House of Flame and Shadow (Crescent City, #3)

by Sarah J. Maas

The star had to be leading her somewhere. To something.

The Hammer and the Hawk had come down especially hard on the Helhound. It was personal with them—Baxian had been one of their own.

Through love, all is possible. Even getting free of death-masks.

“That’s Ramiel.” At Bryce’s questioning look, he explained, “A mountain sacred to the Illyrians.”

“The Cauldron,” Azriel amended. Bryce shook her head, not understanding. “You don’t have stories of it in your world? The Fae didn’t bring that tradition with them?” Bryce surveyed the giant cauldron. “No. We have five gods, but no cauldron. What does it do?” “All life came and comes from it,” Azriel said with something like reverence. “The Mother poured it into this world, and from it, life blossomed.” Nesta said quietly, “But it is also real—not a myth.” Her swallow was audible. “I was turned High Fae when an enemy shoved me into it. It’s raw power, but also … sentient.” “Like that mask you put on earlier.”

“That’s what the Mask can do. Give its wearer power over Death itself.” Bryce’s blood chilled. “And this is a … normal type of weapon here?” “No,” Azriel said from ahead, shoulders tense. “It is not.” Nesta explained, “The Mask is one of three objects of catastrophic power, Made by the Cauldron itself. The Dread Trove, we call it.” “And the Mask is … yours?” “I was also Made by the Cauldron,” Nesta said, “which allows me to wield it.” She spoke with no pride or boasting. Merely cold resignation and responsibility.

“We don’t have anything like the Cauldron on Midgard. Solas is our sun god, Cthona his mate and the earth goddess. Luna is his sister, the moon; Ogenas, Cthona’s jealous sister in the seas. And Urd guides all—she’s the weaver of fate, of destiny.” Bryce added after a moment, “I think she’s the reason I’m here.” “Urd,” Nesta murmured. “The Fae say the Cauldron holds our fates. Maybe it became this Urd.”

“When you die, where do your souls go?” Did they even believe in the concept of a soul? Maybe she should have led with that. But Azriel said softly, “They return to the Mother, where they rest in joy within her heart until she finds another purpose for us. Another life or world to live in.” He glanced sidelong at her. “What about your world?” Bryce’s gut twisted. “It’s … complicated.”

He could barely stand on his left leg thanks to a gash he’d taken in his thigh from the claws of the jaguar shifter he’d faced as the lunchtime entertainment. No

Nesta whispered, voice breathy with fear, “This is the place I last saw the star on your chest.” She drew Ataraxia, and the blade gleamed in the dimness. “We call it the Prison.”

“If you can get me out of here, I’ll make it count. It means a lot that you’d even try. That you care.”

“We’re a pack,” Ithan said to Tharion, Flynn, and Dec. “It’s what we do for each other.” None of them contradicted it. His heart strained. Tharion’s eyes glimmered with emotion. “Thanks.”

“These are Midgard’s constellations.” Bryce pointed to a cluster. “That’s the Great Ladle. And that … that’s Orion. The hunter.” Hunt. Her Hunt.

“Was there ever,” Bryce ventured, a sudden hunch taking form in her mind, “a Made object called the Horn?” “I don’t know,” Nesta said. “Why?” Bryce gazed at the eight-pointed star, the very heart of this chamber, of this map of the cosmos. “Someone put your Harp there for a reason.” “To keep it hidden,” Azriel said. “No,” Bryce said quietly, facing the star fully, her free hand drifting to touch the matching scar on her chest. It had led her all the way here. To this exact spot, where the Harp had been. “It was left for someone like me.” “What do you mean?” Nesta demanded, voice bouncing off the rock. But Bryce went on, the words tumbling out of her faster than she could sort them, “I think … I think all those carvings in the tunnels might be to remind us of what happened.” She pointed to where they stood, the passage behind them. “The carvings tell a story. And they’re an invitation to come here.”

“How strong is your bite, Athalar?” Hunt stilled. “What the fuck do you mean?” “If I … swing into you …,” Ruhn said, gasping. “Can you bite off my hand?” Shock fired through Hunt like a bullet. From the other side of Ruhn, Baxian protested, “What?” “I’d have more range,” Ruhn said, voice eerily calm. “I’m not biting off your fucking hand,” Hunt managed to say. “It’s the only way I’ll reach it. It’ll grow back.” “This is insane,” Baxian said. Ruhn nodded to Hunt. “We need you to be the Umbra Mortis. He’s a badass—he wouldn’t hesitate.” “A badass,” Hunt said, “not a cannibal.” “Desperate times,” Ruhn said, meeting Hunt’s stare. Determination and focus filled the prince’s face. Not one trace of doubt or fear.

And after her mother had sent her away at age three, right into the arms of that monstrous man … Trust didn’t exist in her world.

Azriel said softly, voice tinged with pain, “She looks like Rhysand’s sister.”

We were slaves to the Daglan. For five thousand years, our people—the High Fae—knelt before them. They were cruel, powerful, cunning. Any attempt at rebellion was quashed before forces could be rallied. Generations of my ancestors tried. All failed. The fog cleared at last. And in its wake spread a field of corpses under a gray sky, the twin to the one carved miles behind in the tunnels: crucifixes, beasts, blood eagles— The Daglan ruled over the High Fae. And we, in turn, ruled the humans, along with the lands the Daglan allowed us to govern. Yet it was an illusion of power. We knew who our true masters were. We were forced to make the Tithe to them once a year. To offer up kernels of our power in tribute. To fuel their own power—and to limit our own.

The Daglan became arrogant as the millennia passed, sure of their unending dominion over our world. But their overconfidence eventually blinded them to the enemies amassing at their backs, a force like none that had been gathered before.

My mother served at that monster’s side for a century, a slave to her every sick whim. Bryce knew who it was before Silene spoke again. Knew whose truth she’d been led here, across the stars, to learn at last. Theia.

But my mother, Theia, used the time she served the Daglan to learn all she could about their instruments of conquest. The Dread Trove, we called it in secret. The Mask, the Harp, the Crown, and the Horn.

The Daglan, Silene went on, always quarreled over who should control the Trove, so more often than not, the Trove went unused. It was their downfall.

Helena.

It was not enough for my mother. Possessing all she had ever wanted was not enough. “Classic stage mom,” Bryce muttered. My mother remembered the talk of the Daglan—their mention of other worlds. Places they had conquered. And with two daughters and one throne … only entire worlds would do for us. For her legacy.

wield the Horn and Harp to open a door. To bring the Fae to new heights, new wealth and prestige.

So then who has the harp on them to opened the portal

Yet when she announced her vision to her court, many of them refused. They had just overthrown their conquerors—now they would turn conqueror, too? They demanded that she shut the door and leave this madness behind her. But she would not be deterred. There were enough Fae throughout her lands, along with some of the fire-wielders from the south, who supported the idea, merchants who salivated at the thought of untapped riches in other worlds. And so she gathered a force. It was Pelias who told her where to cast her intention. Using old, notated star maps from their former masters, he’d selected a world for them.

The Daglan promised him every reward, if only he could nudge my mother toward this moment, to use the Dread Trove to open a portal to the world he indicated.

Only she could access that pocket of nothingness—only she could retrieve the Horn and Harp from its depths.

Just as she had no idea that the gate she had left open into our home world … the Daglan had been waiting a long, long time for that, too. But they were patient. Content to let more and more of Theia’s forces come into the new world—thus leaving her own undefended. Content to wait to gain her trust, so she might hand over the Horn and Harp.

They were Fae like us, but not. The ears, the grace, the strength were identical, but they were shape-shifters, all of them. Each capable of turning into an animal. And each, even in their humanoid body, equipped with elongated canine teeth.

These new Fae bore elemental magic, strong enough to make Pelias wary of them. They were more aggressive than the Fae we knew—wilder. And they answered directly to Rigelus.

Rigelus and his companions were not Fae at all, but parasites who conquered world after world, feeding off the magic and lives of their citizens. The Daglan, now under their true name: the Asteri.

that the Harp could not only move its bearer through the world, but move things from one place to another—even move magic from her soul to ours.

that the wolves, the shifters … they had once been Fae. So similar to Bryce’s sort of Fae, yet so different—

Light that wasn’t just light—light, as the Asteri could wield their power.

“Halo,” Hunt asked as solidly as he could, “or black crown?”

Because only you have the Horn. Only you can move between worlds.”

“The Asteri would need the Horn to open a portal. They might find me, but they can’t get in.” “But you want to go home,” Nesta said, “and for that you’ll have to open a door to Midgard. What if Rigelus is right there? Waiting to come through?”

Like calls to like. To you, in this very stone, Silene had said, I leave the inheritance and the burden that my own mother passed to me. This place, this Prison and the court it had once been, was Bryce’s inheritance. Hers to command, as Silene had commanded it.

In those last moments with her daughters, Theia had used the Harp to transfer magic from herself into Silene and Helena, to protect them. It had appeared as a star. Had Silene replicated that here? Was it possible that the Harp, in that moment that Silene reached for it, power at the ready, had been able to transfer her magic to this place?

It was part of her now—not like a temporary charge from Hunt, but rather something that had stuck to her own power, bound itself there. Like called to like. As if her star had known this magic existed and drawn her toward it, as if they were sister powers— And they were. Bryce bore Theia’s light through Helena’s line. And this light … it was Theia’s light through Silene. Two sisters, united at last. But Silene’s light, now mixed with Bryce’s …

Evil always waited below them. What if Silene had never realized what, exactly, Theia had meant? That it wasn’t just a metaphor? That here, literally right under them, slumbering in that forgotten coffin … Here lay the evil beneath.

“And you—you are linked to the other parts of the Trove. Did she give them to you?”

The female in the sarcophagus was an Asteri.

The Asteri’s blue eyes lowered to the dagger. “You dare draw a weapon before me? Against those who crafted you, soldier, from night and pain?” “You are no creator of mine,” Azriel said coldly. The Starsword gleamed in his other hand. If they bothered him, if they called to him, he didn’t let on. Neither hand so much as twitched.

Enalius?

“You may call me Vesperus.” The creature’s eyes glowed with irritation. “Are you related to Hesperus?” Bryce arched a brow at the name, so similar to one of Midgard’s Asteri. “The Evening Star?” “I am the Evening Star,” Vesperus seethed. Bryce rolled her eyes. “Fine, we’ll call you the Evening Star, too. Happy?”

“So destroy the Cauldron …” “And you destroy this world. One cannot exist without the other.”

“We gave many worlds … kill switches. To protect our interests.” She said it with such calm, such surety.

“There is a natural order to the universe, girl. The strong rule the weak, and the weak benefit from it. Everything in nature preys and is preyed upon. You Fae somehow consider this an affront only when it is applied to you.” “I’m not going to debate the ethics of conquest with you. Rigelus and the others have no right to my world, but they’ve poisoned the water in Midgard—it’s full of some sort of parasite that leaches our magic and requires us to offer it up to the Asteri. How do I undo it?”