A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3.5)

by Sarah J. Maas

The first snow of winter had begun whipping through Velaris an hour earlier. The ground had finally frozen solid last week, and by the time I’d finished devouring my breakfast of toast and bacon, washed down with a heady cup of tea, the pale cobblestones were dusted with fine, white powder. I had no idea where Rhys was. He hadn’t been in bed when I’d awoken, the mattress on his side already cold. Nothing unusual, as we were both busy to the point of exhaustion these days. Seated at the long cherrywood dining table at the town house, I frowned at the whirling snow beyond the leaded glass windows. Once, I had dreaded that first snow, had lived in terror of long, brutal winters. But it had been a long, brutal winter that had brought me so deep into the woods that day nearly two years ago. A long, brutal winter that had made me desperate enough to kill a wolf, that had eventually led me here—to this life, this … happiness. The snow fell, thick clumps plopping onto the dried grass of the tiny front lawn, crusting the spikes and arches of the decorative fence beyond it. Deep inside me, rising with every swirling flake, a sparkling, crisp power stirred. I was High Lady of the Night Court, yes, but also one blessed with the gifts of all the courts. It seemed Winter now wanted to play. Finally awake enough to be coherent, I lowered the shield of black adamant guarding my mind and cast a thought down the soul-bridge between me and Rhys. Where’d you fly off to so early? My question f...

It was the cost of leading my armies: each injury, death, scar—he took them all as his own personal failings. And being around these warriors, seeing those missing limbs and brutal injuries still healing or that would never heal … “They practice for ninety minutes,” I said, soothing the dark power that began to roil in my veins, seeking a path into the world, and slid my chilled hands into my pockets. Cassian, wisely, pretended to look outraged, his wings spreading wide. Devlon opened his mouth, but I cut him off before he could shout something truly stupid. “An hour and a half every morning, then they do the housework, the males pitching in whenever they can.” I glanced toward the permanent tents and small stone and wood houses scattered along the wide pass and up into the tree-crusted peaks behind us. “Do not forget that a great number of the females, Devlon, also suffered losses. Perhaps not a hand, but their husbands and sons and brothers were out on those battlefields. Everyone helps prepare for the holiday, and everyone gets to train.”

When those who had been responsible for her suffering and torment had been dealt with, no one had wanted to remain here a moment longer. Not with the shattered bone and blood coating every surface, staining every field and training ring. So they’d migrated, some blending into other camps, others making their own lives elsewhere. None had ever come back. Centuries later, he didn’t regret it. Standing in the snow and wind, surveying the emptiness where he’d been born, Cassian didn’t regret it for a heartbeat. His mother had suffered every moment of her too-short life. It only grew worse after she’d given birth to him. Especially in the years after he’d been taken away. And when he’d been strong and old enough to come back to look for her, she was gone. They’d refused to tell him where she was buried. If they’d given her that honor, or if they’d thrown her body into an icy chasm to rot. He still didn’t know. Even with their final, rasping breaths, those who’d made sure she never knew happiness had refused to tell him. Had spat in his face and told him every awful thing they’d done to her. He’d wanted to bury her in Velaris. Somewhere full of light and warmth, full of kind people. Far away from these mountains. Cassian scanned the snow-covered pass. His memories here were murky: mud and cold and too-small fires. But he could recall a lilting, soft voice, and gentle, slender hands. It was all he had of her. Cassian dragged his hands through his hair, fingers catching on the win...

Even with the icy evening soon descending upon Velaris, people packed the streets, laden with bags and boxes, some lugging enormous fruit baskets from one of the many stands now occupying either Palace. My fur-lined hood shielding me against the cold, I browsed through the vendor carts and storefronts in the Palace of Thread and Jewels, surveying the latter, mostly. Some of the public areas remained heated, but enough of Velaris had now been temporarily left exposed to the bitter wind that I wished I’d opted for a heavier sweater that morning. Learning how to warm myself without summoning a flame would be handy indeed. If I ever had the time to do it. I was circling back to a display in one of the shops built beneath the overhanging buildings when an arm looped through mine and Mor drawled, “Amren would love you forever if you bought her a sapphire that big.” I laughed, tugging back my hood enough to see her fully. Mor’s cheeks were flushed against the cold, her braided golden hair spilling into the white fur lining her cloak. “Unfortunately, I don’t think our coffers would return the feeling.” Mor smirked. “You do know that we’re well-off, don’t you? You could fill a bathtub with those things”—she jerked her chin toward the egg-sized sapphire in the window of the jewelry shop—“and barely make a dent in our accounts.” I knew. I’d seen the lists of assets. I still couldn’t wrap my mind around the enormity of Rhys’s wealth. My wealth. It didn’t feel real, those numbers and f...

“You really do know how to give Solstice presents, Az.” I turned from the wall of windows in my private study at the House of Wind, Velaris awash in the hues of early morning. My spymaster and brother remained on the other side of the sprawling oak desk, the maps and documents he’d presented littering the surface. His expression might as well have been stone. Had been that way from the moment he’d knocked on the double doors to the study just after dawn. As if he’d known that sleep had been futile for me last night after Eris’s not-so-subtle warning about Tamlin and his borders.

A storm was coming. Right in time for Solstice. It wouldn’t hit for another day or two, but Cassian could smell it on the wind. The others in the Windhaven camp could as well, the usual flurry of activity now a swift, efficient thrum. Houses and tents checked, stews and roasts being prepared, people departing or arriving earlier than expected to outrace it. Cassian had given the girls the day off because of it. Had ordered all training and exercises, males included, to be postponed until after the storm. Limited patrols would still go out, only by those skilled and eager to test themselves against the sure-to-be-brutal winds and frigid temperatures. Even in a storm, enemies could strike. If the storm was as great as he sensed it would be, this camp would be buried under snow for a good few days. Which is why he wound up standing in the small craftsman center of the camp, beyond the tents and handful of permanent houses. Only a few shops occupied either side of the unpaved road, usually just a dirt track in warmer months. A general goods store, which had already posted a sold-out sign, two blacksmiths, a cobbler, a wood-carver, and a clothier. The wooden building of the clothier was relatively new. At least by Illyrian standards—perhaps ten years old. Above the first-floor store seemed to be living quarters, lamps burning brightly within. And in the glass display window of the store: exactly what he’d come seeking. A bell above the leaded-glass door tinkled as Cassian enter...

It was Spring, and yet it wasn’t. It was not the land I had once roamed in centuries past, or even visited almost a year ago. The sun was mild, the day clear, distant dogwoods and lilacs still in eternal bloom. Distant—because on the estate, nothing bloomed at all. The pink roses that had once climbed the pale stone walls of the sweeping manor house were nothing but tangled webs of thorns. The fountains had gone dry, the hedges untrimmed and shapeless. The house itself had looked better the day after Amarantha’s cronies had trashed it.

But at least neither of the Illyrians had remembered my birthday—thank the Cauldron. So with Mor asleep and Elain likely in the kitchen helping to prepare that delicious food whose aroma now filled the house, I indulged in a rare, quiet meal. Helped myself to the pastry I’d put on Rhys’s plate, along with his portion of the quiche. And another after that. Tradition indeed. With little to do beyond resting until the festivities began the hour before sundown, I settled in at the desk in our bedroom to do some paperwork. Very festive, Rhys purred down the bond. I could practically see his smirk. And where, exactly, are you? Don’t worry about it. I scowled at the eye on my palm, though I knew Rhys no longer used it. That makes it sound like I should be worried. A dark laugh. Cassian says you can pummel him when we get home. Which will be when? A too-long pause. Before dinner? I chuckled. I really don’t want to know, do I?

“Three Illyrian warriors,” I said. “The greatest Illyrian warriors. Are having a snowball fight.” Mor’s eyes practically glowed with wicked delight. “Since they were children.” “They’re over five hundred years old.” “Do you want me to tell you the running tally of victories?” I gaped at her. Then at the field beyond. At the snowballs that were indeed flying with brutal, swift precision as dark heads popped over the walls they’d built. “No magic,” Mor recited, “no wings, no breaks.” “They’ve been out here since noon.” It was nearly three. My teeth began chattering. “I’ve always stayed in to drink,” Mor supplied, as if that were an answer. “How do they even decide who wins?” “Whoever doesn’t get frostbite?” I gaped at her again over my clacking teeth. “This is ridiculous.” “There’s more alcohol in the cabin.” Indeed, none of the males seemed to even notice us. Not as Azriel popped up, launched two snowballs sky-high, and vanished behind his wall of snow again.

Illyrian babies indeed.

Azriel won. His one-hundred-ninety-ninth victory, apparently. The three of them had entered the cabin an hour later, dripping snow, skin splotched with red, grinning from ear to ear. Mor and I, snuggled together beneath a blanket on the couch, only rolled our eyes at them. Rhys just dropped a kiss atop my head, declared the three of them were going to take a steam in the cedar-lined shed attached to the house, and then they were gone. I blinked at Mor as they vanished, letting the image settle.

“To the blessed darkness from which we are born, and to which we return.”

The shadowsinger was clad in a black jacket and pants similar to Rhysand’s—the fabric immaculately tailored and built to fit his wings. He still wore his Siphons atop either hand, and shadows trailed his footsteps, curling like swirled embers, but there was little sign of the warrior otherwise. Especially as he gently said to my sister, “Happy Solstice.” Elain turned from the snow falling in the darkness beyond and smiled slightly. “I’ve never participated in one of these.” Amren supplied from across the room, Varian at her side, resplendent in his princely regalia, “They’re highly overrated.” Mor smirked. “Says the female who makes out like a bandit every year. I don’t know how you don’t get robbed going home with so much jewelry stuffed into your pockets.” Amren flashed her too-white teeth. “Careful, Morrigan, or I’ll return the pretty little thing I got you.” Mor, to my surprise, shut right up. And so did the others, as Rhys returned with— “You didn’t.” I blurted out the words.

You are beautiful, he whispered down the bond. So are you. I know. I laughed, pulling away. Prick.

painting shone before me: Night Triumphant—and the Stars Eternal. “Do it again,” I breathed, my voice hoarse. Rhys knew what I meant.

I love you, I said down the bond. What’s not to love? Before I could elbow him, Rhys kissed me again, breathless and swift. To the stars who listen, Feyre. I brushed a hand over his cheek to wipe away the last of his tears, his skin warm and soft, and we turned down the street that would lead us home. Toward our future—and all that waited within it. To the dreams that are answered, Rhys.