A Court of Wings and Ruin

No sign of Elain, but before I could ask, Nesta demanded, “What happened?”

  Rhys glanced to me, then to Amren, who had shot to her feet and was now watching us with the same expression as Nesta’s. My mate said to my sister, “There was a battle. We won.”

  “We know that,” Amren said, her small feet near-silent on the rugs as she strode for us. “What happened with Tarquin?”

  Mor took a breath to say something about Varian that would likely not end well for any of us, so I cut in, “Well, he didn’t try to slaughter us on sight, so … things went decently?”

  Rhys gave me a bemused look. “The royal family remains alive and well. Tarquin’s armada suffered losses, but Cresseida and Varian were unscathed.”

  Something tight in Amren’s face seemed to relax at the words—his careful, diplomatic words.

  But Nesta was glancing between us all, her back still stiff, mouth a thin line. “Where is he?”

  “Who?” Rhys crooned.

  “Cassian.”

  I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one. And Nesta had been … pacing in the foyer.

  As if she was worried.

  I opened my mouth, but Mor beat me to it. “He’s busy.”

  I’d never heard her voice so … sharp. Icy.

  Nesta held Mor’s stare. Her jaw tightened, then relaxed, then tightened—as if fighting some battle to keep questions in. Mor didn’t drop her gaze.

  Mor had never seemed ruffled by mention of Cassian’s past lovers. Perhaps because they’d never meant much—not in the ways that counted. But if the Illyrian warrior no longer stood as a physical and emotional buffer between her and Azriel … And worse, if the person who caused that vacancy was Nesta …

  Mor said flatly, “When he gets back, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.”

  My heart leaped into a furious beat, my arms slack at my sides at the insult, the threat.

  But Rhys said, “Mor.”

  She slowly—so slowly—looked at him.

  There was nothing but uncompromising will in Rhys’s face. “We now leave for the meeting in three days. Send out dispatches to the other High Lords to inform them. And I’m done debating where to meet. Pick a place and be done with it.”

  She stared him down for a heartbeat, then dragged her gaze back to my sister.

  Nesta’s face had not altered, the coldness limning it unbending. She was so still she seemed to barely be breathing. But she did not balk. She did not avert her eyes from the Morrigan.

  Mor vanished with hardly a blink.

  Nesta only turned and headed for the sitting room, where I noticed books had been laid on the low-lying table before the hearth.

  Amren flowed in behind her, tossing a backward look over a shoulder at Rhys. The motion shifted her gray blouse enough that I caught the sparkle of red peeking beneath the fabric.

  The necklace of rubies that she wore, hidden, beneath her shirt. Gifted from Varian.

  But Rhys nodded to Amren, and the female asked my sister, “Where were we?”

  Nesta sat in the armchair, holding herself tightly enough that the whites of her knuckles arced through her skin. “You were explaining how the territory lines were formed between courts.”

  The words were distant—brittle. And—They’ve also taken up history lessons?

  I’m as shocked as you are that the house is still standing.

  I swallowed my laugh, linking my arm through his and tugging him down the hall. It had been a while since I’d seen him so … dirty. We both needed a bath, but there was something I had to do first. Needed to do.

  Behind us, Amren murmured to Nesta, “Cassian has gone to war many times, girl. He isn’t general of Rhys’s forces for nothing. This battle was a skirmish compared to what lies ahead. He’s likely visiting the families of the fallen as we speak. He’ll be back before the meeting.”

  Nesta said, “I don’t care.”

  At least she was talking again.

  I halted Rhys halfway down the hall.

  With so many listening ears in the house, I said down the bond, Take me to the Prison. Right now.

  Rhys asked no questions.

  CHAPTER

  40

  I had no bone to bring with me. And though every step up that hillside and then down into the dark ripped and weighed on me, I kept moving. Kept planting one foot in front of the other.

  I had the feeling Rhys did the same.

  Standing before the Bone Carver two hours later, the ancient death-god still wearing my would-be son’s skin, I said, “Find another object that you desire.”

  The Carver’s violet eyes flared. “Why does the High Lord linger in the hall?”

  “He has little interest in seeing you.”

  Partially true. Rhys had wondered if the blow to his pride would work in our favor.

  “You reek of blood—and death.” The Carver breathed in a great lungful of air. Of my scent.

  “Pick another object than the Ouroboros,” was all I said.

  Hybern knew about our histories, our would-be allies. There remained a shred of hope that he would not see the Carver coming.

  “I desire nothing else than my window to the world.”

  I avoided the urge to clench my hands into fists.

  “I could offer you so many other things.” My voice turned low, honeyed.

  “You are afraid to claim the mirror.” The Bone Carver angled his head. “Why?”

  “You are not afraid of it?”

  “No.” A little smile. He leaned to the side. “Are you frightened of it, too, Rhysand?”

  My mate didn’t bother to answer from the hall, though he did come to lean against the threshold, crossing his arms. The Carver sighed at the sight of him—the dirt and blood and wrinkled clothes, and said, “Oh, I much prefer you bloodied up.”

  “Pick something else,” I replied. And not a fool’s errand this time.

  “What would you give me? Riches do me no good down here. Power holds no sway over the stone.” He chuckled. “What about your firstborn?” A secret smile as he gestured with that small boy’s hand to himself.

  Rhys’s attention slid to me, surprise—surprise and something deeper, more tender—flickering on his face. Not just any boy, then.

  My cheeks heated. No. Not just any boy.

  “It is rude, Majesties, to speak when no one can hear you.”

  I sliced a glare toward the Carver. “There is nothing else, then.” Nothing else that won’t break me if I so much as look upon it?

  “Bring me the Ouroboros and I am yours. You have my word.”

  I weighed the beatific expression on the Carver’s face before I strode out.

  “Where is my bone?” The demand cracked through the gloom.

  I kept walking. But Rhys chucked something at him. “From lunch.”

  The Carver’s hiss of outrage as a chicken bone skittered over the floor followed us out.

  In silence, we began the trek up through the Prison. The mirror—I’d have to find some way to get it. After the meeting. Just in case it did indeed … destroy me.

  What does he look like?

  The question was soft—tentative. I knew who he meant.

  I interlaced my fingers through Rhysand’s and squeezed tightly. Let me show you.

  And as we walked through the darkness, toward that distant, still-hidden light, I did.

  We were starving by the time we returned to the town house. And since neither of us felt like waiting for food to be prepared, Rhys and I headed right for the kitchen, passing by Amren and Nesta with little more than a wave.

  My mouth was already watering as Rhys shouldered open the swinging door into the kitchen.

  But we beheld what was within and halted.

  Elain stood between Nuala and Cerridwen at the long worktable. All three of them covered in flour. Some sort of doughy mess on the surface before them.

  The two handmaiden-spies instantly bowed to Rhys, and
Elain—

  There was a slight sparkle in her brown eyes.

  As if she’d been enjoying herself with them.

  Nuala swallowed hard. “The lady said she was hungry, so we went to make her something. But—she said she wanted to learn how, so …” Hands wreathed in shadows lifted in a helpless gesture, flour drifting off them like veils of snow. “We’re making bread.”

  Elain was glancing between all of us, and as her eyes began to shutter, I gave her a broad smile and said, “I hope it’ll be done soon—I’m starved.”

  Elain offered a faint smile in return and nodded.

  She was hungry. She was … doing something. Learning something.

  “We’re going to bathe,” I announced, even as my stomach grumbled. “We’ll leave you to your baking.”

  I tugged Rhys into the hall before they’d finished saying good-bye, the kitchen door swinging shut behind us.

  I put a hand on my chest, leaning against the wood panels of the stair wall. Rhys’s hand covered my own a heartbeat later.

  “That was what I felt,” he said, “when I saw you smile that night we dined along the Sidra.”

  I leaned forward, resting my brow against his chest, right over his heart. “She still has a long way to go.”

  “We all do.”

  He stroked a hand over my back. I leaned into the touch, savoring his warmth and strength.

  For long minutes, we stood there. Until I said, “Let’s go find somewhere to eat—outside.”

  “Hmmm.” He showed no sign of letting go.

  I looked up at last. Found his eyes shining with that familiar, wicked light. “I think I’m hungry for something else,” he purred.

  My toes curled in my boots, but I lifted my brows and said coolly, “Oh?”

  Rhys nipped at my earlobe, then whispered in my ear as he winnowed us up to our bedroom, where two plates of food now waited on the desk. “I owe you for last night, mate.”

  He gave me the courtesy, at least, of letting me pick what he consumed first: me or the food.

  I picked wisely.

  Nesta was waiting at the breakfast table the next morning.

  Not for me, I realized as her gaze slipped over me as if I were no more than a servant. But for someone else.

  I kept my mouth shut, not bothering to tell her Cassian was still up at the war-camps. If she wouldn’t ask … I wasn’t getting in the middle of it.

  Not when Amren claimed that my sister was close—so close—to grasping whatever skill was involved in potentially patching up the wall. If she would only unleash herself, Amren said. I didn’t dare suggest that perhaps the world wasn’t quite ready for that.

  I ate my breakfast in silence, my fork scraping across the plate. Amren said she was close to finding what we needed in the Book, too—whatever spell my sister would wield. How Amren knew, I had no idea. It didn’t seem wise to ask.

  Nesta only spoke when I rose to my feet. “You’re going to that meeting in two days.”

  “Yes.”

  I braced myself for whatever she intended to say.

  Nesta glanced toward the front windows, as if still waiting, still watching.

  “You went off into battle. Without a second thought. Why?”

  “Because I had to. Because people needed help.”

  Her blue-gray eyes were near-silver in the trickle of morning light. But Nesta said nothing else, and after waiting for another moment, I left, winnowing up to the House for my flying lesson with Azriel.

  CHAPTER

  41

  The next two days were so busy that the lesson with Azriel was the only time I trained with him. The spymaster had returned from dispatching the messages Mor had written about the meeting moving up. They had agreed on the date, at least. But Mor’s declaration of the spot, despite her unyielding language, had been universally rejected. Thus continued the endless back-and-forth between courts.

  Under the Mountain had once been their neutral meeting place.

  Even if it hadn’t been sealed, no one was inclined to meet there now.

  So the debate raged about who would host the gathering of all the High Lords.

  Well, six of them. Beron, at last, had deigned to join. But no word had come from the Spring Court, though we knew the messages had been received.

  All of us would go—save Amren and Nesta, who the former insisted needed to practice more. Especially when Amren had found a passage in the Book last night that might be what we needed to fix the wall.

  With only hours to spare the evening before, it was finally agreed that the meeting would take place in the Dawn Court. It was close enough to the middle of the land, and since Kallias, High Lord of Winter, would not allow anyone into his territory after the horrors Amarantha had wrought upon its people, it was the only other area flanking that neutral middle land.

  Rhys and Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court, were on decent terms. Dawn was mostly neutral in any conflict, but as one of the three Solar Courts, their allegiance always leaned toward each other. Not as strong an ally as Helion Spell-Cleaver in the Day Court, but strong enough.

  It didn’t stop Rhys, Mor, and Azriel from gathering around the dining table at the town house the night before to go over every kernel of information they’d ever learned about Thesan’s palace—about possible pitfalls and traps. And escape routes.

  It was an effort not to pace, not to ask if perhaps the risks outweighed the benefits. So much had gone wrong in Hybern. So much was going wrong throughout the world. Every time Azriel spoke, I heard his roar of pain as that bolt went through his chest. Every time Mor countered an argument, I saw her pale-faced and backing away from the king. Every time Rhys asked for my opinion, I saw him kneeling in his friends’ blood, begging the king not to sever our bond.

  Nesta and Amren paused their practicing in the sitting room every so often so that the latter could chime in with some bit of advice or warning regarding the meeting. Or so that Amren could snap at Nesta to concentrate, to push harder. While she herself combed through the Book.

  A few more days, Amren declared when Nesta at last went upstairs, complaining of a headache. A few more days, and my sister, through whatever mysterious power, might be able to do something. That is, Amren added, if she could crack that promising section of the Book in time. And with that, the dark-haired female bid us good night—to go read until her eyes were bleeding, she claimed.

  Considering how awful the Book was, I wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking.

  The others weren’t, either.

  I barely touched my dinner. And I barely slept that night, twisting in the sheets until Rhys woke and patiently listened to me murmur my fears until they were nothing but shadows.

  Dawn broke, and as I dressed, the morning unfurled into a sunny, dry day.

  Though we would be going to the meeting as we truly were, our usual attire remained the same: Rhys in his preferred black jacket and pants, Azriel and Cassian in their Illyrian armor, all seven Siphons polished and gleaming. Mor had forgone her usual red gown for one of midnight blue. It was cut with the same revealing panels and flowing, gauzy skirts, but there was something … restrained in it. Regal. A princess of the realm.

  The usual attire—except my own.

  I had not found a new gown. For there was no other gown that could top the one I now wore as I stood in the foyer while the clock on the sitting room mantel struck eleven.

  Rhys hadn’t yet come downstairs, and there was no sign of Amren or Nesta to see us off. We’d gathered a few minutes earlier, but … I looked down at myself again. Even in the warm faelight of the foyer, the gown glittered and gleamed like a fresh-cut jewel.

  We had taken my gown from Starfall and refashioned it, adding sheer silk panels to the back shoulders, the glittering material like woven starlight as it flowed behind me in lieu of a veil or cape. If Rhysand was Night Triumphant, I was the star that only glowed thanks to his darkness, the light only visible because of him.

  I scowled up t
he stairs. That is, if he bothered to show up on time.

  My hair, Nuala had swept into an ornate, elegant arc across my head, and in front of it …

  I caught Cassian glancing at me for the third time in less than a minute and demanded, “What?”

  His lips twitched at the corners. “You just look so …”

  “Here we go,” Mor muttered from where she picked at her red-tinted nails against the stair banister. Rings glinted at every knuckle, on every finger; stacks of bracelets tinkled against each other on either wrist.

  “Official,” Cassian said with an incredulous look in her direction. He waved a Siphon-topped hand to me. “Fancy.”

  “Over five hundred years old,” Mor said, shaking her head sadly, “a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complimenting ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?”

  Azriel, wreathed in shadows by the front door, chuckled quietly. Cassian shot him a glare. “I don’t see you spouting poetry, brother.”

  Azriel crossed his arms, still smiling faintly. “I don’t need to resort to it.”

  Mor let out a crow of laughter, and I snorted, earning a jab in the ribs from Cassian. I batted his hand away, but refrained from the shove I wanted to give him, only because it was the first I’d seen of him since Adriata and shadows still dimmed his eyes—and because of the precarious-feeling thing atop my head.

  The crown.

  Rhys had crowned me at each and every meeting and function we’d had, long before I was his mate, long before I was his High Lady. Even Under the Mountain.

  I’d never questioned the tiaras and diadems and crowns that Nuala or Cerridwen wove into my hair. Never objected to them—even before things between us had been this way. But this one … I peered up the stairs as Rhys’s strolling, unhurried footsteps thudded on the carpet.

  This crown was heavier. Not unwelcome, but … strange. And as Rhys appeared at the top of the stairs, resplendent in that black jacket, his wings out and gleaming as if he’d polished them, I was again in that room he’d brought me to late last night, after I’d awoken him with my thrashing and twisting in bed.