Sun and grass and a crisp autumn breeze. A massive, lovely estate behind them, the river before them, and not a trace of the Prison or Lanthys. Nesta let go of Cassian as Rhysand burst out of the house’s glass doors. He gaped at his friend, and when Nesta beheld Cassian in the daylight … Blood trickled from his hair down his cheek. His lip was split; his arm hung at an odd angle—
That was all Nesta saw before Cassian collapsed to the grass.
CHAPTER
55
“It’s a small cut. Stop fussing.”
“Your skull was cracked, and your arm was broken. You’re grounded for a few days.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I most certainly am.”
Nesta might have smiled at Cassian and Rhysand’s standoff had she not agreed with the High Lord. Feyre stood beside her mate, concern tightening her features.
Ataraxia still weighed heavy in Nesta’s hand. The Harp in the other.
Her sister’s eyes slid to her. Nesta swallowed, holding Feyre’s gaze. She prayed that her sister could read the silent words on her face. I am sorry for what I said to you in Amren’s apartment. I am truly sorry.
Feyre’s eyes softened. And then, to Nesta’s shock, Feyre answered into her mind, Don’t worry about it.
Nesta steeled herself, shaking off her surprise. She’d forgotten that her sister was … What was the word? Daemati. Able to mind-speak, as Rhys could. Nesta said, heart thundering, I spoke in anger, and I’m sorry.
Feyre’s pause was considerable. Then she said, the words like the first rays of dawn, I forgive you.
Nesta tried not to sag. She intended to ask about the baby, but Rhys turned to her and said, “Put the Harp on the desk, Nesta.”
Nesta did, careful not to touch any of the twenty-six silver strings.
“It allowed you to winnow within and outside of the Prison,” Feyre said, peering at the Harp. “I suppose because it is Made, and exists beyond the rules of ordinary magic?” She glanced to Rhys, who shrugged. Feyre’s mouth pursed. “If any of our enemies got their hands on this, they’d use it against us in a heartbeat. No wards around this house, the House of Wind, around any of our caches and hiding places would be safe. Not to mention that the Harp seems to have a will of its own—a desire to stir up trouble. We can’t plant it back in the Prison, not now that it’s been awakened.”
Rhys rubbed his jaw. “So we lock it up with the Mask, warded and spelled so it can’t act out again.”
“I’d keep them separate,” Feyre advised. “Remember what happened when the halves of the Book were near each other? And why make it easier for an enemy to get both of them?”
“Good point,” Cassian said, wincing as if the words made his skull ache. Madja had healed the hairline fracture just above his temple, but he’d be in pain for a few days. And his broken arm was healed, but still delicate enough to require care. The sight of all the bandages was enough to make Nesta wish she could kill Lanthys again.
Rhys drummed his fingers on the desk, surveying the Harp. Then he asked Nesta, “Beyond seeing Briallyn, you said you also saw something when you first touched the Harp?”
Nesta had briefly explained it when they’d arrived. “I think whoever used it last did something horrible with it. Maybe trapped the people who once lived on the Prison’s island in the walls, somehow. Is that possible?”
Doubt shone in Rhys’s eyes.
Nesta asked, “What is the Wild Hunt?” She’d also told him of their encounter with Lanthys, and the presence of the Autumn Court soldiers. Cassian had convinced Rhys not to engage with them, at least until they could deal with Briallyn. When Rhys had raised his shield around the Prison once more, they’d already vanished.
Rhys blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly, I thought it mere myth. That Lanthys remembers such a thing … Well, there’s always room for lying, I suppose, but on the off chance he was telling the truth, that’d make him more than fifteen thousand years old.”
Feyre asked, “So what is it, then?”
Rhys lifted a hand, and a book of legends from a shelf behind him floated to his fingers. He laid it upon the desk. He flipped it open to a page, revealing an image of a group of tall, strange-looking beings with crowns atop their heads.
“The Fae were not the first masters of this world. According to our oldest legends, most now forgotten, we were created by beings who were near-gods—and monsters. The Daglan. They ruled for millennia, and enslaved us and the humans. They were petty and cruel and drank the magic of the land like wine.”
Rhys’s eyes flicked to Ataraxia, then to Cassian. “Some strains of the mythology claim that one of the Fae heroes who rose up to overthrow them was Fionn, who was given the great sword Gwydion by the High Priestess Oleanna, who had dipped it into the Cauldron itself. Fionn and Gwydion overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and the lands were divided into rough territories that were the precursors to the courts—but at the end of those thousand years, they were at each other’s throats, on the brink of war.” His face tightened. “Fionn unified them and set himself above them as High King. The first and only High King this land has ever had.”
Nesta could have sworn the last words were spoken with a sharp look toward Cassian. But Cassian only winked at Rhys.
“What happened to the High King?” Feyre asked.
Rhys ran a hand over a page of the book. “Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed, the seven High Lords rose, and the courts have been in place ever since.”
Feyre asked, “Does Amren remember this?”
Rhys shook his head. “Only vaguely now. From what I’ve gleaned, she arrived during those years before Fionn and Gwydion rose, and went into the Prison during the Age of Legends—the time when this land was full of heroic figures who were keen to hunt down the last members of their former masters’ race. They feared Amren, believing her one of their enemies, and threw her into the Prison. When she emerged again, she’d missed Fionn’s fall and the loss of Gwydion, and found the High Lords ruling.”
Nesta considered all Lanthys had said. “And what is Narben?”
“Lanthys asked about it?”
“He said my sword isn’t Narben. He sounded surprised.”
Rhys studied her blade. “Narben is a death-sword. It’s lost, possibly destroyed, but stories say it can slay even monsters like Lanthys.”
“So can Nesta’s sword, apparently,” Feyre said, studying the blade as well.
“Beheading him with it killed him,” Rhys mused.
“A slice from it seemed to bind him into a physical form,” Nesta corrected. “Cassian’s dagger struck true only after Lanthys had been forced to give up his mist.”
“Interesting,” Rhys murmured.
Cassian said, “You still haven’t explained the Wild Hunt.”
Rhys turned a few pages in the book, to an illustration of a host of riders on horses and all manner of beasts. “The Daglan delighted in terrorizing the Fae and humans under their control. The Wild Hunt was a way to keep all of us in line. They’d gather a host of their fiercest, most merciless warriors and grant them free rein to kill as they pleased. The Daglan possessed mighty, monstrous beasts—hounds, they called them, though they didn’t look like the hounds we know—that they used to run prey to ground before they tortured and killed them. It’s a terrible history, and much of it might be elaborated myths.”