same way I’d helped Rhysand. Remove those arrows—and offer it my blood.

I reached for the first one, but a dry, bony hand settled on my wrist. “Your magic …,” it rasped, “is spent. Do not … waste it.”

“I can save you.”

It only gripped my wrist. “I am already gone.”

“What—what can I do?” The words turned thin—brittle.

“Stay …,” it breathed. “Stay … until the end.”

I took its hand in mine. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could think to say. I had done this—I had brought it here.

“I knew,” it gasped, sensing my shift in thoughts. “The tracking … I knew of it.”

“Then why come at all?”

“You … were kind. You … fought your fear. You were … kind,” it said again.

I began crying.

“And you were kind to me,” I said, not brushing away the tears that fell onto its bloodied, tattered robe. “Thank you—for helping me. When no one else would.”

A small smile on that lipless mouth. “Feyre Archeron.” A labored breath. “I told you—to stay with the High Lord. And you did.”

Its warning to me that first time we’d met. “You—you meant Rhys.” All this time. All this time—

“Stay with him … and live to see everything righted.”

“Yes. I did—and it was.”

“No—not yet. Stay with him.”

“I will.” I always would.

Its chest rose—then fell.

“I don’t even know your name,” I whispered. The Suriel—it was a title, a name for its kind.

That small smile again. “Does it matter, Cursebreaker?”

“Yes.”

Its eyes dimmed, but it did not tell me. It only said, “You should go now. Worse things—worse things are coming. The blood … draws them.”

I squeezed its bony hand, the leathery skin growing colder. “I can stay a while longer.”

I had killed enough animals to know when a body neared death. Soon, now—it would be a matter of breaths.

“Feyre Archeron,” the Suriel said again, gazing at the leafy canopy, the sky peeking through it. A painful inhale. “A request.”

I leaned close. “Anything.”

Another rattling breath. “Leave this world … a better place than how you found it.”

And as its chest rose and stopped altogether, as its breath escaped in one last sigh, I understood why the Suriel had come to help me, again and again. Not just for kindness … but because it was a dreamer.

And it was the heart of a dreamer that had ceased beating inside that monstrous chest.

Its sudden silence echoed into my own.

I laid my head on its chest, on that now-silent vault of bone, and wept.

I wept and wept, until there was a strong hand at my shoulder.

I didn’t know the scent, the feel of that hand. But I knew the voice as Helion said softly to me, “Come, Feyre. It is not safe here. Come.”

I lifted my head. Helion was there, features grim, his brown skin ashen.

“I can’t leave it here like this,” I said, refusing to let go of its hand. I didn’t care how Helion had found me. Why he’d found me.

He looked to the fallen creature, mouth tightening. “I’ll take care of it.”

Burn it—with the power of the sun.

I let him help me to my feet. Let him extend a hand toward that body—

“Wait.”

Helion obeyed.

“Give me your cloak. Please.”

Brows narrowing, Helion unfastened the rich crimson cloak pinned at each shoulder.

I didn’t bother to explain as I covered the Suriel’s body with the fine fabric. Far finer than the hateful rags Ianthe had given it. I tucked the High Lord’s cloak gently around its broad shoulders, its bony arms.

“Thank you,” I said one last time to the Suriel, and stepped away.

Helion’s flame was a pure, blinding white.

It burned the Suriel into ashes within a heartbeat.

“Come,” Helion said again, extending a hand. “Let’s get you to the camp.”

It was the kindness in his voice that cracked my chest. But I took Helion’s hand.

As warm light whisked us away, I could have sworn that the pile of ashes was stirred by a phantom wind.

CHAPTER

61

Helion winnowed me into the camp. Right into Rhys’s war-tent.

My mate was pale. Blood-splattered and filthy, from his skin to his armor to his hair.

I opened my mouth—to ask how the battle had gone, to say what had happened, I don’t know.

But Rhys just reached for me, folding me into his chest.

And at the smell and warmth and solidity of him … I began weeping again.

I didn’t know who was in the tent. Who had survived the battle. But they all left.

Left, while my mate held me, rocking me gently, as I cried and cried.

He only told me what had happened when my tears had quieted. When he’d washed the Suriel’s black blood from my hands, my face.

I was out of the tent a heartbeat later, charging through the mud, dodging exhausted and weary soldiers. Rhys was a step behind me, but said nothing as I shoved through flaps of another tent and took stock of what and who was before me.

Mor and Azriel were standing before the cot, monitoring every move the healer sitting beside it made.

As she held her glowing hands over Cassian.

I understood then—the quiet Cassian had once mentioned to me.

It was now in my head as I looked at his muddy, pained face—pained, even in unconsciousness. As I heard his labored, wet breathing.

As I beheld the slice curving up from his navel to the bottom of his sternum. The split flesh. The blood—mostly just a trickle.

I swayed—only for Rhys to grip me beneath the elbows.

The healer didn’t turn to look at me as her brow bunched in concentration, hands flaring with white light. Beneath them—slowly, the lips of the wound reached toward each other.

If it was this bad now—

“How,” I rasped. Rhys had told me three things a moment ago:

We’d won—barely. Tarquin had again decided what to do with any survivors. And Cassian had been gravely injured.