A Court of Silver Flames
“So how do you learn to control your breathing?”
He smiled again, hazel eyes bright in the sun. “Like this.”
So began another series of movements, all so damned simple when he demonstrated, but nearly impossible to coordinate in her own body when she went to replicate them. But she focused on her breathing, on the power of it, as if her lungs were the bellows of some great forge.
The sun arced higher, crossing the training space, dragging the shadows with it.
Inhale. Exhale. Breaths accented by a deep lunge, or a squat, or balancing on one leg. All exercises she’d done in the first hour, but now revealed anew with the added layer of breathing.
Breathing in and out, out and in, body and mind flowing, her concentration unwavering.
Cassian’s commands were firm, but gentle, encouraging without being irksome. Hold it, hold it, hold it—and release. Good. Again. Again. Again.
There wasn’t a part of her body that wasn’t sliding with sweat, wasn’t one part that wasn’t shaking as he bade her lie down on a black mat at the far end of the ring. “Cooldown,” he said, kneeling and patting the mat.
She was too tired to object, practically flinging herself onto it and staring at the sky.
The blue bowl arched into forever, the sun stinging against the sweat on her face. Wisps of clouds drifted through the dazzling blue, unconcerned with her entirely.
Her mind had become as clear as that sky, the fog and pressing shadows gone. “Do you like flying?” She didn’t know where the question came from.
He peered down at her. “I love it.” The truth rang out in those words. “It’s freedom and joy and challenge.”
“I met a female shop owner at Windhaven who’d had her wings clipped.” She turned her head from the sky to look over at him. His face had tightened. “Why do Illyrians do that?”
“To control their women,” Cassian said with quiet anger. “It’s an old tradition. Rhys and I tried to stamp it out by making it illegal, but change takes a while amongst the High Fae. For stubborn asses like the Illyrians, it takes even longer. Emerie—I’m assuming that’s who you met, since she’s the only female shop owner—was one who slipped through the cracks. It was during Amarantha’s reign, and … a lot of shit slipped through the cracks.”
His eyes turned haunted, not only from what had been done to Emerie by her father, Nesta could tell, but at the memories of those fifty years. The guilt.
And perhaps it was to save him from reliving those memories, to banish that unwarranted guilt in his eyes, that she nestled against the mat and said, “Cooldown.”
“You sound eager.”
She met his stare. “I …” She swallowed. Hated herself for balking, and forced herself to say, “The breathing makes my head stop being so …” Horrible. Awful. Miserable. “Loud.”
“Ah.” Understanding washed over his face. “Mine too.”
For a moment, she held his gaze, watched the wind tug at the strands of his shoulder-length hair. The instinct to touch the sable locks had her pressing her palms to the mat, as if physically restraining herself.
“Right.” Cassian cleared his throat. “Cooldown.”
She’d done well. Really damn well.
Nesta finished the cooldown and sprawled on the black mat, as if needing to piece herself together. Rally her strength.
Cassian let her, rising to his feet and walking to the water station to the right of the archway. “You need to drink as much water as you can,” he said, taking two glasses and filling them from the ewer on the small table. He returned to her side, sipping from his own.
Nesta remained prone, limbs loose, eyes closed, the sunlight making her hair, her sweaty skin, shine. He couldn’t stop the image from rising: of her lying in his bed like this, sated, her body limp with pleasure.
He swallowed hard. She cracked open an eye, sitting up slowly, and took the water he extended. Chugged it, realized how thirsty she was, and eased to her feet. He watched as she aimed for the ewer, filling her glass and draining it twice more before she finally set it down.
“You never told me what you wanted for the second hour of training,” he said eventually.
She looked over a shoulder. Her skin was rosy in a way he hadn’t seen for a long, long time, her eyes bright. The breathing, she’d said, had helped her. Settled her. Looking at the slight change on her face, he believed it.
What would happen when the high wore off remained to be seen. Small steps, he assured himself. Small, small steps.
Nesta said, “The second hour was on the house.”
She didn’t smile, didn’t so much as wink, but Cassian grinned. “Generous of you.”
She rolled her eyes, but without her usual venom. “I have to change before I go to the library.”
As Nesta entered the archway, the gloom of the stairwell beyond it, Cassian blurted, “I didn’t mean what I said last night—about everyone hating you.”
She halted, her blue-gray eyes frosting. “It’s true.”
“It’s not.” He dared one step closer. “You’re here because we don’t hate you.” He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted you to know that. That we don’t—that I don’t hate you.”
She weighed whatever the hell lay in his stare. Likely more than was wise to let her see. But she said quietly, “And I have never hated you, Cassian.”
With that, she walked through the doorway into the House, as if she hadn’t hit him right in the gut, first with the words, then by using his name.
It wasn’t until she’d vanished down the stairs that he released the breath he’d been holding.
CHAPTER
13
She was starving. It was the only thought that occupied Nesta as she shelved book after book. That, and how sore her body was. Her thighs burned with each foot she walked up and down the ramp of the library, her arms unbearably stiff with each book she lifted to its resting place.
That much soreness, just from stretches and balance exercises. She didn’t want to consider what a workout like the ones she’d seen Cassian go through would do to her.
She was pathetic for being so weak. Pathetic for now being unable to walk so much as a step without grimacing.
“Cooldown, my ass,” she grumbled, heaving a tome into her hands. She peered at the title and groaned. It belonged on the other side of this level—a good five-minute walk across the central atrium and down the endless hall. Her throbbing legs might very well give out halfway there.
Her stomach gurgled. “I’ll deal with you later,” she told the book, and scanned the other titles remaining in her cart. None, fortunately or unfortunately, needed to be shelved in the section that book belonged in. To lug the cart all the way over there would be exhausting—better to just carry the tome, even if it was an essentially meaningless trip to deposit one book.
Not that she had anything better to do with her time. Her day. Her life.
Whatever clarity she’d felt in the training ring levels and levels above fogged up again. Whatever calm and quiet she’d managed to capture in her head had dissipated like smoke. Only moving would keep it at bay.
Nesta found the next shelf required—quite a ways above her head, with no stool in sight. She rose onto her toes, legs shrieking in protest, but it was too high. Nesta was on the taller side for a female, standing a good two inches above Feyre, but this shelf was out of reach. Grunting, she attempted to shelve the book with her fingertips, arms straining.