“It’s exactly what it sounds like. He caught wind of her ambitions, and went to her palace a month ago to meet with her. I stayed here, but I sent my best soldiers with him.” Cassian refrained from sniping about Eris opting out, especially as the last words settled.

“Those wouldn’t happen to be the same soldiers who went missing, would they?”

Eris nodded gravely. “They returned with my father, but they were … off. Aloof and strange. They vanished soon after—and my hounds confirmed that the scents at the scene are the same as those on gifts Briallyn sent to curry my father’s favor.”

“You knew it was her this entire time?” Cassian motioned to the house and the three people inside it.

“You didn’t think I’d just spill all that information, did you? I needed Vassa to confirm that Briallyn could do something like that.”

“Why would Briallyn ally with your father only to abduct your soldiers?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“What does Beron say?”

“He is unaware of it. You know where I stand with my father. And this unholy alliance he’s struck with Briallyn will only hurt us. All of us. It will turn into a Fae war for control. So I want to find answers on my own—rather than what my father tries to feed me.”

Cassian surveyed the male, his grim face. “So we take out your father.”

Eris snorted, and Cassian bristled. “I am the only person my father has told of his new allegiance. If the Night Court moves, it will expose me.”

“So your worry about Briallyn’s alliance with Beron is about what it means for you, rather than the rest of us.”

“I only wish to defend the Autumn Court against its worst enemies.”

“Why would I work with you on this?”

“Because we are indeed allies.” Eris’s smile became lupine. “And because I do not believe your High Lord would wish me to go to other territories and ask them to help with Briallyn and Koschei. To help them remember that all it might take to secure Briallyn’s alliance would be to hand over a certain Archeron sister. Don’t be stupid enough to believe my father hasn’t thought of that, too.”

Cassian’s rage flashed red before his eyes. He’d revealed that weakness earlier. Let Eris see how much Nesta meant, what he’d do to defend her.

Fool, he cursed himself. Stupid, useless fool.

“I could kill you now and not worry about this at all,” Cassian mused. He’d enjoyed beating the shit out of the male that night on the ice with Feyre and Lucien. And he’d waited centuries to kill him, anyway.

“Then you would certainly have a war on your hands. My father would go straight to Briallyn—and Koschei, I suppose—and then go to the other discontent territories, and you would be wiped off the proverbial map. Perhaps literally, since the Night Court would be divvied up between the other territories if Rhysand and Feyre die without an heir.”

Cassian clenched his jaw. “So you’re to be my ally whether I wish it or not?”

“The brute understands at last.” Cassian ignored the barb. “Yes. What you know, I want to know. I will notify you of any movement on my father’s part regarding Briallyn. So send out your shadowsinger. And when he returns, find me.”

Cassian stared at him from under lowered brows. Eris’s mouth curled upward, and before he winnowed into the night like a ghost, he said, “Stick to fighting battles, General. Leave the ruling to those capable of playing the game.”

CHAPTER

8

Nesta didn’t bother to go to the wine cellar. Or to the kitchen. They’d be locked.

But she knew where the stairs lay. Knew that particular door, at least, would not be locked.

Still snarling, Nesta yanked open the heavy oak door and peered down the steep, narrow stairwell. Spiral stairs. Each a foot high.

Ten thousand steps, around and around and around. Only the occasional slitted window to offer a breath of air and a glimpse of progress.

Ten thousand steps between her and the city—and then a half-mile walk at least from the bottom of the mountain to the nearest tavern. And awaiting, blessed oblivion.

Ten thousand steps.

She was no longer human. This High Fae body could do it.

She could do it.

She couldn’t do it.

The dizziness hit her first. Winding around, over and over, eyes trained downward to avoid a slip that would kill her, caused her head to spin.

Her empty stomach churned.

But she focused, counting each step. Seventy. Seventy-one. Seventy-two.

The city below barely drew any closer through the occasional slitted windows she passed.

Her legs started to shake; her knees groaned with the effort of keeping her upright, balancing on the steep drop of each step.

Nothing but her own breathing and the sound of her scuffing steps filled the narrow space. All she could see was the endlessly curving, perfect arc of the wall ahead. It never altered, save for those tiny, too-rare windows.

Around and around and around and around and around—

Eighty-six, eighty-seven—

Down and down and down and down—

One hundred.

She halted, no window in sight, and the walls pushed, the floor kept moving—

Nesta leaned into the red stone wall, let its coolness sink into her brow. Breathed.

Nine thousand nine hundred steps to go.

Bracing a hand on the wall, she renewed her descent.

Her head spun again. Her legs wobbled.

She got in eleven more steps before her knees buckled so suddenly she nearly slid. Only her hand grappling at the uneven wall kept her from wiping out.

The stairwell spun and spun and spun, and she shut her eyes against it.

Her jagged panting bounced off the stones. And in the stillness, she had no defenses against what her mind whispered. She couldn’t shut out her father’s final words to her.

I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms.

Please, she’d begged the King of Hybern. Please.

He’d snapped her father’s neck anyway.

Nesta gritted her teeth, blowing out breath after breath. She opened her eyes and stretched out her leg to take another step.

It trembled so badly that she didn’t dare.

She didn’t let herself dwell on it, rage about it, as she turned around. Didn’t even let herself feel the defeat. Her legs protested, but she forced them upward. Away.

Around and around again.

Up and up, one hundred and eleven steps.

She was nearly crawling by the last thirty, unable to get a breath down, sweat pooling in the bodice of her dress, her hair sticking to her damp neck. What the hell were the benefits of becoming High Fae if she couldn’t endure this? The pointed ears, she’d learned to like. The infrequent cycle, which Feyre had warned would be painful, had actually been a boon, something Nesta was happy to worry about only twice a year. But what was the point of it—of any of it—if she couldn’t conquer these stairs?

She kept her eyes on each step, rather than the twisting wall and the dizzying sensation it brought.

This hateful House. This horrible place.

She grunted as the oak door at the top of the stairwell became visible at last.

Fingers digging into the steps hard enough for the tips to bark in pain, she dragged herself up the last few, slithering on her belly onto the hallway floor.