A Court of Wings and Ruin

Only our father had not bled. He hadn’t been given the chance to. And through whatever small mercy of the Mother, the crows hadn’t started on him.

  Elain quietly washed his face. Combed out his hair and beard. Straightened his clothes.

  She found flowers—somewhere. She laid them at his head, on his chest.

  We stared down at him in silence.

  “I love you,” Elain whispered, voice breaking.

  Nesta said nothing, face unreadable. There were such shadows in her eyes. I had not told her what I’d seen—had let them tell me what they wanted.

  Elain breathed, “Should we—say a prayer?”

  We did not have such things in the human world, I remembered. My sisters had no prayers to offer him. But in Prythian …

  “Mother hold you,” I whispered, reciting words I had not heard since that day Under the Mountain. “May you pass through the gates; may you smell that immortal land of milk and honey.” Flame ignited at my fingertips. All I could muster. All that was left. “Fear no evil. Feel no pain.” My mouth trembled as I breathed, “May you enter eternity.”

  Tears slid down Elain’s pallid cheeks as she adjusted an errant flower on our father’s chest, white-petaled and delicate, and then backed away to my side with a nod.

  Nesta’s face did not shift as I sent that fire to ignite our father’s body.

  He was ash on the wind in a matter of moments.

  We stared at the burned slab of earth for long minutes, the sun shifting overhead.

  Steps crunched on the grass behind us.

  Nesta whirled, but—

  Lucien. It was Lucien.

  Lucien, haggard and bloody, panting for breath. As if he’d run from the shore.

  His gaze settled on Elain, and he sagged a little. But Elain only wrapped her arms around herself and remained at my side.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, coming toward us. Spying the blood speckling Elain’s hands.

  He halted short as he noticed the King of Hybern’s decapitated head on the other side of the clearing. Nesta was still showered with his blood.

  “I’m fine,” Elain said quietly. And then asked, noticing the gore on him, the torn clothes and still-bloody weapons, “Are you—”

  “Well, I never want to fight in another battle as long as I live, but … yes, I’m in one piece.”

  A faint smile bloomed on Elain’s lips. But Lucien noticed that scorched patch of grass behind us and said, “I heard—what happened. I’m sorry for your loss. All of you.”

  I just strode to him and threw my arms around his neck, even if it wasn’t the embrace he was hoping for. “Thank you—for coming. With the battle, I mean.”

  “I’ve got one hell of a story to tell you,” he said, squeezing me tightly. “And don’t be surprised if Vassa corners you as soon as the ships are sorted. And the sun sets.”

  “Is she really—”

  “Yes. But your father, ever the negotiator …” A sad, small smile toward that burnt grass. “He managed to cut a deal with Vassa’s keeper to come here. Temporarily, but … better than nothing. But yes—queen by night, firebird by day.” He blew out a breath. “Nasty curse.”

  “The human queens are still out there,” I said. Maybe I’d hunt them down.

  “Not for long—not if Vassa has anything to do with it.”

  “You sound like an acolyte.”

  Lucien blushed, glancing at Elain. “She’s got a foul temper and a fouler mouth.” He cut me a wry look. “You’ll get along just fine.”

  I nudged him in the ribs.

  But Lucien again looked at that singed grass, and his blood-splattered face turned solemn. “He was a good man,” he said. “He loved you all very much.”

  I nodded, unable to form the words. The thoughts. Nesta didn’t so much as blink to indicate she’d heard. Elain just wrapped her arms tighter around herself, a few more tears streaking free.

  I spared Lucien the torment of debating whether to touch her, and linked my arm through his as I began to walk away, letting my sisters decide to follow or remain—if they wanted a moment alone with that burnt grass.

  Elain came.

  Nesta stayed.

  Elain fell into step beside me, peering at Lucien. He noticed it. “I heard you made the killing blow,” he said.

  Elain studied the trees ahead. “Nesta did. I just stabbed him.”

  Lucien seemed to fumble for a response, but I said to him, “So where now? Off with Vassa?” I wondered if he’d heard of Tamlin’s role—the help he’d given us. A look at my friend showed me he had. Someone, perhaps my mate, had informed him.

  Lucien shrugged. “First—here. To help. Then …” Another glance at Elain. “Who knows?”

  I nudged Elain, who blinked at me, then blurted, “You could come to Velaris.”

  He saw all of it, but nodded graciously. “It would be my pleasure.”

  As we strode back to the camp, Lucien told us of his time away—how he’d hunted for Vassa, how he’d found her already with my father, an army marching westward. How Miryam and Drakon had found them on their own journey to help us.

  I was still mulling over all he said when I slipped into my tent to finally change out of my leathers, leaving him and Elain to go find a place to wash up. And talk—perhaps.

  But as I strode through the flaps, sound greeted me within—talking. Many voices, one of them belonging to my mate.

  I got one step inside and knew I wouldn’t be changing my clothes anytime soon.

  For seated in a chair before the brazier was Prince Drakon, Rhys sprawled and still bloody on the cushions across from him. And on the pillows beside Rhys sat a lovely female, her dark hair tumbling down her back in luscious curls, already smiling at me.

  Miryam.

  CHAPTER

  79

  Miryam’s smiling face was more human than High Fae. But Miryam, I remembered as she and Drakon rose to their feet to greet me, was only half Fae. She bore the delicately pointed ears, but … there was something still human about her. In that broad smile that lit up her brown eyes.

  I instantly liked her. Mud splattered her own leathers—a different make than the Illyrians’, but obviously designed by another aerial people to keep warm in the skies—and a few speckles of blood coated the honey-brown skin along her neck and hands, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or care. She held out her hands to me. “High Lady,” Miryam said, her accent the same as Drakon’s. Rolling and rich.

  I took her hands, surprised to find them dry and warm. She squeezed my fingers tightly while I managed to say, “I’ve heard so much about you—thank you for coming.” I cast a look at where Rhys still remained sprawled on the cushions, watching us with raised brows. “For someone who was just dead,” I said tightly, “you seem remarkably relaxed.”

  Rhys smirked. “I’m glad you’re bouncing back to your usual spirits, Feyre darling.”

  Drakon snorted, and took my hands, squeezing them as tightly as his mate had. “What he doesn’t want to tell you, my lady, is that he’s so damn old he can’t stand up right now.”

  I whirled to Rhys. “Are you—”

  “Fine, fine,” Rhys said, waving a hand, even as he groaned a bit. “Though perhaps now you see why I didn’t bother visiting these two for so long. They’re terribly cruel to me.”

  Miryam laughed, plopping down on the cushions again. “Your mate was in the middle of telling us your story, as it seems you’ve already heard ours.”

  I had, but even as Prince Drakon gracefully returned to his seat and I slid into the chair beside his, just watching the two of them … I wanted to know the entire thing. One day—not tomorrow or the day after, but … one day, I wanted to hear their tale in full. But for now …

  “I—saw you two. Battling Jurian.” Drakon instantly stiffened, Miryam’s eyes going shuttered as I asked, “Is he … Is he dead?”

  “No,” was all Drakon said.

  “Mor,” Miryam cut in, frowning, “wound up convincing us not to … settle
things.”

  They would have. From the expression on Drakon’s face, the prince still didn’t seem convinced. And from the haunted gleam in Miryam’s eyes, it seemed as if far more had occurred during that fight than they let on. But I still asked, “Where is he?”

  Drakon shrugged. “After we didn’t kill him, I have no idea where he slithered off to.”

  Rhys gave me a half smile. “He’s with Lord Graysen’s men—seeing to the wounded.”

  Miryam asked carefully, “Are you—friends with Jurian?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean—I don’t think so. But … every word he said was true. And he did help me. A great deal.”

  Neither of them so much as nodded as they exchanged a long glance, unspoken words passing between them.

  Rhys asked, “I thought I saw Nephelle during the battle—any chance I’ll get to say hello, or is she too important now to bother with me?” Laughter—beautiful laughter—danced in his eyes.

  I straightened, smiling. “She’s here?”

  Drakon lifted a dark brow. “You know Nephelle?”

  “Know of her,” I said, and glanced toward the tent flaps as if she’d come striding right in. “I—it’s a long story.”

  “We have time to hear it,” Miryam said, then added, “Or … a bit of time, I suppose.”

  For there were indeed many, many things to sort out. Including—

  I shook my head. “Later,” I said to Miryam, to her mate. The proof that a world could exist without a wall, without a Treaty. “There’s something …” I relayed my thought down the bond to Rhys, earning a nod of approval before I said, “Is your island still secret?”

  Miryam and Drakon exchanged a guilty look. “We do apologize for that,” Miryam offered. “It seems that the glamour worked too well, if it kept well-meaning messengers away.” She shook her head, those beautiful curls moving with her. “We would have come sooner—we left the moment we realized what trouble you all were in.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my own head, scrambling for the words. “No—I don’t blame you. Mother above, we owe you …” I blew out a breath. “We are in your debt.” Drakon and Miryam objected to that, but I went on, “What I mean is … If there was an object of terrible power that now needed to be hidden … Would Cretea remain a good place to conceal it?”

  Again that look between them, a look between mates. “Yes,” Drakon said.

  Miryam breathed, “You mean the Cauldron.”

  I nodded. It had been hauled into our camp, guarded by whatever Illyrians could still stand. None of the other High Lords had asked—for now. But I could see the debate that would rage, the war we might start internally over who, exactly, got to keep the Cauldron. “It needs to disappear,” I said softly. “Permanently.” I added, “Before anyone remembers to lay claim to it.”

  Drakon and Miryam considered, some unspoken conversation passing between them, perhaps down their own mating bond. “When we leave,” Drakon said at last, “one of our ships might find itself a little heavier in the water.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “When are you, exactly, planning to leave?” Rhys asked, lifting a brow.

  “Kicking us out already?” Drakon said with a half smile.

  “A few days,” Miryam cut in wryly. “As soon as the injured are ready.”

  “Good,” I said.

  They all looked to me. I swallowed. “I mean … Not that I’m glad for you to go …” The amusement in Miryam’s eyes spread, twinkling. I smiled myself. “I want you here. Because I’d like to call a meeting.”

  A day later … I didn’t know how it’d come together so quickly. I’d merely explained what I wanted, what we needed to do, and … Rhys and Drakon made it happen.

  There was no proper space to do it—not with the camps in disarray. But there was one place—a few miles off.

  And as the sun set and my family’s half-ruined estate became filled with High Lords and princes, generals and commanders, humans and Fae … I still didn’t have the words to really express it. How we could all gather in the giant sitting room, the only usable space in my family’s old estate, and actually have … this meeting.

  I’d slept through the night, deep and undisturbed, Rhys in bed beside me. I hadn’t let go of him until dawn had leaked into our tent. And then … the war-camps were too full of blood and injured and the dead. And there was this meeting to arrange between various armies and camps and peoples.

  It took all day, but by the end of it, I found myself in the wrecked foyer, Rhys and the others beside me, the chandelier a broken mass behind us on the cracked marble floor.

  The High Lords arrived first. Starting with Beron.

  Beron, who did not so much as glance at his son-who-was-not-his-son. Lucien, standing on my other side, didn’t acknowledge Beron’s existence, either. Or Eris’s, as he strode a step behind his father.

  Eris was bruised and cut up enough to indicate he must have been in terrible shape after the fighting ceased yesterday, sporting a brutal slice down his cheek and neck—barely healed. Mor let out a satisfied grunt at the sight of it—or perhaps a sound of disappointment that the wound had not been fatal.

  Eris continued by as if he hadn’t heard it, but didn’t sneer at least. Rather—he just nodded at Rhys.

  It was silent promise enough: soon. Soon, perhaps, Eris would finally take what he desired—and call in our debt.

  We did not bother to nod back. None of us.

  Especially not Lucien, who continued dutifully ignoring his eldest brother.

  But as Eris strode by … I could have sworn there was something like sadness—like regret, as he glanced to Lucien.

  Tamlin crossed the threshold moments later.

  He had a bandage over his neck, and one over his arm. He came, as he had to that first meeting, with no one in tow.

  I wondered if he knew that this wrecked house had been purchased with the money he’d given my father. With the kindness he’d shown them.

  But Tamlin’s attention didn’t go to me.

  It went to the person just to my left. To Lucien.

  Lucien stepped forward, head high, even as that metal eye whirred. My sisters were already within the sitting room, ready to guide our guests to their predetermined spots. We’d planned those carefully, too.

  Tamlin paused a few feet away. None of us said a word. Not as Lucien opened his mouth.

  “Tamlin—”

  But Tamlin’s attention had gone to the clothes Lucien now wore. The Illyrian leathers.

  He might as well have been wearing Night Court black.

  It was an effort to keep my mouth shut, to not explain that Lucien didn’t have any other clothes with him, and that they weren’t a sign of his allegiance—

  Tamlin just shook his head, loathing simmering in his green eyes, and walked past. Not a word.

  I looked at Lucien in time to see the guilt, the devastation, flicker in that russet eye. Rhys had indeed told Lucien everything about Tamlin’s covert assistance. His help in dragging Beron here. Saving me at the camp. But Lucien remained standing with us as Tamlin found his place in the sitting room to our right. Did not glance at his friend even once.

  Lucien wasn’t foolish enough to beg for forgiveness.

  That conversation, that confrontation—it would take place at another time. Another day, or week, or month.

  I lost track of who filed in afterward. Drakon and Miryam, along with a host of their people. Including—

  I started at the slight, dark-haired female who entered on Miryam’s right, her wings much smaller than the other Seraphim.

  I glanced to where Azriel stood on Rhys’s other side, bandaged all over and wings in splints after he’d worked them too hard yesterday. The shadowsinger nodded in confirmation. Nephelle.

  I smiled at the legendary warrior-scribe when she noticed my stare as she passed by. She grinned right back at me.

  Kallias and Viviane flowed in, along with that female who was indeed her sister
. Then Tarquin and Varian. Thesan and his battered Peregryn captain—whose hand he tightly held.

  Helion was the last of the High Lords to arrive. I didn’t dare look through the ruined doorway to where Lucien now stood in the sitting room, close to Elain’s side as she and my sister silently kept against the wall by the intact bay of windows.

  Beron, wisely, didn’t approach—and Eris only looked over every now and then. To watch.

  Helion was limping, flanked by a few of his captains and generals, but still managed a grim smile. “Better enjoy this while it lasts,” he said to me and Rhys. “I doubt we’ll be so unified when we walk out of here.”

  “Thank you for the words of encouragement,” I said tightly, and Helion chuckled as he eased inside.

  More and more people filled that room, the tense conversation broken up by bursts of laughter or greeting. Rhys at last told our family to head into the room—while he and I waited.

  Waited and waited, long minutes.

  It’d take them longer to arrive, I realized. Since they could not winnow or move as quickly through the world.

  I was about to turn into the room to begin without them when two male figures filled the night-darkened doorway.

  Jurian. And Graysen.

  And behind them … a small contingent of other humans.

  I swallowed hard. Now the difficult part would begin.

  Graysen looked inclined to turn around, the fresh cut down his cheek crinkling as he scowled, but Jurian nudged him in. A black eye bloomed on the left side of Jurian’s face. I wondered if Miryam or Drakon had given it to him. My money was on the former.

  Graysen only gave us a tight nod. Jurian smirked at me.

  “I put you on opposite ends of the room,” I said.

  From both Miryam and Drakon. And from Elain.

  Neither man responded, and only strode, proud and tall, into that room full of Fae.

  Rhys kissed my cheek and strode in behind them. Which left—

  As Lucien had promised, with darkness now overhead, Vassa found me.

  The last to arrive—the last piece of this meeting. She stormed over the threshold, breathless and unfaltering, and paused only a foot away.

  Her unbound hair was a reddish gold, thick dark lashes and brows framing the most stunningly blue eyes I’d ever seen. Beautiful, her freckled skin golden-brown and gleaming. Only a few years older than me, but … young-feeling. Coltish. Fierce and untamed, despite her curse.