Chapter 17 — Feyre - A Court of Splintered Harmony

Bryaxis had returned. Only Clotho’s ribbon had kept Rhys and me tethered to Nyx while blinded by our own nightmares. Would I have dropped him otherwise? Would I have been unaware that he’d tumbled from my grasp—and been lost in my own terrors while Bryaxis fed upon him?

I supposed I should be grateful for Clotho, though she hadn’t chosen to give it to us specifically to protect our son and couldn’t have ever guessed we’d need the ribbon for such a purpose. But she had chosen to allow Bryaxis back into the House of Wind. To harbor her.

I was High Lady of every single inch of this territory except for that library. My power ended at those doors. But I’d realized today I didn’t care, truly didn’t care, about limits or boundaries or even right or wrong where my son’s safety was concerned.

But Bryaxis would remain—for now. First, I needed to speak to Rhys, needed to piece myself back together.

The simmering rage, the unending echo of fear focused me. Helped me to remember that I had people other than myself to attend to. That I could not sink into the urge to wallow or withdraw or tear that damned mountain down stone by stone until there was no library left, no lines where my power ended, simply me and Bryaxis and the death I’d bestow upon her.

Her. Bryaxis was female, apparently. It didn’t make a lick of difference.

Nyx, at least, was unharmed. It was only my motherly instincts demanding that I confirm he was all right that had turned me from those library doors, from shoving my way past Clotho.

I’d found him and Rhys at the river house. Nyx was unsmiling but calm. Rhys, however, wore a hollowed-out expression, splatters of vomit still coating his clothes.

Madja had arrived, and I’d nearly sobbed when she’d finished her thorough examination of Nyx and declared that he was fine, mentally and physically. What he needed, she said, was a good nap—to keep to his schedule. That, at least, I could offer my son. So I fed him, stroking his head over and over, fighting to keep my tears at bay as I gazed into his beautiful face, and sang him the sweetest lullaby I knew. Rhys stood beside my chair the entire time. He left before I laid Nyx in his cradle, and when I emerged into our bedroom, my mate was gone. Presumably to carry out the duties required of both of us—ensuring the city was secure, our citizens safe, our friends and family intact.

The thought propelled me from my room as well, remembering once again that I hadn’t been the only one in that temple suffering under the weight of Bryaxis’s visions.

A chill had crept over the garden, yet Elain did not seem to notice it—nor my approach—as I strode past the wilting flower beds still clinging to scraps of color. My sister remained in her gown from earlier, long-sleeved but certainly not warm enough against the autumn weather.

I understood, though. That numbness, so intense that a crisp afternoon became secondary, body and mind as distant as the stars.

In terrible silence, Elain snipped off a still-perfect rose near the base of its stalk, tossing it into the beginnings of a pile in a wicker basket at her feet. The last blooms before winter.

I cleared my throat. “Are those for dinner tonight?” My voice was still scratchy from screaming.

Elain looked over her slim shoulder, no surprise at my sudden arrival. Her brown eyes were as haunted and bleak as I felt. “You removed all the dining room decorations from earlier.” The words were thin. Barely more than a whisper.

“They felt inappropriate after this morning.” I hadn’t wanted to see a single one of them upon returning. A wish, and the magic that ran our home had made them disappear. Perhaps Rhys had gone to the temple to do the same; to repair any damage from Bryaxis.

Elain returned to the tangles of rosebushes. She clipped away withered brown snarls of thorns, tossing them aside until she found another bloom clinging to life, then snipped that one, too. Twin piles grew at her feet: one of dead things, the other of delicate life. One hideous and sharp, the other soft and gentle. My sister said with that awful emptiness, “Well, I thought you might want something on the table.”

I surveyed the dying garden, so close to its winter sleep. Elain had already veiled some of the hedges in burlap to protect against the frost. “I don’t want any flowers,” I admitted reluctantly.

Elain clipped the rose stem anyway. “They’ll rot away to nothing out here. Might as well use them.”

“Fine,” I said absently. If this was how Elain chose to cope with whatever she’d seen under Bryaxis’s influence, I wouldn’t get in her way. Even if I suspected that she’d place the roses right between her and Lucien at the dinner table, blocking her view of him.

Elain said softly, “Did you check on Nesta?”

“No.” My mouth still somehow felt far away. “Madja’s tending to her shattered arm.” And her broken nose, but no need to lay out every gruesome injury our sister had sustained in saving us. “And besides, I didn’t see a need.” Of all of us, Nesta had withstood Bryaxis’s darkness.

Elain said without looking back, “But you did see one for me?”

“You were screaming.” Was Elain mad I was checking in on her? “I didn’t want you out here, suffering with the aftermath all alone.”

Another rose tumbled into her basket. “You think I’m pathetic.”

“No. We were all shaken today.”

Elain didn’t answer, and I took this as acceptance enough.

“It’s freezing out here,” I said, some of that bitter chill sinking into my skin at last. “You should come inside.”

“I’m perfectly all right. It’s work that needs to be done anyway.”

I frowned at the garden. “It’s not so important that you have to be out here freezing.”

Elain said, softly but not weakly, “It is important. I’m clearing away the old to make room for the new.” She snipped a dried-out tangle of thorns for emphasis. “Death can bring about life. Without it, too many resources would be diverted to unnecessary parts of the plant. With winter coming, they need everything they can get.”

She was definitely reeling. But I didn’t have the energy to debate whether she should be out here, or worry that I’d offended her by caring.

So I suppressed a sigh before I said, “I just wanted you to know that I’d rather have my sister warm and comfortable than pruning plants in the cold.”

Elain didn’t say anything else, merely continued snipping and clearing and gathering.

I walked away with a subdued, “I’ll see you at dinner. Don’t make the arrangement too big.”

I’d taken only ten steps into the delicious warmth of the river house when I found the next person on my list of people to check in with coming down the grand staircase. Amren’s eyes were downcast, her sleek black bob limper than usual. Even the rubies at her throat seemed dull, like their innate fire had gone out.

“You look how I feel,” I said by way of greeting, unable to hide my wince.

Amren’s head snapped up, her silvery eyes gleaming. “I was just checking on Nyx,” she said with unusual quiet.

“He’s still asleep?”

Amren glanced at her hand, gripping the polished railing. “Yes. Rhys is watching over him now.”

She reached the bottom of the stairs, and though I’d known her for years, it still surprised me sometimes how short she was, how her head barely cleared my shoulders. I had the strangest feeling of gazing down at her from above as I said, “Are you all right?” I couldn’t begin to imagine the horrors Bryaxis had shown my friend. She’d had more than fifteen thousand years to draw upon. Prey upon.

“Yes,” Amren said, the word carried on a sigh.

We hadn’t spoken since that ugly argument, which was why Amren had been near the top of my list of people to seek out. So I lifted my chin. Let some of the numbness I’d wrapped around myself fall away as I said plainly, “I’m sorry for how we argued after Storr. I’m sorry for what I said. It came from a place of fear. You deserve better than to be treated like that.”

Sorrow glimmered in Amren’s eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for, girl.”

“No. I do. Everything you said that day was right. Today’s events confirmed that.” I shook my head. “The Summer Court visit was fruitless—Tarquin won’t join us. And maybe I don’t believe that Fomoria is our best route for an alliance, but I understand now what you meant about time. About needing to think and act on a bigger scale.” I swallowed hard. “Today I felt exactly what you warned me of.” I blocked out the images Bryaxis had shown me of my son. “I saw what you were trying to explain to me. I should have listened.”

Amren held up a hand, her face genuinely pained. “There is only moving forward now. But for my part . . .” Her throat worked, her eyes like quicksilver. “I am sorry, too, Feyre. So very sorry.”

Her apology—so rare from this fierce female—soothed something, steadied and settled me even after all we’d been through earlier. I knew what I had to do now, and could count myself lucky to have Amren there to help me.

I said thickly, “Will you come to dinner tonight? I want you to sit beside me and—”

“I’m going to see Varian.” Amren looked anywhere but at me. “I . . . I need to see him.”

Despite my disappointment, I nodded. “I understand.” Whatever she’d endured today, she wanted to process it with the person she felt closest to, safest with. The male who had gifted her the rubies she rarely took off. “You’ll be missed, though. And when you return”—I offered a grim smile—“let’s discuss strategy.”

Amren returned my smile with a sad, strained one of her own, let out a long breath, and walked toward the front door. She was just reaching for the handle when I blurted, “I’m grateful, you know.” Amren halted, peering back at me. I explained softly, “To have an honest friend like you. One who isn’t afraid to call me out when I’m wrong. To tell me the truth, even if I don’t want to hear it.” I put my hand on my chest, right over my heart, the tiny gems on my gown cool against my tattooed palm. “I’m grateful for you, Amren.”

Amren just dipped her chin, silver eyes desolate. And without another word, she was gone.

Seated at the dining table in the river house, Azriel had to keep checking his hands to make sure they weren’t covered in blood, as he’d seen in the temple. That they weren’t melted down to scraps of skin and glossy white bone.

Bryaxis was back. Fear itself.

Something had happened since the Hybern War. Wherever Bryaxis had gone, whatever it had done while out in the wilds, it had been twisted into something worse. What had once been a terror at the bottom of the library was now something different.

But it was contained, at least, back at the library—if they could trust Clotho. Mind to mind, in extremely clipped words, Feyre had explained to all of them what had occurred there.

As night had fallen, Rhys had dispatched messages to the city leaders that new wards would be going up, the sort that allowed no one, save for the Inner Circle, in or out. Not even a bird. If Bryaxis had entered without them knowing, what else might get through? What if Bryaxis had only been the first in a wave of assailants?

Amren had been shockingly affected by the morning’s events—she’d apparently left in search of whatever solace Varian could provide. Az had never seen Amren’s face so ashen, her lips so ghostly pale when they all came back to themselves after the terror of Bryaxis. She’d kept whispering to herself, “You survived it; you got through it.” Over and over.

“This is going to be a depressing dinner,” Feyre now said from one end of the dining table, “if we all stay silent and push our food around.”

Azriel and the others had gathered in the dining room, if only because the food was already prepared and waiting. What else were they to do? Dwell on the nuances of their fears?

The thought of that dark essence lurking in the library again made Az feel faintly sick. Clotho’s explanation that Bryaxis had been summoned back by the song that called lost sisters home baffled him. He couldn’t imagine feeling any kinship for such a creature.

Bryaxis had snatched away what should have been an eternal memory of joy. The why of it was eating Az alive. He’d spent the hours since the attack scouring the city, circling above the House of Wind, willing his shadows to learn whatever else they could. They’d reported nothing. Absolutely nothing.

They’d been useless against Bryaxis. He didn’t know why he’d expected anything better from them in the aftermath of the attack, either.

“After the day we had,” Rhys said to his mate, setting aside his fork with a courtier’s grace, “you’re really in the mood to banter?”

“No,” Feyre said glumly, “but I’d be glad to get out of my own head a bit. So banter would be appreciated.”

She had changed into a simple silver velvet gown, long-sleeved against the nighttime autumn chill, her hair coiled atop her head in a pretty swirl. No jewelry beyond her star-sapphire mating ring. None of the morning’s stunning splendor.

Even Rhys had unbuttoned the top of his collar, letting his shirt and the tattooed chest beneath show. He’d changed, too, but his hair was disheveled, his skin salted with dried sweat. Az couldn’t help but think that his brother looked like he hadn’t really sat down until now.

The only person missing was Nyx, who was already asleep, according to Rhys. Az knew that both parents had their daemati skills focused with razor-sharp precision on the nursery beside their bedroom, alert for so much as a mewl.

It was hard to imagine any sort of darkness, even Bryaxis, getting into this lovely house, though. The twinkling faelights of the dining room gave off a warm, soft glow, shading the purple silk wallcloth a seductive amethyst. The fabric had been embroidered with gold and silver beading fashioned into stars, moons, and celestial swirls, and the moldings above and below it had all been intricately carved into an array of night-blooming flowers.

Az had avoided Elain when he arrived, though his shadows told him plenty. Or rather, their silence, their refusal to even set foot in the room, spoke volumes about her presence. She was here, which meant his shadows weren’t—they were clustered just outside the dining room. Good.

It had nearly killed him not to go to her earlier, but he couldn’t, not with Lucien there. All this day needed was a fight between allies to top it off.

“Banter, banter, banter, let me see . . .” Cassian drawled, tapping his fork on the table, and Az braced himself. When Cassian had that particular half grin and spark in his eye, the next words were sure to be pure mischief. If there was anyone who could feign normalcy after the attack, it was Cassian.

Cassian turned to Lucien and said, “You’re pretty unruffled for a male who beheld his worst nightmares today. Want to share what you saw?”

“That wasn’t the sort of banter I meant, asshole,” Feyre hissed as Lucien’s mouth flattened.

Az couldn’t help his smirk. He couldn’t antagonize Lucien—it would have made things far too obvious—but he was perfectly content to let Cassian bait the male.

Elain sat between Nesta and Mor, about as far away from Lucien as she could get. And since Azriel had placed himself as far as he could get from Lucien as well, he found himself seated directly opposite her. Not that Elain acknowledged him. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, those thick, dark lashes bobbing every now and then as she thanked Nesta or Mor in hushed tones for putting food before her.

What had she seen today? What nightmares had set her screaming so loudly? Had anyone asked her? She still wore her gown from earlier—did anyone notice the dirt stains on it? The scratches on her ivory hands? She’d been in the garden, then.

“Thank you for letting me . . . recover in your study,” Lucien said politely to Feyre, not taking Cassian’s bait. “The tapestry behind your desk is remarkable.” His face had been sliced open, though the cuts were already healing. It seemed like he’d been clawing at his skin. At the metallic golden eye. He was handsome, Azriel would give him that. His enchanted eye and the scar around it somehow only added to the effect. He dressed himself with as much care as Rhys—he was still in his cobalt-blue jacket with faint gold embroidery along the lapels, his long red hair a silken curtain draping down past his shoulders.

And Lucien could fight. The male knew how to handle himself, even if—like his eldest brother, Eris—he appeared more coddled courtier than anything.

“Thank you,” Feyre said to Lucien. “I’m glad you appreciate it.” She gestured to Mor and said, “I recently had it hung there. Since some people think it’s dreary, and advised me to move it from where I originally had it in my art studio. Claimed it would depress the children there.”

“All that black is dreary,” Mor protested.

“We live in the Night Court,” Feyre reminded her. “The tapestry is of our sigil.”

And yet Feyre had indeed moved it from her studio a few weeks ago. It was a beautiful piece, and a powerful one, but she’d said it would be better appreciated here. Certainly better protected from errant paint splatters.

Lucien added with that smooth politeness, “I think that’s the point, though. The darkness in the tapestry is there to make that extraordinary silver thread shine.” At Feyre’s furrowed brow, Lucien tapped the skin beside his metal eye. “It became a river of light with this—even more spectacular.” He glanced to Elain, who was ignoring him. Or at least not deigning to turn his way, even with the floral arrangement between them nearly blocking her view of him. That was likely intentional, too, Az thought with no small amount of smugness. Especially as Lucien looked back to Feyre, defeated, and said, “If you ever speak to the artist, please tell them the tapestry meant a great deal to me today, after Bryaxis. It… helped steady me in some way I can’t quite explain.”

Azriel suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Lucien had always had the ability to spout pretentious nonsense at the drop of a hat.

Feyre nodded, though, and said, “I also found strength in it today.”

A heavy, fraught silence fell. Fear and dread and exhaustion—

Azriel blocked out his shadows, realizing they’d crept close enough again to listen, to report, though they still stayed well away from Elain.

Lucien dragged a hand through his hair, a smooth, pretty movement. Some part of Az relaxed to find her still ignoring Lucien wholly, but his stomach gave an unpleasant twist at her untouched beef and creamed potatoes, both of which Mor and Nesta had piled almost comically high for her.

Lucien said to Feyre a shade awkwardly, like he’d just realized he’d possibly overstayed his welcome, “If you’d like, I can take my leave—”

“Stay,” Feyre insisted.

Rhys leaned back in his chair, swigging from his wine before he said, “I don’t object to having one more warrior here tonight.”

“I thought we were going to attempt to make this a fun dinner,” Cassian muttered into his own drink, draining it.

Regarding Elain over the roses so artfully arranged to block their view of each other, Lucien said, again with that trained smoothness, “I’m at your disposal.”

Thankfully, Elain’s mouth tightened. She clearly knew the words were meant for her, but she didn’t look at him. And Az wasn’t a good enough male to not bask in satisfaction at the sight of how the light in Lucien’s remaining russet eye guttered.

Lucien reached into his jacket pocket, though, and set a small wooden figurine on the lacquered table. “I’m sure presents are the last thing you care about right now, but I wanted to give this to you,” he said to Feyre—and to Elain and Nesta. “Your father carved it on his journey with me.”

They all leaned closer to see the finely wrought carving of a small rabbit.

Lucien explained with that ever-graceful manner of speaking, “He did it to pass the time at our various camps, but the work was so good that I kept it when he was done. I thought it would be a nice gift for you to give your son. To have a piece of his grandfather.”

Az might have been inclined to ignore him had Feyre’s throat not bobbed. His High Lady bowed her head in thanks as she picked up the figurine. “Nyx’s favorite toy is a stuffed rabbit. It’s like my father knew.”

“He was a good man,” Lucien said, his eye lingering longingly on Elain. “I admired him.” Az ground his teeth.

Cassian shifted in his seat beside Az, and Az found his brother watching Nesta, who was rigid in her seat. She doesn’t know what to feel, what to say, the shadows supplied. Pain and anger and sorrow and guilt—

Cassian poured himself another cup of wine, his back and wings stiff. Like Nesta’s pain wasn’t his problem, like it didn’t matter one bit. Had they even spoken to each other since the attack?

Nesta stared at the wooden rabbit, though Az knew her attention was on her mate. They barely speak, barely touch, and it is killing her, destroying her—

Azriel blasted his shadows back, sending them scurrying again into the hall. He didn’t need to know what was going on between two mates. If they had been enemies or even potential allies, yes—but Cassian and Nesta deserved privacy.

“Thank you,” Feyre said to Lucien at last before tucking the rabbit into a pocket of her gown.

Lucien nodded and fell silent, eating his food with courtly elegance.

Az couldn’t help studying the fork and knife in his own grip. In the candlelight, the scars on his hands were all the more gruesome, his fingers a ruin compared to the clean golden-brown of Lucien’s skin.

Az asked the Autumn Court lordling abruptly, “When you and Tamlin allied with Hybern, who was your contact?”

Everyone—except for Elain—whipped their heads to him. Lucien blushed slightly. Swallowed.

What the fuck are you doing? Rhys snarled into Az’s head.

But Lucien met Az’s stare, his metal eye clicking. “Why do you ask?”

It was time. “An envoy arrived from Hybern the other day with a message about Hybern wanting to meet with us regarding an alliance.”

Someone’s fork clattered onto their plate.

“Repeat that,” Feyre gasped. Her face was so white that her freckles stood out against her skin. But Rhys demanded, “You were going to tell us this when, exactly?”

“Tomorrow,” Az said, meeting his brother’s stare and daring him to deliver a reprimand. “I didn’t want to ruin today for you, but it’s too late for that. Bryaxis got there first.”

“On whose behalf did the messenger speak?” Cassian asked, hazel eyes already churning with calculation, wine now forgotten beside him.

“It didn’t say. Just that Hybern had sent it.” Az wasn’t above nodding toward Lucien again. “So I thought it might be helpful to know who you contacted before the war with them.”

This is beneath you, Rhys shot into his mind. You really need to make this male look bad in front of his mate in order to feel better about yourself?

Az blocked out his brother’s words. Kept his expression mild, curious as he waited for Lucien’s answer.

“We dealt with the king himself,” Lucien said at last, voice a bit strained. “Tamlin knew him vaguely from his own father’s alliance with Hybern during the Sundering War, so all it took was a message to initiate contact.” The color on Lucien’s cheeks darkened and spread.

Az pushed, “And then where did you meet? How did you communicate?”

Azriel. Drop it. Crackling power laced every word. Az ignored that, too.

Lucien cast his gaze around the table, settling finally on Elain. She was still staring at her plate, hopefully remembering once again that her own mate had brought about so much of her suffering. But Lucien said, with a steadiness that Az begrudgingly admired, “I can walk you through all of it, if you want. But perhaps after dinner.” A gesture toward Feyre, whose face was still achingly wan. “We were given orders to banter, after all.”

Down the table, Cassian was rubbing his jaw. He asked Rhys, apparently no longer inclined to obey his High Lady’s request, “You think those assholes actually want an alliance?”

After the war, from what Azriel had gathered, a small group of lords had come together to rule Hybern—at least until a new king could be enthroned. He’d reported to the others that this group now operated out of the king’s old castle, and though none of them had claimed the title yet, it seemed a young male had been making headway. Not that the people of Hybern had benefitted. Az had gleaned that Hybern had suffered a few bad harvests—and a distinct snubbing by other countries for trade. The country had seen better days, and deserved it.

Feyre cut in, picking up her utensils, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow morning.” Along with a report of what had occurred at the Summer Court, no doubt.

Az had a feeling it hadn’t been good, given that neither Feyre nor Rhys had talked about it yet.

But now Feyre gave Az a glare that had him suppressing a wince of shame. “I’m not inclined to trust them.”

Nesta grunted her agreement. Mor and Rhys had locked eyes, having some mind-to-mind conversation, Az suspected. They didn’t include him.

Az stayed quiet after that, not trusting himself to say another word. Not daring. He glanced across the table to Elain. She’d barely moved an inch, her food still untouched.

As if sensing him, her lashes stirred, lifting slightly. Those doe’s eyes met his. His skin tightened over his bones. She was so beautiful—so perfect and pure and as lovely as a spring dawn. Her high, delicate breasts lifted as she sucked in a breath—

Rhys’s ire landed on Az like a brand.

Az immediately cast his attention to his own plate, even as his fingers clenched his wineglass.

Rhys had no fucking right to tell him not to look at Elain. Just as Lucien had no fucking right to be her mate, to her affections, or so much as a blink of attention from her. Az waited for the mental tongue-lashing from his High Lord, but none came.

Food was consumed, drinks swallowed down, and the candles burned low.

And though Feyre had insisted on tomorrow morning, talk again returned to Hybern. They were all adamant that Hybern could get fucked. There would be no response to their request. Not even a simple no. If Hybern needed allies, they had dug their own grave. It was time to wallow in it.

Az peeked at Elain once more before the meal was over.

Her gaze was already on him. And even with her mate sitting mere feet away, he didn’t miss the way her tongue darted out over her lower lip.

Didn’t miss the longing, the desire that heated her brown eyes to a molten chocolate.

Yes, he wished he could say to her, mind to mind. Yes.

Rhys could go to hell. So could Bryaxis and that vision she’d shown him.

It turned out, he did have something left to fight for.