A ​Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #4)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Get into a comfortable seated position—alert, but at ease.” “I don’t even know what that means.” Gwyn demonstrated, scooting until her spine touched the back cushions, feet flat on the floor, hands lightly resting on her knees. Nesta copied the position. Gwyn surveyed her, then nodded. “Now take three deep breaths, in through your nose for a count of six, out through your mouth for a count of six. After you finish the third breath, close your eyes, and keep breathing.” Nesta obeyed. Inhaling and exhaling for that long required more concentration and effort than she expected. Her breathing was too loud to her ears; each breath seemed out of sync with Gwyn’s. Had she taken two breaths, or three? Or four? “I can feel you overthinking this,” Gwyn murmured. “Close your eyes and keep breathing. Take five breaths.” Nesta did. Without anything to visually distract her, she figured her breathing would be easier to track. It wasn’t. Somehow, her mind just wanted to wander off. She told herself to focus on the count, on timing each breath and keeping a tally of how many she’d taken, and yet she found herself thinking of the couch cushions, her cooling tea, her still-damp hair— How many breaths had it been? “I think I’m losing my mind,” Nesta muttered. Gwyn shushed her. “Now let your breathing steady, and focus on the sounds around you. Acknowledge them, then let them fade away.” Nesta did. To her left, she could make out shuffling feet and whispering robes. Who was walking through t...

I've started meditating recently, and mind stilling is basically meditation. Love how much detail Sarah J. Maas has put into describing the process.

The wind murmured, wending between the peaks. Shadows slowly crept over the craggy sides of the mountains, the lingering sun casting their upper limits in gold, the chill deepening with each inch yielded to the rising dark.

It was all so still, yet watchful, somehow. As if she were surrounded by something ancient and half-awake. As if each peak had its own moods and preferences, like whether the clouds clung to or avoided them, or trees lined their sides or left them bare. Their shapes were so odd and long that they looked as if behemoths had once lain down beside the rivers, pulled a rumpled blanket over themselves, and fallen asleep forever.

The full moon had shown her face, so bright the mountains, the rivers, the valley were illuminated enough that even the leaves on the trees far below were visible. She’d never seen such a view. It seemed like a secret, slumbering land that time had forgotten.

As that seventh bell finished pealing, music erupted. Not from any instruments, but from all around. As if they were one voice, the priestesses began to sing, a wave of sparkling sound. Nesta could only gape at the lovely melody, the voices from the front of the cavern leading it, lifting higher than the others. Gwyn sang, chin high, a faint glow seeming to radiate from her. The music was pure, ancient, by turns whispering and bold, one moment like a tendril of mist, the next like a gilded ray of light. It finished, and Merrill spoke about the Mother and the Cauldron and the land and sun and water. She spoke of blessings and dreams and hope. Of mercy and love and growth. Nesta half-heard it, waiting for the sound, the perfect, beautiful sound, to begin again. Gwyn seemed to be shimmering with pride and contentedness. Merrill finished the prayer, and the group began another song. It was like a braid, the song—a plait of seven voices, weaving in and out, individual strands that together formed a pattern. Halfway through it, a drum appeared in the hand of the singer on the far left. A harp began strumming in the hands of one on the far right. A lute sounded from the center. She’d never heard such music. Like a spell, a dream given form. The entire room sang, each voice resonating through the stone. But Gwyn’s voice rose above them all, clear and powerful and yet husky on some notes. A mezzo-soprano. The word floated from the depths of Nesta’s memory, voiced by a watery-eyed m...

Music. Music described so well you can almost hear the tune. Music that is so absorbing. Music that is meditative. The ability to describe it so vividly is remarkable.

Nesta inhaled through her nose for a count of six, held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled through her mouth for another six beats. In the quiet of her bedroom that night, settled in the chair, she focused on her breath, nothing more. Any thoughts that came in, she acknowledged and let pass. Even if some kept returning. She didn’t care where they hid the Harp. If they needed her blood to ward it as they had for the Mask, they’d let her know. But the thought of what came next— Breathe. Count. Nesta inhaled again, attention fixing on her expanding ribs, the feeling of the breath in her body. Even weeks into it, some days’ Mind-Stilling exercises were harder than others. But she kept at it, ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night. Nesta exhaled, counting. Kept going. That was all she supposed she could do: just keep going. One day, one breath at a time. She let that thought go, too. Breathed and breathed, and then stopped the counting altogether. Let her mind wander. But her mind did not shoot in every direction. It remained calm. Resting. Content right where it was.

I wish to get to this place in my own mind.

She sipped from her drink, nearly sighing at the richness of the cocoa. “I’d like to try a fire,” she said quietly. “A small one.” Instantly, the House had a tiny blaze going in the fireplace. A log popped, and Nesta straightened, stomach twisting. It was a fire. Not her father’s neck. Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer. Another log cracked, and Nesta flinched. But she remained sitting there. Staring at that carved rose. Would she live the rest of her life like Emerie, always glancing over a shoulder for the shadow of the past to haunt her? Did she appear as Emerie had this afternoon, terrified and pained? She owed herself more than that. Emerie, too, deserved more. A chance to live a life without fear and dread. So Nesta could try. Right now. She’d face this fire. Another log cracked. Nesta ground her teeth. Breathe. Inhale for six, hold, exhale for six. She did just that. This is a fire. It reminds you of your father, of something horrible happening. But this is not him, and while you are feeling uncomfortable, you can get through it. Nesta focused on her breathing. Made herself unclench each of her too-tight muscles, starting wit...

To move past crippling fear... is also fearsome. But worth it right?

Heart racing, Nesta lifted the lantern in one hand and gazed at the darkness, untouched by the light from the library high, high above. The heart of the world, of existence. Of self. The heart of the House. “This …” Her fingers tightened on the lantern. “This darkness is your heart.” As if in answer, the House laid a little evergreen sprig at her feet. “A Winter Solstice present. For me.” She could have sworn a warm hand brushed her neck in answer. “But your darkness …” Wonder softened her voice. “You were trying to show me. Show others. Who you are, down deep. What haunts you. You were trying to show them all those dark, broken pieces because the priestesses, and Emerie, and I … We’re the same as you.” Her throat constricted at what the House had gifted her. This knowledge. She lifted the lantern higher and blew out its flame. Let the darkness sweep in. Embraced it. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered into it. “You are my friend, and my home. Thank you for sharing this with me.” Again, Nesta could have sworn that phantom touch caressed her neck, her cheek, her brow. “Happy Solstice,” she said into the beautiful, fractured darkness.

<3

Eris offered an arm, and Nesta took it, her face neutral, her chin high, each step gliding. They halted at the edge of the dance floor, pulling apart to face each other. Others watched from the sidelines as the dance finished and the introductory strains of the next began, a harp strumming high and sweet. Eris extended a hand, a half smile on his mouth. As if those harp strings wrapped around Nesta’s arm, she raised it, and placed her hand in his precisely as the last, swift pluck of the harp sounded. Percussion and horns blasted; low stringed instruments started a rushing stroke of music. A summons to the dance in a countdown to movement. Cassian reminded himself to breathe as Eris slid his broad hand over Nesta’s waist, tucking her in close. She lifted her chin, looking up into his face as a deep-bellied drum thumped. And as the violins began their sweeping song, a beckoning back-and-forth, Nesta moved as if her very breath were timed to the music. Eris went with her, and it was clear that he knew the dance’s nuances and exact notes, but Nesta … She gathered her skirts in her other hand, and as Eris led her into the waltz’s opening movements, her body went loose and taut in so many different places Cassian didn’t know where to look: she was bent and shaped and directed by the sound. Even Eris’s eyes widened at it—the sheer skill and grace, each movement of her body precisely tuned to each note and flutter of music, from her fingertips to the extension of her neck as she ...

Describing tunes again. And dancing. In such a beautiful, poetic, vivid manner!

The waltz finished, and they seamlessly fell into the next dance, a little more demanding this time. She remembered this one from her lessons with Mor—it was lovely and sweeping and like being in a dream, until its final minute became so grand it always knocked the breath from her. Anticipation thrummed through her, brightening her eyes.

The fire crackled merrily to her right, and she let the sound ripple through and past her. Acknowledged the crack and what it did to her, and released it.

Acknowledging and facing a fear. With calmness. And zero judgement.

The door Feyre had directed her to was already open, faelights glowing inside the opulent bedroom bedecked in whites and creams and tans. Candles flickered in glass jars on the marble mantel. The curtains were already down for the night, heavy swaths of blue velvet—the only pop of color in the room, along with a few blue trinkets. It was soothing and smelled of jasmine, precisely the sort of room she’d have designed for herself if she’d been given the chance.

I love descriptions of beautiful places and things!

Because this existence, living in the House, training, working in the library … It wasn’t real life. Not entirely. When she was allowed to return to the city proper, then she’d face life again. See if she was worthy of it. The thought made her stomach twist.

More fears. I want to see how she'll overcome this.

“I wish for us to have the courage to go out into the world when we are ready, but to always be able to find our way back to each other. No matter what.”

I wish this for myself as well.

Her head was clear. It burned with purpose, with direction and focus. She woke up each morning glad to be there, to throw herself against the world and see what it did. She had music each night at the evening services, where she had learned most of the songs and sang with the priestesses, letting her voice ring out alongside Gwyn’s. She had music from Cassian’s Symphonia, which she played whenever she could. And she had music in her heart. A song made up of Cassian’s voice, of Gwyn’s and Emerie’s laughter, of her own breathing as she went down and down and down the stairs.

Finding courage, purpose and beauty again.

It was the next phase in the Valkyrie mind-training: to go from seated calm to active soothing. To be able to steady the mind, focus it, while in the midst of chaos.

Sort of like what my therapist told me to do with my anxiety.

She had a vague sense of Cassian and Mor and Azriel nearby, of Feyre and Rhys and Lucien, of Elain and Varian and Helion. Of Kallias and Viviane, also swollen with child and glowing with joy and strength. Nesta smiled in greeting and left them blinking, but she forgot them within a moment because the stars, the stars, the stars … She hadn’t realized that such beauty existed in the world. That she might feel so full from wonder it could hurt, like her body couldn’t contain all of it. And she didn’t know why she cried then, but the tears began rolling down her face. The world was beautiful, and she was so grateful to be in it. To be alive, to be here, to see this. She stuck out a hand over the railing, grazing a star as it shot past, and her fingers came away glowing with blue and green dust. She laughed, a sound of pure joy, and she cried more, because that joy was a miracle.

<3

“The darkness in the pit of the library—it’s the heart of the House.” Amren nodded. “And where is it now?” “It hasn’t made an appearance in weeks. But it’s still there. I think it’s just … being managed. Maybe the House’s knowledge that I’m aware of it, and didn’t judge it, makes it easier to keep in check.” Amren put a hand above Nesta’s heart. “That’s the key, isn’t it? To know the darkness will always remain, but how you choose to face it, handle it … that’s the important part. To not let it consume. To focus upon the good, the things that fill you with wonder.” She gestured to the stars zooming past. “The struggle with that darkness is worth it, just to see such things.”

Do not judge your darkness. But learn to deal with it. And remember. Without the darkness, you cannot see light.

The mood hadn’t been helped by a rare red star blasting across the sky one day—an ill omen, Nesta had heard the priestesses muttering. Cassian reported that even Rhys had been rattled by it, seeming unusually contemplative afterward. But Nesta suspected that the omen wasn’t the only thing contributing to Rhys’s solemnity. Feyre was only two months from giving birth, and they still knew nothing about how to save her.

Aelin? Yep, that was Aelin. Celaena Sardothien.

Is that not what you wanted? To feel nothing? I thought that was what I wanted. Nesta surveyed the people around her. Her sisters. Cassian, who had been willing to plunge a dagger into his heart rather than harm her. But no longer. When the female voice didn’t press her, Nesta went on, I want to feel everything. I want to embrace it with my whole heart. Even the things that hurt and hunt you? Only curiosity laced the question. Nesta allowed herself a breath to ponder it, stilling her mind once more. We need those things in order to appreciate the good. Some days might be more difficult than others, but … I want to experience all of it, live through all of it. With them. That wise, soft voice whispered, So live, Nesta Archeron.