Chapter 2 — Feyre - A Court of Splintered Harmony

I hated Storr. I didn’t know how it was possible to hate a place I’d only just seen for the first time, but from the moment I’d winnowed onto this wave-blasted shard of granite in the middle of the Northern Sea, its freezing emptiness had sunk into my very bones.

No grass grew here. No seaweed clung to the oddly geometric boulders along the shore. No trees, no birds. Not even gulls sailing high above. Only salty spray carried on the biting wind. And the round stone building squatting in the center of the rock.

Storr provided only one use: neutral territory. Not for any of us in the seven courts, but between Prythian and the continent.

The stone building—more of an oversized chamber—was an ancient meeting spot, empty save for a circular table made of rock in its center and matching chairs, all so rarely used that orange lichen coated them like old blood splatters.

Lighting the oxidized braziers along the walls hadn’t added much cheer. Nor had the large fire in the roaring hearth, the stone fashioned into a gaping sea serpent’s mouth. A few of its carved fangs had cracked off and now lay in rubble on the mossy hearthstones. No one had ever bothered to sweep them up. Or perhaps no one had set foot in this chamber since they’d fallen long ago.

But we weren’t on Storr for a merry assembly, in any case—lighting the fire was about as much effort as I was willing to put in to cheer up the room. There were to be nine of us negotiating today: Rhys and Mor and me, and three apiece from the two territories we’d worked so hard to get here, Vallahan and Montesere.

Rask hadn’t deigned to reply to our invitations these past months. But we’d gladly taken a meeting with two out of three potential enemies.

They knew why we’d gathered them here. Mor had been in Vallahan often enough since the Hybern War that they’d be fools not to have some inkling of what we wanted. And what Vallahan knew, Montesere knew. Their network of spies rivaled anything Azriel could send their way.

It was Az’s experience with those spies a few days ago that had prompted this meeting. The sliver of information he’d obtained that made us send out this latest round of invitations.

So here we all were: the King and Queen and Prince of Vallahan, and from Montesere, the grand vizier, the Duke of Bernion, and the Mistress of the Unseen—their version of a High Priestess. A mighty royal group, and already the haughtiest of any I’d encountered.

So at least I didn’t need to look pleasant.

Granted, on the outside, I appeared every bit the imperious High Lady of the Night Court: my night-black, shimmering gown cut to reveal swaths of pale skin, my favorite moon-phase crown atop my head, bloodred stain on my lips, and swoops of kohl around my eyes.

I had to give Rhys’s tailor credit: she’d discreetly outfitted the slits over my chest with absorbent swatches of cloth. So when my tender, swollen breasts inevitably began to leak—which would be soon now, given the rising pressure in them—the milk would be sopped up before soaked spots appeared.

A month after Nyx’s arrival, I’d been needed in the Court of Nightmares, and had donned one of my usual gowns. It somewhat lessened the Get in line or there will be hell to pay speech I was delivering when breast milk had begun darkening the front of my gown.

Only Keir’s mocking smile had kept me from excusing myself. I had continued talking, daring him to mention the growing stain. I was absolutely fine with breast milk dribbling down my front—if he had a problem with it, that was his to deal with. I let it become his discomfort, not mine.

But I did have problems of my own with meeting the demands of both a High Lady and a new mother. I didn’t want my son anywhere near Keir or the Hewn City. Didn’t want him with anyone beyond our loved ones in Velaris. But Nyx needed to eat every few hours. Sometimes every hour, depending on the day.

It was easier now that he was almost six months old and not feeding as frequently, and we were even going so far as to introduce him to mashed foods. On days like today, though, when Rhys and I had traveled far . . . it would have been a great deal easier to bring Nyx with us.

But I wasn’t bringing him anywhere near these people, either. And I hated—hated, deep down in my bones—that the assortment of merciless faces gathered here even knew that my glorious, lovely son existed. Hated that if they wanted me to yield to their desires, all they had to do was get their hands on him.

They knew it. I knew it. And from the tremendous, dark power rippling off Rhys from the moment we’d left Velaris . . . my mate knew it, too. I knew Rhys would obliterate anyone who so much as breathed a hint of a threat, diplomacy be damned.

Thankfully, the present company knew that as well. And powerful as they might be, the beast that prowled beneath Rhys’s beautiful exterior made them think twice.

Not that we hadn’t taken precautions.

The terms for this meeting had been three delegates per group. We’d brought four.

Azriel—no more than a mere shadow—was barely detectable by the sealed stone doors behind me. Only those of us who knew the exact shade of his darkness would ever realize he was there.

But we weren’t stupid enough to think the others hadn’t taken precautions of their own. The inherent magic of Storr’s neutrality oaths kept any sort of wards or magical traps from being laid, but just because I couldn’t sense anyone else in the vicinity didn’t mean they weren’t present. The magic of this place had allowed Azriel in, after all.

“Well,” the golden-haired Queen of Vallahan said, her blue eyes as frozen as the icy mountains of her territory. Nestled in her heavy cloak of furs, a braided circlet of gold across her pale brow and tattooed runes running down her long, bony fingers, she cut an imposing figure. Though no weapons adorned her, there was something about her direct gaze, her stillness, that radiated warrior. Perhaps not one who’d fight on battlefields, but one who would kill to defend what was hers. That gaze now fixed wholly on me. “We have come to the ancient truce-lands of our kind to hear your groveling.” She flicked one of those tattooed hands. “Proceed with your flattering speeches.”

I bristled at the command, the swift assessment of me: that no matter what I had sacrificed, what victories I had achieved, to her I would always be a lowly human girl in fancy Fae clothes. But I kept my face composed, unbothered.

Let her underestimate me at her own risk.

I answered calmly, “Are you in need of refreshment? We’ve brought wine and ripe fruits.” On cue, Rhys bade them appear on the stone table from the pocket realm where he’d stored them.

There were two layers to my words, the food and drink. On the one hand, I was establishing myself and Rhys as the hosts of this meeting. We were not to be commanded.

And on the other . . . the Prince of Vallahan gave himself away first.

He was young, golden-haired and blue-eyed like his mother, and hard-faced like his father. But where his mother’s eyes were a frozen lake, his reminded me of the hottest part of a flame. And they simmered as they lit upon the spread of rare fruits from our fields and hothouses: glistening bunches of red grapes, oranges as round and vibrant as the setting sun, melon halves in alternating hues of sea-green and coral, lemon wedges whose scent brightened the miserable air around us.

Fruits that we knew Vallahan did not have, and could never grow in their frigid climate. Fruits they paid through the nose to import from more southern kingdoms as rare luxuries. And here they were, spread casually before the prince. Had he ever tasted an orange? I doubted that he’d ever even smelled one.

The Grand Vizier of Montesere motioned with a ring-encrusted hand to the glass pitchers alongside the fruits. “Is that watery swill what you pass off as wine these days?”

Rhys smiled coolly. His wings were hidden, but he wore the black crown of the High Lord of the Night Court above his usual dark regalia. “It’s been a while since I tasted Monteserian wine.” His voice was smooth as silk and lethal as a newly honed blade. “And longer since you tasted ours. Maybe we’ve learned a few tricks in the past five centuries.”

The grand vizier scoffed. He appeared middle-aged, which for High Fae meant he was likely very old, and though a jeweled dagger hung at his belt, he had no calluses on his pasty hands, no warrior’s scars to mark him. A male who’d spent his life indoors, fighting with words and ink. But no less deadly than the warrior-duke to his left.

It was that male who now chuckled. Broad-chested, with a crooked nose that even with Fae healing abilities had clearly been broken several times over the centuries, the Duke of Bernion seemed like a fighter who’d been forced to dress respectably. He said wryly, “If this is a ploy to get us to open trade with you once again, you’ll be disappointed, Rhysand.”

Rhys winked at him. “Good thing we’re not here to talk about trade.”

Mother, he was slick. My toes curled in my black silk slippers. This male was my mate—mine in body and soul. Would the thought ever stop kindling such pride and desire?

I glanced at Mor, seated on my left. She wore a variation on her usual red gossamer gowns, with a gold-embroidered jacket lined with fox fur to keep the bitter cold at bay. A black circlet of twining serpents sat on her unbound golden hair—she was a queen in her own right.

It was true, I supposed. The distant ancestors that she and Rhys shared had been the first of the line after the fall of the Daglan. The Asteri, as they were called elsewhere.

But now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Mor continued to stare pointedly at the Queen of Vallahan. Focus, Mor seemed to say, though the walls of my mind were firmly up and she had no daemati abilities. You aren’t here to swap barbed compliments.

I followed her lead. She was right, of course. There was a reason both Azriel and I had come to this meeting, when only Rhys and Mor would have been necessary. A reason urgent enough that I’d left our son at home, and now made myself appear every inch the imposing High Lady that I was, shoulders pushing back, chin lifting.

The duke appraised the group with a sharp-eyed yet cool indifference. “You are here to convince us that allying with you would be better than with these warmongers in the north.”

The Prince of Vallahan scowled. The young prince was a warrior, too—but before the Duke of Bernion, the prince was little more than an angry boy. From the way the duke smirked, I knew he thought the same.

The King of Vallahan said to the duke, “I know you well enough, Valderic, not to take insult.” His queen, however, was filled with the same ire as her son. The King of Vallahan, red-haired and bearded—unusual for one of the High Fae—continued with the calmness of a soldier who’d navigated battlefields his entire immortal existence, “And I know you well enough, Morrigan, to at least consider what your High Lord and Lady have to say.”

Mor offered a slight smile to the king. She was the reason we’d even gotten this meeting—her hard work for months on end, the bonds she’d built in Vallahan. All for this moment.

The prince positively sparked with resentment, especially as his father nodded his respect to Mor. As if my friend had become a rival for his father’s affections. It was a deadly combination: a skilled fighter with the temperament of a sullen teenager.

That’s exactly what he is, Rhys said into my mind, the mating bond always keeping the line of communication open unless we willed it shut. You’re right to be on guard around him.

I don’t like him or his mother. I sent a mental sigh down the bond. Even though Mor prepared us, some small part of me still hoped that we’d arrive here and find them to be nice, reasonable people.

Rhys’s star-kissed laugh danced through my mind. Haven’t your years with the Fae taught you anything? Nice and reasonable are words seldom used to describe us.

I sent back a flicker of amusement before I announced to the group, “The fruit and drink are here for your enjoyment, regardless of—”

The last member of the group held up a hand.

Like the Grand Vizier of Montesere, the Mistress of the Unseen was pale, middle-aged, and reedy. Her long brown hair, in twin braids plaited with strands of gold, gleamed amongst the folds of her green velvet robe. For someone whose title suggested subtlety, her garb was anything but. In fact, it might have been of finer make than even that of the duke and the grand vizier.

I inclined my head slightly. Enough for respect, but not deference. “Yes?”

The Mistress of the Unseen folded her hands in her lap, graceful as two nesting doves, her narrow face serene. But her chestnut-colored eyes were shrewd and humorless as she said, “I would have the Unseen Gods bless us before we begin. As is customary in my lands.”

I fought to keep from tensing. It wasn’t the words, but rather the tone that took me back to another place and time, when another female adorned in the trappings of spiritual finery had spoken of gods and blessings with similar entitlement.

Ianthe was long dead, torn to shreds by the Weaver. I’d seen to that. And I relished her death still. But the damage she’d done—to me, to Rhys and Lucien—remained.

In the years since her death, I’d learned that Ianthe was nothing more than a false priestess, her title and elevated station merely bought and not Cauldron-blessed. That betrayal of faith and truth went deep. Once, in long-past millennia, the Cauldron itself had appointed twelve High Priestesses to its holy governing council, in turn guided by the High Priestess of all Prythian. Each of the twelve on the Sacred Council had been marked on their brow with a sigil of a full moon flanked by two crescent moons. A symbol only the Cauldron could bestow on the dozen Mother-chosen females. But on the High Priestess of Prythian herself, that tattoo had been spread across her collarbones.

In the thousands of years since there had last been a Sacred Council, it had become customary for all priestesses to bear tattoos on their brows, bestowed in an annual ceremony. But Ianthe’s tattoos had not been bestowed during the ritual, and had not been in accordance with the holy symbolism of the priestesses’ marks. They’d been a flight of fancy on Ianthe’s part, an elaborate component of what was ultimately a costume. Rhys had told me that she’d bragged to him about them once—that she felt they were better than the true priestesses’ tattoos by virtue of being specifically chosen.

No one had bothered to explain that to me, though. I had been so naïve then, so new to this Fae world, that I had not recognized the tattoos as a marker of what a fraud and liar Ianthe was.

I knew now, though. And this Mistress of the Unseen was no better than her former Prythian counterpart.

“A blessing would be appreciated,” Rhysand said graciously to the Mistress. “We are happy to honor all gods here.”

The Prince of Vallahan rolled his eyes, either at my mate’s diplomacy or the Mistress’s request, but he followed his mother’s lead as she bowed her head.

The Mistress of the Unseen stood, emerald robes shimmering in the firelight, and lifted her hands. The heavy sleeves of her robe fell back to reveal forearms tattooed with arcs and lines, akin to the slashings of a feral animal. Pain seemed to limn each one.

The Mistress closed her eyes, revealing more tattoos on the lids, which suddenly glowed pale blue. Unlike the slashings on her arms, these lines swirled to become another set of eyes. And as they flared, more lines leaked from them, spilling onto her cheeks and up to her forehead. A growing, living thing.

It was otherworldly. Unsettling. Especially as those tattooed eyes surveyed the room with their own sort of sentience.

Ancient spell work, Rhys said into my mind. Mostly a fancy show.

Hush, I sent back, bowing my head. I’m trying to be respectful.

Is that what that pinched expression on your face is? I would never have guessed.

Beneath the table, I dug my foot into the side of his leg. Rhys playfully squeezed my knee back.

The Mistress’s words hissed across the chamber. “All hail the Unseen, whose whispers guide us toward a pure world of harmony.”

Those tattooed eyes darted back and forth, as if the Mistress—or whatever being peered out of those eyes—was measuring our reactions for any hint of disrespect. “All who bow before you are the Chosen, blessed children. Only those who honor you shall be granted true, everlasting life beyond the icy grip of death. To worship you is to spread love, to worship you is a privilege we thank you for daily.”

Blessed. Children. I’d heard those words before.

It had been a long while since I’d thought of the Children of the Blessed, the misguided humans who’d worshipped the Fae, going so far as to try to cross the wall to serve Fae masters. Those who had managed had never been seen again in the human world.

What had become of them now that the wall was gone? Had the war between Hybern and Prythian awakened them to the true dangers? Or had they run northward as soon as they could, right into the arms of Fae who’d use and then discard them? I’d encountered one who’d done exactly that during the Hybern War—a young woman who’d somehow wound up in our enemy’s war camp. Az and I had freed her, and Mor had made sure she was safe with Viviane and the Winter Court army. I never saw her again. I’d prayed she’d found her way, but I had my doubts.

And as for the other Children of the Blessed in the human realm, with the wall now gone . . . If they reached Night Court lands, we’d have helped them. But they’d be lucky to even clear the northern border of the Spring Court. And these days, no one was watching out for anyone in the Spring Court, let alone foolish young humans.

I willed myself to turn back to the Mistress. To meet those tattooed eyes.

They were already staring at me, blazing near-white. A chill skittered down my spine.

Whatever studied me wasn’t the warm, strong force I’d felt before in Prythian. The force that had saved me, my son, and Nesta’s power. This force, this being, was something wholly different from the Mother. And it didn’t feel kind.

A shadow shifted behind me, but I didn’t dare try to see if Az was there. I knew he wouldn’t be visible anyway.

“I beg you,” the Mistress intoned, “bless this meeting, bless your true adherents, and turn the hearts of the nonbelievers to your cause. In your name, we shall do the good work to ready this world so it may one day be purified for your Great Revealing. I beg you again, bless us all.”

The Mistress lowered her hands, the tattoos around her eyes shrinking and fading. And as she opened her eyes, her gaze was already fixed on mine again. “Given the gravity of our talks today,” she said, her mouth thinning, “some divine assistance seemed necessary.”

The grand vizier grunted, but the Duke of Bernion remained notably impassive.

The Mistress didn’t drop her stare from mine, her face stern as she suddenly asked, “Have you dedicated your child to the service of your Mother yet?”

It took every ounce of self-control to keep from snarling at her mere mention of Nyx. I didn’t need to look at my mate to know he fought the same battle. Instead, I asked as blandly as I could, “What business is it of yours?”

“The Unseen whispered to me of his unbound soul.”

It would take me half a thought to send a lash of flame to wrap around her neck. To squeeze until something popped.

But the Duke of Bernion laid a warning hand on the arm of the Mistress’s chair and said, “While I know you speak with the kindest intentions, Mistress, we should leave our companions to decide what is best for their son.”

The Mistress didn’t take her eyes off me. I’d never hated anyone more.

Rhys answered smoothly, not a glimmer of the lethal rage I knew was smoldering right beneath the surface, “His Naming Day approaches. No more unbound soul after that.” His teeth flashed in a smile that was pure predator.

Our son’s Naming Day would be a modest ceremony to officially add Nyx’s name to the court’s lineage, then a party for which I’d handed off the planning to Elain, though the Mistress didn’t need to know any of that. Most babes had their Naming Day on the eighth day after birth, but . . . well, things had played out differently for us. We’d settled on the Autumn Equinox, six months after Nyx was born, if only to give us time to settle things enough for a party. And feel like having one.

The Queen of Vallahan cut in imperiously, “And I suppose our invitations to your son’s Naming Day were lost?” She gestured at Mor, and though I did not appreciate her one bit, I couldn’t help but admire how the rune tattoos on her fingers were etched with razor-sharp precision. “Or were you going to hand-deliver them?”

“The ceremony is limited to family,” Rhys answered, unruffled. “Nothing fancy.”

I kept my face blank. Rhys had wanted shooting stars, cascading garlands, at least three choirs in his initial vision of the celebration. We’d settled on something more reasonable: lunchtime tea and cakes. The Autumn Equinox wasn’t one of our largest celebrations at the Night Court, but its feasting and harvest decorations would certainly add some pleasant vibrancy to our own merriment.

“Wasn’t there some old story,” the Queen of Vallahan mused, fingers now drumming on the stone table, “about the dangers of not inviting everyone you know, even those you don’t like, to life’s great celebrations?”

I glanced at Mor, searching for a hint as to what story the queen was referencing. Mor’s brown eyes darkened. “Are you planning on sending a curse Nyx’s way?”

A rumble of deep, unbreakable power reverberated down my mating bond. Rhys was one breath away from violence.

The queen smiled, all teeth—well aware of the monster she had provoked, and finding it highly amusing. “Of course not. I am simply offering advice.” A nod toward the Mistress, now watching us with naked distaste. “As was she.”

“We appreciate it,” I bit out.

“Enough with babes and curses,” the Prince of Vallahan said, crossing his muscled arms, fur coat shifting with the movement. “Let us get down to the business we came here to discuss.” His father shot him a weary, reproachful look, but his mother lifted her chin in approval.

I refrained from telling Mor mind to mind that we should drastically increase her salary for dealing with these people. And maybe give her a nice, long vacation.

“Very well,” Rhys agreed, interlacing his fingers and setting them on the table as if he had not been poised to turn the Queen of Vallahan into bloody mist a heartbeat ago. “If you already know what we wish to discuss, then it shall come as no surprise when I ask what, exactly, are your intentions regarding the human lands to the south.”

My mate was a beautiful balance of charm and power—and implied threat. He could handle them easily. So while he did what he was best at, it was time for me to embark upon my own mission.

Az had likely already completed his shadows’ sweep of the room. Half a thought had my own magic unspooling, invisible threads that wended around the table, lightly brushing over the occupants.

Both Az and I had come to seek a Made object, using our very different powers to detect whether one of our enemies possessed such a thing—and were dumb enough to bring it here.

Az hadn’t been able to confirm it a few days ago, when he’d braved Montesere’s highest peak on information from one of his spies: a Made object was being hunted by Montesere, Rask, and Vallahan, but did our enemies already have possession of a Made object? Did they seek a second, or were they still searching for their first? Aside from the Trove, which required that its bearer be Made, most other Made objects could be wielded by anyone with magic. A category that certainly included our enemies.

I was one of the few people in any territory who might be able to detect if they already had one. A Made object, either on them or recently used by one of them, would have left a lingering aura of power. A scent, like the odor of smoke from a bonfire. Or so Nesta and Amren had claimed when Az presented his findings.

Nesta would have perceived such an object in a heartbeat, but her mere existence was already unsettling enough for these people. Bringing her would have been an unwanted distraction—and possibly interpreted as a threat. Elain, of course, was too inexperienced. So even though my Made powers were different from theirs, it was worth a shot. Worth it for Az and his shadows to see if something felt amiss. They were not Made, but they could sense such things.

Focusing now on my task, I vaguely heard the Grand Vizier of Montesere ask Rhys, “And why do you think we have any interest in the human lands?”

I let Rhys answer the preening male. “Because you refuse to sign the new treaty we’ve drafted. And you refuse to give any explanation as to why.”

My magic coiled up the legs of their chairs, over their laps, their arms. I detected nothing.

“What reason do we need to decline,” challenged the Queen of Vallahan, her husky voice like claws on stone, “other than refusing to have our fates dictated by a territory that endured no consequences from the war five centuries ago, yet thinks they know what is best for us?”

Nothing lingered about the king, the prince. My power traced over the queen’s tattooed fingers, cutting along the lines of the runes. Nothing.

The Duke of Bernion said carefully, “I would agree with the Queen of Vallahan.” He surveyed Rhys, Mor, and me with unflinching frankness. I forced myself to feign intense focus. As if I weren’t wrapping my magic around them one by one. “Prythian only yielded a sliver of lands to humans, and that came from one court only.” The Spring Court, the idle part of my mind supplied. I kept at my task. “Meanwhile, the continent was split in half. Some Fae lost their homelands entirely, their territories erased from existence, their people now scattered to the winds. And those of us who remained have had to share, our borders shrinking to the point of insult. Not to mention the massive swath of unattached Fae lands in the middle of the continent. They were intended for those without homelands to return to, but that never came to pass. They’re now a chaotic patchwork of feuding lordlings and war-bands, leaderless and rotting away. Our campaign would reclaim those lands, too. Unify the Fae in them once more, with the incentive of stability, wealth, and a stake in the retaken human lands.”

The words were enough to make me pause, just for a moment, to listen fully.

“The new treaty addresses that,” Rhys answered.

“Your new treaty,” the vizier countered, “allows for humans to decide whether to sell us back the land. Land that was ours long before humans crawled out of the mud into existence. And now we must buy it from them?”

My fingers curled into fists, heat sparking at my nails.

The Mistress reminded the vizier beatifically, “All of the Unseen’s creations are worthy.” She added with a slight twist of her lips, “Even if it is difficult to see that worth.”

Heat singed my palms, but I kept my tone even as I asked, “And none of you believe that humans are entitled to lands of their own after millennia of slavery and torment?”

Stay focused on your hunt, Rhys instructed, but I ignored him.

“I believe,” the duke parried, “that the humans have vast stretches of empty, unoccupied land. Land we once tended and farmed, now left fallow and decaying. If they don’t use it, why shouldn’t we?”

The Prince of Vallahan slapped a broad hand on the stone table. “The humans have had long enough, especially by their lifespans, to recover from any torment.”

Fire simmered in my throat, but I shoved it down. It had been drawn by the flame in the prince’s eyes, whatever ember of magic he possessed. I could control the various elements of my gifts, but occasionally they answered to something around me. Meeting a foe with power to match.

Like called to like.

But Rhys was right. I needed to focus. I had not come here to bandy words with a spoiled princeling.

Banking that answering fire, I resumed my work. Crept my magic over them again. Nothing on the Queen of Vallahan, nothing on her king. Nothing on the vizier or the Duke of Bernion. I moved on to the Mistress.

“The prince speaks truth,” the Mistress agreed with a simpering smile, so like Ianthe’s it turned my stomach. “My disciples report that the humans have little memory or knowledge of the War—or their ancestors’ lives before it. They truly don’t know any better.”

I made myself concentrate. Swept my power’s invisible hands over her green velvet robes, her slashing tattoos, the threads of pure gold in her braids.

“And how,” Mor asked, breaking through my focus, “do your disciples know this?”

The Mistress’s tattoos flickered like distant lightning. My magic recoiled. “There are no borders for the Unseen.”

I suppressed the shudder that went through my magic as something within her aura slithered in answer. In pleasure.

But it wasn’t Made. Whatever had purred in delight at her praise, it wasn’t what I sought.

“I will remind you, Mistress,” Rhys said, power churning around him, as if either his temper was getting the better of him or he was trying to cover for any slip of my own power that the Mistress might detect, “that wall or no wall, the old line of demarcation still exists and is still honored. Fae are not allowed into human lands.” No matter that we knew this rule had been broken by several people in recent months. We wouldn’t be mentioning that.

“There are humans, lost and ignorant, who need our teaching,” the Mistress said, and for a heartbeat, I wondered if she might be worse than Ianthe. “They need our guidance.”

I was grateful to withdraw my magic and move on from her hateful essence. I paused my work for a moment, settling fully back into my body as Mor said, “These are debates we have had before.” She turned to the King of Vallahan, then to the Duke of Bernion, perhaps the only voices of reason. Neither appeared remotely moved. So I stopped bothering to keep a neutral expression on my own face. At my side, I could feel Rhys doing the same, his power a dark song in my blood.

Mor went on to the king and duke, “I have been visiting your courts for almost two years now and have yet to receive an answer. I bring my High Lord and Lady today to ask you directly: Do you plan to march on human lands and expand your borders?”

Rhys and I stared them all down, Night Triumphant and the Stars Eternal.

“What business,” the Queen of Vallahan sneered, “is it of yours?”

“The business,” I shot back, “of people who wish to leave this world better than how we found it.” The last request of the Suriel—my final promise to it.

“Better by whose definition?” The Queen of Vallahan scoffed. “Better for us would be more lands, our old borders rightfully returned. Better for the humans, too, who do not speak to the land and to whom the land will never respond. We can coax the fields into fertility—and distribute the benefit from the harvests.”

My crown weighed heavily, digging into my scalp, my skull. I kept my chin high, though, as I said, “The Fae have all the power. The humans have none. The least we can do is let them live in peace. Separate from us.”

“And again I ask,” the queen demanded, utterly unfazed, “what business is it of yours?”

I might have responded had Rhys not gone preternaturally still. What had he figured out? The bond between our minds lay silent.

The Queen of Vallahan continued with that vicious sneer, “I shall say it again: You rule one territory. One territory on an island. Prythian’s size is but a drop compared to the vastness of the continent. And yet you believe that you may dictate to us what the fate of the world, the relations between Fae and human, immortal and mortal, shall be?”

I spread my hands on the table, tattoos dark as night against my pale skin. “I was born human. I know a thing or two about human and Fae relations.”

I used the opportunity to again sweep my power over her spoiled son. Still nothing.

The Queen of Vallahan waved a hand, rings glinting above her tattoos. “There are others with similar knowledge. You call for this meeting with us, the rulers of entire kingdoms, when you lead a fraction of a territory. Are you authorized to speak on behalf of all Prythian? If you are so hell-bent on humans being entitled to our ancestral land, where is the delegation of mortals to plead their case? Or have you appointed yourself speaker for the humans of Prythian, too?”

I forced myself to tell Rhys calmly, I’m done. None of them have a Made object on them, or any trace of recently using one. I checked them all twice.

Az just said the same.

We could both be wrong, though, I admitted. We should have brought Nesta.

I wouldn’t trust her to control herself, my mate said tightly.

I bristled, but now wasn’t the time to delve into the lack of trust between my mate and my sister.

I trust you and Az, though—that between you two, you learned what we need to know.

Yes. None of them have been near a Made object recently.

Ever the silky courtier, Mor said, “The new treaty was agreed upon by many of the High Lords of Prythian.”

“Many,” the grand vizier noted, dripping with condescension, “but not all. I do not recall hearing from Autumn or Spring that they approve.”

“You have come a very long way,” Rhys said, night gathering at his broad shoulders like phantom wings, “for people who do not wish to even entertain the idea of treating with us.”

The Mistress of the Unseen inclined her head with that mock piety, gilded braids glinting. “We came to offer the honor of telling you face-to-face to stick to your lands. Leave the business of the continent to those who live there. If you wish to continue granting humans autonomy over that piece of land in Prythian, that is your right. But you do not dictate what we do across the sea.” Her eyes narrowed to burning slits, utterly unfazed by the dark power radiating from my mate. “Though you may believe you have the right—and might—to do so.”

I stilled, bracing for the blow. Rhys asked with unnerving serenity, “What does that mean?”

The Queen of Vallahan hissed, “You preach peace, yet you amass weapons of war.”

The King of Vallahan restrained his wife with a touch to her fur-bundled arm and said, a shade more tactfully, “It has come to our attention that the Night Court possesses several objects of ancient and terrible power. That the Dread Trove now lies in your hands, along with . . . other items.”

It shouldn’t have been a shock. The human queens, Briallyn especially, had known about the Trove. She could have told anyone. And Koschei, that malevolent force lurking in the continent’s heart, knew, too. I wouldn’t have put it past him to sow the information about, hoping to seed discord.

“We have no plans to wield the Trove,” Rhys said firmly.

He didn’t say, of course, that we had used it. Nesta had. And had risked all of us by—I shut my thoughts down and brought my attention back to the conversation at hand.

“That may be true, but you still possess the Trove,” the Duke of Bernion said. “You, with all your power, Rhysand, are still gathering more. We heard the Cauldron was also in play during that squabble between you and Hybern.”

“Squabble,” Mor spat, but Rhys motioned her down with a wave of his hand.

My mate crossed one leg over the other, casual despite the brewing tempest of power still gathering around him. “And what should I do with such objects when they cross my path?” He examined his neatly trimmed nails, the portrait of idle arrogance, even as death beckoned in his violet-blue eyes. “Shall I hand them over to you?”

“We would never expect such a thing,” the grand vizier sputtered, puffing up like a disgruntled owl, “but you will not fault us for bolstering our forces by trying to add to our own considerable arsenals.”

I tamped down every bit of surprise that sparked through me. They’d as good as confirmed what Az had reported. It was beyond anything we’d hoped to achieve in this meeting. And—trying, the vizier had said. They were still looking for this Made object, whatever it was.

At least now we didn’t have to pretend not to know.

And yet the stars in Rhys’s eyes went out. “What do you plan to add?” The wine goblets on the table rattled, though his magic had struck no blow.

The Queen of Vallahan smoothed a tattooed hand down her furs. “Prythian has its toys,” she preened. “We shall have our own.” She lifted her blue eyes to Rhys, lips curving upward. “If you wish to arm yourselves with the Dread Trove, to meddle with the Cauldron, then don’t play surprised when we, too, retrieve our lost birthrights.” Another sneer toward me. “You aren’t stupid enough to think that if we found one, we’d bring an object of power here, are you?”

She’d known what I was doing while they talked.

Again, my crown seemed to press harder into my head. Again, I forced myself to keep my chin aloft, shoulders back.

I felt nothing down the mating bond. Rhys’s face was as blank and empty as I’d ever seen it when he said, “You seek a Made weapon of your own, then.” It would have to be a Made weapon that did not require a Made bearer to wield it, but there were plenty of those. The items of the Dread Trove were the only ones I knew of that had so severe a restriction. “And if we disarm the Trove?” Rhys continued. “Will it discourage you from seeking a Made object to wield against us?”

“It is not possible to disarm these weapons,” said the Mistress of the Unseen, clicking her tongue. “If you claim to have destroyed them, we shall know it for the lie it is. Such Made things cannot be Unmade. Though we hear that your sister”—she grimaced at me—“Unmade a human queen recently.”

Nesta hadn’t just Unmade Briallyn—she’d obliterated her from existence.

I didn’t waste my breath denying it. Instead, I demanded, “And our word counts for nothing with you? If we write into the treaty that we shall not use the Trove, if we swear it on all we hold holy, you will still not believe us?”

The Queen of Vallahan smiled with soft wickedness. “No.”

My mate’s brewing power, the impenetrable darkness around him—they stalled, then faded. And in their wake, Rhys said with raw honesty, “We have no intention of going to war with either of your territories. Our possession of the Trove, of any Made objects, is entirely coincidental. There are no circumstances that would induce us to use them. It would be folly for you to pursue your own.”

I nodded my solemn agreement, Mor following suit.

“Tell me this, then,” the Duke of Bernion asked, exposing his roughened palms, “if we marched south to reclaim our ancient homelands from the humans, if you could not stop us with your armies, would you use the Trove to prevent it?”

Don’t answer that, I cautioned Rhys.

Rhys’s silence was answer enough for our enemies.

The duke smiled grimly, placing his hands palms down once more. “So it seems there are circumstances under which you would feel compelled to use the Trove. In which case, it’s only right that we, too, possess such power.”

“We came here in the name of peace—” I tried.

The Mistress broke in. “People who seek peace do not arm themselves for war.”

“Besides,” the grand vizier added, right on her heels, “not all of Prythian agrees with you. The Autumn Court is very amenable to the idea of reclaiming our rightful lands. They might well send their forces to aid in our holy march.”

Beron, that bastard, had made it clear enough. Even having Eris’s covert support might not be enough to sway his father back to reason.

“I see your rising fury,” the Duke of Bernion said to me. “And—not desiring war myself—I would urge you to remember that Prythian is small enough as it is. Without the support of every single court, you are made even smaller. Consider the odds against you if you bring conflict to the continent. Consider the losses for your people.”

“We are first and foremost considering the innocent human lives endangered by your impending invasion,” Rhys said with enough bite that I looked at him. His power remained harnessed, yet his face showed his disgust and unbridled rage.

“Our goal would be a bloodless conquest,” the duke asserted quickly, as if noticing—and wisely fearing—that slip on Rhys’s usual steely self-control. “Let the humans see the Fae forces gathered against them and lay down their weapons. They might not be as wise or learned as we are, but they are not stupid enough to start a war they can never win.”

My blood simmered. The snobbery of the High Fae was as alive and well today as it had been five hundred years ago.

Yet Rhys said with terrifying quiet, “And what part does Koschei the Deathless play in these plans of yours?”

There it was. The suspicion, the worry we’d had for some time now. Confirmed by the death-lord’s manipulation of Briallyn, and all the little steps he’d been taking subtly, indirectly, to move us around some game board we were only just figuring out. And confirmed again only days ago, when Azriel’s shadow heard the males in the mountain cave speaking of Koschei and the onyx box that rumor claimed possessed his death. A thread, the shadow had claimed. His death had been woven into a life-thread—whatever that meant. We’d never heard of such a thing.

“Who’s that?” the Queen of Vallahan asked my mate, too sweetly to be casual. Her husband’s face was impassive. The prince, however, was glancing between his parents. It was clear that they did, indeed, know who Koschei was.

“I’d think you’d know the name of the creature pulling your strings,” Rhys said mildly.

The King of Vallahan bristled, that impassive expression vanishing. “No such thing occurs within my borders—”

“We know of Koschei,” the Duke of Bernion said darkly.

The Mistress of the Unseen sighed heavenward, pure dramatics. “He is but a petty sorcerer playing at being a death-god. We have no use for him.”

I gave her a flat look. “You don’t sound even halfway convincing.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could snap a response, the duke cut in, “Our spies have long been aware of his presence. They prowl the mountains around his lake, ever watchful. If he so much as breathes in Montesere’s direction, we hear of it.”

“And are these reports,” Rhys asked, his impeccable calm settling around him, “to keep your forces prepared against him? Or to better understand an ally?”

“Koschei is no ally to Montesere,” the duke insisted. The vizier and the Mistress were noticeably stone-faced, as were the Vallahan royals.

Rhys surveyed them one by one, but said to none of them in particular, “I hope, for all your sakes, that what you say is true.”

“Is that a threat?” the Prince of Vallahan demanded. “Can we not ally with whomever we please? Or will you shove your nose into that business as well?”

Rhys studied his nails again. “It is simple advice. Whatever Koschei might have promised you, whatever the prize, it will not be the blessing you think it is.” He flicked his eyes up to the King of Vallahan, to the Duke of Bernion. “Whatever he has said, I would advise against believing him.”

“We have no contact with Koschei the Deathless,” the Mistress seethed. “To engage with him would provoke any number of enemies against us—not only you. We are not so foolish. You’re inventing things.”

“The world has gone mad enough these days,” Rhys said coolly, even as every part of me wanted to scream liar in her face. “I don’t have a need to invent anything.” He went on before anyone could respond, “But the advice was meant in kindness.”

No one responded to that bit of truth. Not even the duke.

There were several territories on the continent who might be willing to fight against the alliance of Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan. We had tried since the war with Hybern to contact them, to no avail. They wanted nothing to do with us, our treaty, or any conflict. It was no small relief that they wanted no contact with Rask, Montesere, or Vallahan, either—Mor had discovered that our enemies had also been trying to woo them, with as little success as we’d had.

Mor asked into the sudden quiet, as if it were some conclusion, “So you’re still set on this invasion, then?”

Their silence served as confirmation. Something low in my gut twisted.

Mor slammed a hand on the table. “A force of Fae marched for the humans’ sake during the War. We marched for them.” She pointed to the King of Vallahan, her brown gaze lit with dismay. “Your father marched for them. You’re really going to spit on his memory, his sacrifice, and the sacrifice of your people, by destroying the cause he fought for?”

Something like shame and sorrow kindled in the King of Vallahan’s deep-set eyes.

But his wife shrugged, again stroking her fur cloak. “The world has changed. What was once a lofty ideal of two lands, two peoples, has become a nightmare. You will find that many of those who once believed in your cause have lived out the reality for five centuries now—and found that some things were, in fact, better before the War. We are not so proud as to refuse to admit that we might have been wrong then. Just as you, with your new treaty, are wrong now.”

With that, the Queen of Vallahan stood, her son with her, merciless as the frozen land she ruled.

The grand vizier and the Mistress rose, too. The King of Vallahan and the Duke of Bernion followed after a beat, albeit reluctantly.

“We’re done here, I take it,” Rhys said softly, remaining seated.

The duke inclined his head. “We came out of respect for you. I came out of affection for her”—a nod toward Mor, glowering at all of them. “She made a valiant effort to convince us.”

This couldn’t be happening. Another war, another invasion, humans enslaved—

“Perhaps you have anticipated this for some time,” the Mistress crooned. “And that is why you gathered the Trove.” She gave me one of those hideous, beatific smiles. “In your deepest heart, you knew we would not be swayed. And I warn you now: To use that Trove is to damn your eternal soul. The Unseen shall punish you and yours for it.”

I bared my teeth. “I don’t answer to the Unseen.”

“Perhaps that is part of the problem,” the Mistress chided. “There are no gods left, no true Mother to guide Prythian. She has found your souls wanting and abandoned you. You are a godless, forsaken land—”

“That is beside the point,” the Duke of Bernion cut her off, earning a glare. But he lifted a hand, and the stone doors of the chamber groaned open, the icy sea air bursting in like a pack of wolves. “We came here to be very clear: There shall be no new treaty. And we reserve the right to arm ourselves, as you have done.” Though his words were firm, a sort of defeated weariness lingered about him.

The Prince of Vallahan shoved past the duke’s seat and toward the door, all swagger. “There are other weapons out there in the world, lost and forgotten.” He smirked over his shoulder. “But not for long. They stir, both Made and those imbued with ordinary, wicked magic. Awoken, perhaps, by this death-lord you speak of.”

His father gave him a sharp, reproving frown.

My blood chilled. Had Koschei’s unholy presence truly woken the Made objects in the world? What Az’s spy had heard indicated that he’d helped our enemies in their quest for this Made item, hinted at the location of the weapon—in exchange for what? Why?

My heavy breasts gave a throb, reminding me of what—who—awaited me at home. I got to my feet, the motion setting my milk leaking. I squared my shoulders as I swore, “We will continue to seek a path toward peace for all the peoples of this world.”

The Queen and Prince of Vallahan snorted. But their king nodded sadly at me, at Mor, before vanishing into nothing.

The Mistress of the Unseen inclined her head to me. “May the Unseen and your neglectful Mother have mercy on your son’s soul.” Before I could wrap a whip of flame around her neck and squeeze, she, too, vanished, the vizier with her, sniffing his distaste. Only the Duke of Bernion remained, the icy wind from the open doors rustling his hair.

For a moment, the crashing of the sea beyond roared through the chamber.

The duke’s craggy features filled with something akin to pain. “I have no desire for an invasion, or a war.” He considered his broad, scarred hands, as if he could already see the blood on them. “But I will follow my king into battle if he goes.”

Rhys’s face was hard as the stone table between us. “Did your king even send you here today, Valderic?”

“No.” His throat bobbed. “He refused to come himself, and refused to send me as his emissary. I lied to the vizier and the Mistress to get them to come—they think it was royally sanctioned.”

Voice cracking with dread and anguish, Mor demanded, “Why bother, then?”

The duke regarded her plainly, openly. “I hoped you might sway them—and that they in turn might sway my king. I lost his ear long ago—they believed my lie that I’ve mended things with him. There will be hell to pay for it when I return home.” He didn’t seem to relish the thought. “But your worries about who Montesere might ally with are well founded. More than that, I cannot say. Not without damning myself and my entire family to traitorhood.”

Rhys said nothing. The wind howled outside.

“You are a good male, Rhysand,” the duke continued, shaking his head slowly. “Be a smart one, too. Do not needlessly waste your people’s lives. This invasion will happen, and we will win it, no matter what you do. If you bring the Trove onto the battlefield, you will risk war coming to your doorstep as well. So do not engage. Do not provoke Koschei the Deathless, who whispers in so many ears and through so many dark dreams. Remain in Prythian, in your Night Court. Be happy. Raise your son.”

My throat closed up.

Rhys stared at the untouched wine as he asked hoarsely, “When does the invasion begin?”

The duke shook his head. “I could not tell you that, even if I knew. But considering that you bear the Trove, I’d guess that the others will wait to march until they feel they have a weapon to counter yours.”

I offered him a grim smile of thanks. He might not desire to be a traitor, but he’d given us this gift: a solid indication that none of the three territories had a Made object in their possession yet. Rhys closed his eyes—just for a beat. I reached for his hand. His fingers were as icy as the sea outside.

“Do not let the matters of the continent concern you,” the duke said to us. “I shall do my best to make it fair enough for the humans.”

Unlike the others, he walked slowly through the doors, staring for a moment at the sea before vanishing as his companions had done.

The wind howled, the braziers and fireplace guttering in the chill. Mor sank back into her seat, putting her head in her hands.

“You can come out now, Az,” Rhys said, voice heavy with exhaustion. An invisible weight was pressing on his shoulders already—I knew, because I bore it, too.

Az didn’t appear.

Rhys lifted his gaze toward the open doors, to the rocky earth of Storr, the violent sea beyond. “Azriel.”

Nothing.

Mor lowered her hands to her lap. “He’s not here.”

Rhys’s eyes blazed. “And where, exactly,” he asked, every word clipped, “did he go?”

Mor nodded to the now-empty chairs. To where the royals from Vallahan had been sitting. “Take a wild guess.”