Nesta failed to keep the shock off her face. “And you say only twelve have become Carynthian … in five hundred years?”

“No. Twelve made it to the mountain and became Oristian. Only three others, besides us, won the Blood Rite and became Carynthian.” His throat bobbed. “They were fine warriors, and led exemplary units. We lost two of them against Hybern.”

Likely in that blast that had decimated a thousand of them. The blast she’d shielded him from. Him, and only him.

Nesta’s stomach clenched, nausea sliding through her. She forced herself to take a long breath. “So you think females can’t participate in the Rite?”

“Mor would likely win the damn thing in record time, but no. I wouldn’t want even her participating in the Rite.” The unspoken part of his reasoning lay coldly in his eyes. There would be a different, worse kind of violence to defend against, even if the females were as highly trained as the males.

Nesta shivered. “Could you have a female unit without them taking the Blood Rite?”

“They would never be honored as true warriors without it—without one of those three titles. Well, I would consider them warriors, but not the rest of the Illyrians. No other units would fly with them. They’d consider it a disgrace and an insult.” She frowned and he held up his hands. “Like I said: change comes slowly. You heard the bullshit Devlon spewed about your cycle. That’s considered progress. In the past, they’d kill a female for picking up a weapon. Now they ‘decontaminate’ the blade and call themselves modern thinkers.” Disgust contorted his features.

Nesta eased to her feet and scanned the sky. Her head had cleared—only slightly. She didn’t relish the prospect of shelving books when her body was already aching … But perhaps she’d see Gwyn.

“Training the Illyrian females,” Cassian went on, “wouldn’t be about fighting in our wars. It would be about proving they’re equally as capable and strong as the males. It would be about mastering their fear, honing the strength they already have.”

“What do they fear?”

“Becoming my mother,” he said softly. “Going through what she endured.”

What the priestesses beneath the mountain had endured.

Nesta thought of the quiet priestesses who did not leave the mountain, who dwelled in the dimness. Riven flashed through her memory, hurrying past, unable to stomach a stranger’s presence. Gwyn, with her bright eyes that sometimes darkened with shadows.

Cassian tilted his head to the side at her silence. “What is it?”

“Would you train non-Illyrian females?”

“I’m training you, aren’t I?”

“I mean, would you consider …” She didn’t know how to elegantly phrase it, not like silver-tongued Rhysand. “The priestesses in the library. If I invited them to train with us here, where it’s private and safe. Would you train them?”

Cassian blinked slowly. “Yes. I mean, of course, but …” He winced. “Nesta, many of the females in the library do not want to be—cannot stand to be—around males again.”

“Then we’ll ask one of your female friends to join. Mor or anyone else you can think of.”

“The priestesses might not even be able to stomach having me present.”

“You’d never hurt anyone like that.”

His eyes softened slightly. “It’s not about that for them. It’s about the fear—the trauma they bear. Even if they know I’d never do that to them, I might still drag up memories that are incredibly difficult for them to face.”

“You said this training would help me with my … problems. Perhaps it could help them. At the very least give them a reason to get outside for a bit.”

Cassian watched her for a long moment. Then he said, “Whoever you can get up here with us, I’ll gladly train. Mor’s away, but I can ask Feyre—”

“Not Feyre.” Nesta hated the words. The way his back stiffened. She couldn’t look at him as she said, “I just …” How could she explain the tangle between her and her sister? The self-loathing that threatened to consume her every time she looked at her sister’s face?

“All right,” Cassian repeated. “Not Feyre. But I need to give her and Rhys a heads-up. You should probably ask Clotho for permission, too.” A warm hand clasped her shoulder and squeezed. “I like this idea, Nes.” His hazel eyes shone bright. “I like it a lot.”

And for some reason, the words meant everything.

CHAPTER

17

“I have a proposition for you.”

Stomach muscles throbbing, legs aching, Nesta stood before Clotho’s desk as the priestess finished writing on whatever manuscript she was annotating, her enchanted pen scratching along.

Clotho lifted her head when the pen dotted its last mark and wrote on a scrap of paper, Yes?

“Would you allow your priestesses to train with me every morning in the ring at the top of the House? Not all of them—just whoever might be interested.”

Clotho sat perfectly still. Then the pen moved. Train for what?

“To strengthen their bodies, to defend themselves, to attack, if they wish. But also to clear their minds. Help steady them.”

Who will oversee this training? You?

“No. I’m not qualified for that. I’ll be training with them.” Her heart pounded. She wasn’t sure why. “Cassian will be overseeing it. He’s not handsy— I mean, he’s respectful and …” Nesta shook her head. She sounded a proper fool.

Beneath the shadows of her hood, Nesta could sense Clotho’s gaze lingering upon her. The pen moved again.

Not many will come, I am afraid.

“I know. But even one or two … I’d like to offer.” Nesta gestured to a pillar beyond Clotho. “I’ll put a sign-up sheet there. Whoever wants to join is welcome.”

Again, that long stare from beneath the hood, its weight like a phantom touch.

Then Clotho wrote, Whoever wants to join has my blessing.

Nesta pasted the sign-up sheet onto the pillar that day.

No one had inked their name on it by the time she departed.

She awoke early, made the trek to the library to check the list, and found it still empty.

“It’ll take time,” Cassian consoled her when he read whatever lay etched on her face as she stepped into the training ring. He added a shade softly, “Keep reaching out your hand.”

So Nesta did.

Every afternoon when she arrived at the library, she checked the list. Every evening when she left, she checked it as well. It was always empty.

At training, Cassian began to instruct her on basic footwork and body positioning in hand-to-hand combat. No punches or kicks, not yet. Nesta held that infernal plank for ten seconds. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Thirty.

Cassian added weights to her exercises, in order to build up her flimsy arms. Heavy stones with carved handles to carry while she did her lunges and squats.

All while she breathed and breathed and breathed.

She tried the stairs again. Made it to step five hundred before her muscles demanded she turn around. The next night, she halted on six hundred ten. Then seven hundred fifty.