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A Court of Mist and Fury

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Sarah J. Maas
Sarah J. Maas

Sarah J. Maas is an American author known for her fantasy novels. Her works are celebrated for their rich imagination, complex characters, and gripping plots. Born on March 5, 1986, Maas has developed a passion for writing from a young age and has become a successful author in her own right. more

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“His head lifted. Pain-filled eyes, bloodless lips. 'You saved me,' he rasped. 'You can explain who they were later.' 'Ambush,' Rhys said anyway, his eyes scanning my face for signs of hurt. 'Hybern soldiers with ancient chains from the king himself, to nullify my power. They must have traced the magic I used yesterday... I'm sorry.' The words tumbled out of him. I brushed back his dark hair. That was why I hadn't been able to use the bond to speak mind to mind. 'Rest,' I said, and moved to retrieve the blanket from my pack. It'd have to do. He gripped my wrist before I could rise. His eyelids lowered. Consciousness ripped from him- too fast. Much too fast and too heavy. 'I was looking for you, too,' Rhys murmured. And passed out.”

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Book:A Court of Mist and Fury
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“I'd run away. Precisely how Rhys expected me to run- how I'd told him anyone in their right mind would run from him. Like a coward, like a fool, I'd left him injured in the freezing mud. I'd walked away from him- a day after I'd told him he was the only thing I'd never walk away from. I'd demanded honesty, and at the first true test, I hadn't even let him give it to me. I hadn't granted him the consideration of hearing him out. You see me. Well, I'd refused to see him. Maybe I'd refused to see what was right in front of me. I'd walked away. And maybe... maybe I shouldn't have.”

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“I'd painted nearly every surface in the main room. And not with just broad swaths of colour, but with decorations- little images. Some were basic: colours of icicles drooping down the sides of the threshold. They melted into the first shoots of spring, then burst into full blooms of summer, before brightening and deepening into fall leaves. I'd painted a ring of flowers round the card table by the window, leaves and crackling flames around the dining table. But in between the intricate decorations, I'd painted them. Bits and pieces of Mor, and Cassian, and Azriel, and Amren... and Rhys. Mor went up to the large hearth, where I'd painted the mantel in black shimmering with veins of gold and red. Up close, it was a solid pretty bit of paint. But from the couch... 'Illyrian wings,' she said. 'Ugh, they'll never stop gloating about it.' But she went to the window, which I'd framed in tumbling strands of gold and brass and bronze. Mor fingered her hair, cocking her head. 'Nice,' she said, surveying the room again. Her eyes fell on the open threshold to the bedroom hallway, and she grimaced. 'Why,' she said, 'are Amren's eyes there?' Indeed, right above the door, in the centre of the archway, I'd painted a pair of glowing silver eyes. 'Because she's always watching.' Mor snorted. 'That simply won't do. Paint my eyes next to hers. So the males of this family will know we're both watching them the next time they come up here to get drunk for a week straight.' 'They do that?' They used to.' Before Amarantha. 'Every autumn, the three of them would lock themselves in this house for five days and drink and drink and hunt and hunt, and they'd come back to Velaris looking halfway to death but grinning like fools. It warms my heart to know that from now on, they'll have to do it with me and Amren staring at them.”

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“You should talk to him, though. Make him stew over it, of course, but... hear him out.' She didn't look at me as she spoke. 'Rhys always has his reasons, and he might be arrogant as hell, but he's usually right about his instincts. He makes mistakes, but... You should hear him out.' I'd already decided that I would.”

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“My fingers grazed his. Warm and sturdy- patient, as if waiting to see what else I might do. Maybe it was the wind, but I stroked a finger down his. And as I turned to him more fully, something blinding and tinkling slammed into my face. I reeled back, crying out as I bent over, shielding my face against the light that I could still see against my shut eyes. Rhys let out a startled laugh. A laugh. And when I realised that my eyes hadn't been singed out of their sockets, I whirled on him. 'I could have been blinded!' I hissed, shoving him. He took a look at my face and burst out laughing again. Real laughter, open and delighted and lovely. I wiped at my face, and when I pulled my hands down, I gasped. Pale green light- like drops of paint- glowed in flecks on my hand. Splattered star-spirit. I didn't know if I should be horrified or amused. Or disgusted. When I went to rub it off, Rhys caught my hand. 'Don't,' he said, still laughing. 'It looks like your freckles are glowing.' My nostrils flared, and I went to shove him again, not caring if my new strength knocked him off the balcony. He could summon wings; he could deal with it. He sidestepped me, veering toward the balcony rail, but not fast enough to avoid the careening star that collided with the side of his face. He leaped back with a curse. I laughed, the sound rasping out of me. Not a chuckle or snort, but a cackling laugh. And I laughed again, and again, as he lowered his hands from his eyes. The entire left side of his face had been hit. Like heavenly war paint, that's what it looked like. I could see why he didn't want me to wipe mine away. Rhys was examining his hands, covered in the dust, and I stepped toward him, peering at the way it glowed and glittered. He went still as death as I took one of his hands in my own and traced a star shape on the top of his palm, playing with the glimmer and shadows, until it looked like one of the stars that had hit us. His fingers tightened on mine, and I looked up. He was smiling at me. And looked so un-High-Lord-like with the glowing dust on the side of his face that I grinned back. I hadn't even realised what I'd done until his own smile faded,, and his mouth partly slightly. 'Smile again,' he whispered. I hadn't smiled for him. Ever. Or laughed. Under the Mountain, I had never grinned, never chuckled. And afterward... And this male before me... my friend... For all that he had done, I had never given him either. Even when I had just... I had just painted something. On him. For him. I'd- painted again. So I smiled at him, broad and without restraint. 'You're exquisite,' he breathed.”

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“Rhys led me to a small private balcony jutting from the upper level of The House of Wind. On the patios below, the music still played, the people still danced, the stars wheeling by, close and swift. He let go as I took a seat on the balcony rail. I immediately decided against it as I beheld the drop, and backed away a healthy step. Rhys chuckled, 'If you feel, you know I'd bother to save you before you hit the ground.' 'But not until I was close to death?' 'Maybe.' I leaned a hand against the rail, peering at the stars whizzing past. 'As punishment for what I said to you?' 'I said some horrible things, too,' he murmured. 'I didn't mean it,' I blurted. 'I meant it more about myself than you. And I'm sorry.' He watched the stars for a moment before he replied. 'You were right, though. I stayed away because you were right. Though I'm glad to hear my absence felt like a punishment.' I snorted, but was grateful for the humour- for the way he'd always been able to amuse me.”

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