A Court of Mist and Fury

  I weighed my options, smelling the two paths.

  They hadn’t counted on the small, second scent that clung there, entwined with his.

  And I didn’t let myself think about it as I winnowed toward the mountain tracks, outracing the wind. I didn’t let myself think about the fact that my scent was on Rhys, clinging to him after last night. He’d changed his clothes that morning—but the smell on his body … Without taking a bath, I was all over him.

  So I winnowed toward him, toward me. And when the narrow cave appeared at the foot of a mountain, the faintest glimmer of light escaping from its mouth … I halted.

  A whip cracked.

  And every word, every thought and feeling, went out of me. Another whip—and another.

  I slung my bow over my shoulder and pulled out a second ash arrow. It was quick work to bind the two arrows together, so that a tip gleamed on either end—and to do the same for two more. And when I was done, when I looked at the twin makeshift daggers in either hand, when that whip sounded again … I winnowed into the cave.

  They’d picked one with a narrow entrance that opened into a wide, curving tunnel, setting up their little camp around the bend to avoid detection.

  The scouts at the front—two High Fae males with unmarked armor who I didn’t recognize—didn’t notice as I went past.

  Two other scouts patrolled just inside the cave mouth, watching those at the front. I was there and vanished before they could spot me. I rounded the corner, time slipping and bending, and my night-dark eyes burned at the light. I changed them, winnowing between one blink and the next, past the other two guards.

  And when I beheld the four others in that cave, beheld the tiny fire they’d built and what they’d already done to him … I pushed against the bond between us—almost sobbing as I felt that adamant wall … But there was nothing behind it. Only silence.

  They’d found strange chains of bluish stone to spread his arms, suspending him from either wall of the cave. His body sagged from them, his back a ravaged slab of meat. And his wings …

  They’d left the ash arrows through his wings. Seven of them.

  His back to me, only the sight of the blood running down his skin told me he was alive.

  And it was enough—it was enough that I detonated.

  I winnowed to the two guards holding twin whips.

  The others around them shouted as I dragged my ash arrows across their throats, deep and vicious, just like I’d done countless times while hunting. One, two—then they were on the ground, whips limp. Before the guards could attack, I winnowed again to the ones nearest.

  Blood sprayed.

  Winnow, strike; winnow, strike.

  Those wings—those beautiful, powerful wings—

  The guards at the mouth of the cave had come rushing in.

  They were the last to die.

  And the blood on my hands felt different from what it had been like Under the Mountain. This blood … I savored. Blood for blood. Blood for every drop they’d spilled of his.

  Silence fell in the cave as their final shouts finished echoing, and I winnowed in front of Rhys, shoving the bloody ash daggers into my belt. I gripped his face. Pale—too pale.

  But his eyes opened to slits and he groaned.

  I didn’t say anything as I lunged for the chains holding him, trying not to notice the bloody handprints I’d left on him. The chains were like ice—worse than ice. They felt wrong. I pushed past the pain and strangeness of them, and the weakness that barreled down my spine, and unlatched him.

  His knees slammed into the rock so hard I winced, but I rushed to the other arm, still upraised. Blood flowed down his back, his front, pooling in the dips between his muscles.

  “Rhys,” I breathed. I almost dropped to my own knees as I felt a flicker of him behind his mental shields, as if the pain and exhaustion had reduced it to window-thinness. His wings, peppered with those arrows, remained spread—so painfully taut that I winced. “Rhys—we need to winnow home.”

  His eyes opened again, and he gasped, “Can’t.”

  Whatever poison was on those arrows, then his magic, his strength …

  But we couldn’t stay here, not when the other group was nearby. So I said, “Hold on,” and gripped his hand before I threw us into night and smoke.

  Winnowing was so heavy, as if all the weight of him, all that power, dragged me back. It was like wading through mud, but I focused on the forest, on a moss-shrouded cave I’d seen earlier that day while slaking my thirst, tucked into the side of the riverbank. I’d peeked into it, and nothing but leaves had been within. At least it was safe, if not a bit damp. Better than being in the open—and it was our only option.

  Every mile was an effort. But I kept my grip on his hand, terrified that if I let go, I’d leave him somewhere I might never be able to find, and—

  And then we were there, in that cave, and he grunted in agony as we slammed into the wet, cold stone floor.

  “Rhys,” I pleaded, stumbling in the dark—such impenetrable dark, and with those creatures around us, I didn’t risk a fire—

  But he was so cold, and still bleeding.

  I willed my eyes to shift again, and my throat tightened at the damage. The lashings across his back kept dribbling blood, but the wings … “I have to get these arrows out.”

  He grunted again, hands braced on the floor. And the sight of him like that, unable to even make a sly comment or half smile …

  I went up to his wing. “This is going to hurt.” I clenched my jaw as I studied the way they’d pierced the beautiful membrane. I’d have to snap the arrows in two and slide each end out.

  No—not snapping. I’d have to cut it—slowly, carefully, smoothly, to keep any shards and rough bits from causing further damage. Who knew what an ash splinter might do if it got stuck in there?

  “Do it,” he panted, his voice hoarse.

  There were seven arrows in total: three in this wing, four in the other. They’d removed the ones from his legs, for whatever reason—the wounds already half-clotted.

  Blood dripped on the floor.

  I took the knife from where it was strapped to my thigh, studied the entry wound, and gently gripped the shaft. He hissed. I paused.

  “Do it,” Rhys repeated, his knuckles white as he fisted his hands on the ground.

  I set the small bit of serrated edge against the arrow and began sawing as gently as I could. The blood-soaked muscles of his back shifted and tensed, and his breathing turned sharp, uneven. Too slow—I was going too slowly.

  But any faster and it might hurt him more, might damage the sensitive wing.

  “Did you know,” I said over the sound of my sawing, “that one summer, when I was seventeen, Elain bought me some paint? We’d had just enough to spend on extra things, and she bought me and Nesta presents. She didn’t have enough for a full set, but bought me red and blue and yellow. I used them to the last drop, stretching them as much as I could, and painted little decorations in our cottage.”

  His breath heaved out of him, and I finally sawed through the shaft. I didn’t let him know what I was doing before I yanked out the arrowhead in a smooth pull.

  He swore, body locking up, and blood gushed out—then stopped.

  I almost loosed a sigh of relief. I set to work on the next arrow.

  “I painted the table, the cabinets, the doorway … And we had this old, black dresser in our room—one drawer for each of us. We didn’t have much clothing to put in there, anyway.” I got through the second arrow faster, and he braced himself as I tugged it out. Blood flowed, then clotted. I started on the third. “I painted flowers for Elain on her drawer,” I said, sawing and sawing. “Little roses and begonias and irises. And for Nesta … ” The arrow clattered to the ground and I ripped out the other end.

  I watched the blood flow and stop—watched him slowly lower the wing to the ground, his body trembling.

  “Nesta,” I said, starting on the other wing, “I painted flames for h
er. She was always angry, always burning. I think she and Amren would be fast friends. I think she would like Velaris, despite herself. And I think Elain—Elain would like it, too. Though she’d probably cling to Azriel, just to have some peace and quiet.”

  I smiled at the thought—at how handsome they would be together. If the warrior ever stopped quietly loving Mor. I doubted it. Azriel would likely love Mor until he was a whisper of darkness between the stars.

  I finished the fourth arrow and started on the fifth.

  Rhys’s voice was raw as he said to the floor, “What did you paint for yourself?”

  I drew out the fifth, moving to the sixth before saying, “I painted the night sky.”

  He stilled. I went on, “I painted stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky.” I finished the sixth, and was well on my way sawing through the seventh before I said, “I never knew why. I rarely went outside at night—usually, I was so tired from hunting that I just wanted to sleep. But I wonder … ” I pulled out the seventh and final arrow. “I wonder if some part of me knew what was waiting for me. That I would never be a gentle grower of things, or someone who burned like fire—but that I would be quiet and enduring and as faceted as the night. That I would have beauty, for those who knew where to look, and if people didn’t bother to look, but to only fear it … Then I didn’t particularly care for them, anyway. I wonder if, even in my despair and hopelessness, I was never truly alone. I wonder if I was looking for this place—looking for you all.”

  The blood stopped flowing, and his other wing lowered to the ground. Slowly, the lashes on his back began to clot. I walked around to where he was bowed over the floor, hands braced on the rock, and knelt.

  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.

  CHAPTER

  50

  I slept beside him, offering what warmth I could, monitoring the cave entrance the entirety of the night. The beasts in the forest prowled past in an endless parade, and only in the gray light before dawn did their snarls and hissing fade.

  Rhys was unconscious as watery sunlight painted the stone walls, his skin clammy. I checked his wounds and found them barely healed, an oily sheen oozing from them.

  And when I put a hand on his brow, I swore at the heat.

  Poison had coated those arrows. And that poison remained in his body.

  The Illyrian camp was so distant that my own powers, feeble from the night before, wouldn’t get us far.

  But if they had those horrible chains to nullify his powers, had ash arrows to bring him down, then that poison …

  An hour passed. He didn’t get better. No, his golden skin was pale—paling. His breaths were shallow. “Rhys,” I said softly.

  He didn’t move. I tried shaking him. If he could tell me what the poison was, maybe I could try to find something to help him … He did not awaken.

  Around midday, panic gripped me in a tight fist.

  I didn’t know anything about poisons or remedies. And out here, so far from anyone … Would Cassian track us down in time? Would Mor winnow in? I tried to rouse Rhys over and over.

  The poison had dragged him down deep. I would not risk waiting for help to arrive.

  I would not risk him.

  So I bundled him in as many layers as I could spare, yet took my cloak, kissed his brow, and left.

  We were only a few hundred yards from where I’d been hunting the night before, and as I emerged from the cave, I tried not to look at the tracks of the beasts who had passed through, right above us. Enormous, horrible tracks.

  What I was to hunt would be worse.

  We were already near running water—so I made my trap close by, building my snare with hands that I refused to let shake.

  I placed the cloak—mostly new, rich, lovely—in the center of my snare. And I waited.

  An hour. Two.

  I was about to start bargaining with the Cauldron, with the Mother, when a creeping, familiar silence fell over the wood.

  Rippling toward me, the birds stopped chirping, the wind stopped sighing in the pines.

  And when a crack sounded through the forest, followed by a screech that hollowed out my ears, I nocked an arrow into my bow and set off to see the Suriel.

  It was as horrific as I remembered:

  Tattered robes barely concealing a body made of not skin, but what looked to be solid, worn bone. Its lipless mouth held too-large teeth, and its fingers—long, spindly—clicked against each other while it weighed the fine cloak I’d laid in the center of my snare, as if the cloth had been blown in on a wind.

  “Feyre Cursebreaker,” it said, turning toward me, in a voice that was both one and many.

  I lowered my bow. “I have need of you.”

  Time—I was running out of time. I could feel it, that urgency begging me to hurry through the bond.

  “What fascinating changes a year has wrought on you—on the world,” it said.

  A year. Yes, it had been over a year now since I’d first crossed the wall.

  “I have questions,” I said.

  It smiled, each of those stained, too-large brown teeth visible. “You have two questions.”

  An answer and an order.

  I didn’t waste time; not with Rhys, not when this wood might be full of enemies hunting for us.

  “What poison was used on those arrows?”

  “Bloodbane,” it said.

  I didn’t know that poison—had never heard of it.

  “Where do I find the cure?”

  The Suriel clicked its bone fingers against each other, as if the answer lay inside the sound. “In the forest.”

  I hissed, my brows flattening. “Please—please don’t be cryptic. What is the cure?”

  The Suriel cocked its head, the bone gleaming in the light. “Your blood. Give him your blood, Cursebreaker. It is rich with the healing gift of the High Lord of the Dawn. It shall spare him from the bloodbane’s wrath.”

  “That’s it?” I pushed. “How much blood?”

  “A few mouthfuls will do.” A hollow, dry wind—not at all like the misty, cold veils that usually drifted past—brushed my face. “I helped you before. I have helped you now. And you will free me before I lose my patience, Cursebreaker.”

  Some primal, lingering human part of me trembled as I took in the snare around its legs, pinning it to the ground. Perhaps this time, the Suriel had let itself be caught. And knew how to free itself—had learned it the moment I’d spared it from the naga.

  A test—of honor. And a favor. For the arrow I’d shot to save it last year.

  But I nocked an ash arrow into my bow, cringing at the sheen of poison coating it. “Thank you for your help,” I said, bracing myself for flight should it charge at me.

  The Suriel’s stained teeth clacked against each other. “If you wish to speed your mate’s healing, in addition to your blood, a pink-flowered weed sprouts by the river. Make him chew it.”

  I fired my arrow at the snare before I finished hearing its words.

  The trap sprang free. And the word clicked through me.

  Mate.

  “What did you say?”

  The Suriel rose to its full height, towering over me even from across the clearing. I had not realized that despite the bone, it was
muscled— powerful.

  “If you wish to … ” The Suriel paused, and grinned, showing nearly all of those brown, thick teeth. “You did not know, then.”

  “Say it,” I gritted out.

  “The High Lord of the Night Court is your mate.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure I was breathing.

  “Interesting,” the Suriel said.

  Mate.

  Mate.

  Mate.

  Rhysand was my mate.

  Not lover, not husband, but more than that. A bond so deep, so permanent that it was honored over all others. Rare, cherished.

  Not Tamlin’s mate.

  Rhysand’s.

  I was jealous, and pissed off …

  You’re mine.

  The words slipped out of me, low and twisted, “Does he know?”

  The Suriel clenched the robes of its new cloak in its bone-fingers. “Yes.”

  “For a long while?”

  “Yes. Since—”

  “No. He can tell me—I want to hear it from his lips.”

  The Suriel cocked its head. “You are—you are feeling too much, too fast. I cannot read it.”

  “How can I possibly be his mate?” Mates were equals—matched, at least in some ways.

  “He is the most powerful High Lord to ever walk this earth. You are … new. You are made of all seven High Lords. Unlike anything. Are you two not similar in that? Are you not matched?”

  Mate. And he knew—he’d known.

  I glanced toward the river, as if I could see all the way to the cave, to where Rhysand slept.

  When I looked back at the Suriel, it was gone.

  I found the pink weed, and ripped it out of the ground as I stalked back to the cave.

  Mercifully, Rhys was half-awake, the layers I’d thrown on him now scattered across the blanket, and he gave me a strained smile as I entered.

  I chucked the weed at him, showering his bare chest with soil. “Chew on that.”

  He blinked blearily at me.

  Mate.

  But he obeyed, frowning at the plant before he plucked off a few leaves and started chewing. He grimaced as he swallowed. I tore off my jacket, shoved up my sleeve, and strode to him. He’d known, and kept it from me.