A Court of Wings and Ruin

Both armies seemed to pause to look.

And Rhys only breathed to me, “Now. You have to go now.”

Because the army that broke over the northern horizon …

Three armies. One bearing the burnt-orange flag of Beron.

The other the grass-green flag of the Spring Court.

And one … one of mortal men in iron armor. Bearing a cobalt flag with a striking badger. Graysen’s crest.

Out of a rip in the world, Eris appeared atop our knoll, clad head to toe in silver armor, a red cape spilling from his shoulders. Rhys snarled a warning, too far gone in his power to bother controlling himself.

Eris just rested a hand on the pommel of his fine sword and said, “We thought you might need some help.”

Because Tamlin’s small army, and Beron’s, and Graysen’s … Now they were running and winnowing and blasting for Hybern’s ranks. And leading that human army …

Jurian.

But Beron. Beron had come.

Eris registered our shock at that, too, and said, “Tamlin made him. Dragged my father out by his neck.” A half smile. “It was delightful.”

They had come—and Tamlin had managed to rally that force I’d so gleefully destroyed—

“Tamlin wants orders,” Eris said. “Jurian does, too.”

Rhys’s voice was rough—low. “And what of your father?”

“We’re taking care of a problem,” was all Eris said, and pointed toward his father’s army.

For those were his brothers approaching the front line, winnowing in bursts through the host. Right past the front lines and to the enemy wagons scattered throughout Hybern’s ranks.

Wagons full of faebane, I realized as they crackled with blue fire and then turned to ash without even a trace of smoke. His brothers winnowed to every cache, every arsenal. Flames exploded in their path.

Destroying that supply of deadly faebane. Burning it into nothing. As if someone—Jurian or Tamlin—had told them precisely where each would be.

Rhys blinked, his only sign of surprise. He looked to me, then Amren, and nodded. Go. Now.

While Hybern was focused on the approaching army—trying to calculate the risks, to staunch the chaos Beron and his sons unleashed with their targeted attacks. Trying to figure out what the hell Jurian was doing there, and how many weaknesses Jurian had learned. And would now exploit.

Amren ushered my sisters forward, even as Elain let out a low sob at the sight of the Graysen coat of arms. “Now. Quick and quiet as shadows.”

We were going down—into that. Bryaxis and the Carver were still shredding, still slaughtering in their little pockets past the enemy lines. And the Weaver … Where was the Weaver—

There. Slowly plowing a slim path of carnage. As Rhys had instructed her moments before.

“This way,” I said to them, keeping an eye on Stryga’s path of horror. Elain was shaking, still gazing toward that human army and her betrothed in it. Nesta monitored the Illyrian legions soaring past overhead, their lines unfaltering.

“I assume we’ll be following the path of bodies,” Amren muttered to me. “How does the Weaver know how to find the Cauldron?”

Rhys seemed to be listening, even as we turned away, his fingers brushing mine in silent farewell. I just said, “Because she appears to have an unnaturally good sense of smell.”

Amren snorted, and we fell into flanking positions around my sisters. A glamour of invisibility would hopefully allow us to skirt the southern edge of the battlefield—along with Azriel’s shadows as he monitored from behind. But once we got behind enemy lines …

I looked back as we neared the edge of the knoll. Just once. At Rhys, where he now stood talking to Azriel and Eris, explaining the plan to relay to Tamlin, Beron, and Jurian. Eris’s brothers made it back behind their father’s lines—fires now burning throughout Hybern’s army. Not enough to stop them, but … at least the faebane had been dealt with. For now.

Rhys’s attention slid to me. And even with the battle around us, hell unleashing everywhere … For a heartbeat, we were the only two people on this plain.

I opened up my mental barriers to speak to him. Just one more farewell, one more—

Nesta inhaled a shuddering gasp. Stumbled, and took down Amren with her when she tried to keep her upright.

Rhys was instantly there, before the understanding dawned upon me. The Cauldron.

Hybern was rousing the Cauldron.

Amren squirmed out from beneath Nesta, whirling toward the battlefield. “Shields—”

Eris winnowed away—to warn his father, no doubt.

Nesta pushed herself onto her elbows, hair shaking free of her braid, lips bloodless. She heaved into the grass.

Rhys’s magic shot out of him, arcing around our entire army, his breathing a wet rasp—

Nesta’s hands grappled into the grass as she lifted her head, scanning the horizon.

Like she could see right to where the Cauldron was now about to be unleashed.

Rhys’s power flowed and flowed out of him, bracing for impact. Azriel’s Siphons flashed, a sprawling shield of cobalt locking over Rhysand’s, his breathing just as heavy as my mate’s—

And then Nesta began screaming. Not in pain. But a name. Over and over.

“CASSIAN.”

Amren reached for her, but Nesta roared, “CASSIAN!”

She scrambled to her feet, as if she’d leap into the skies.

Her body lurched, and she went down, heaving again.

A figure shot from the Illyrian ranks, spearing for us, flapping hard, red Siphons blazing—

Nesta moaned, writhing on the ground.

The earth seemed to shudder in response.

No—not in response to her. In terror of the thing that erupted from Hybern’s army.

I understood why the king had claimed those rocky foothills. Not to make us charge uphill if we should push them so far. But to position the Cauldron.

For it was from the rocky outcropping that a battering ram of death-white light hurled for our army. Just about level with the Illyrian legion in the sky—as the Attor’s legion dropped to the earth, and ducked for cover. Leaving the Illyrians exposed.

Cassian was halfway to us when the Cauldron’s blast hit the Illyrian forces.

I saw him scream—but heard nothing. The force of that power …

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