Page 88 of A Court of Wings and Ruin (A Court of Thorns and Roses 3)

“There is a war,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “A terrible war about to break across the land. If I can free you, will you fight for me? For me and my High Lord?”

The thing—Bryaxis—did not reply.

I nudged Amren with my elbow.

She said, her voice as young and old as the creature’s, “We will offer you freedom from this place in exchange for it.”

A bargain. A simple, powerful magic. As great as any the Book could muster.

This is my home.

I considered. “Then what is it you want in exchange?”

Silence.

Sunlight. And moonlight. The stars.

I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t entirely sure that even as High Lady of the Night Court I could promise such things, but Amren stepped on my foot and murmured, “A window. High above.”

Not a mirror, as the Carver wanted. But a window in the mountain. We’d have to carve far, far up, but—

“That’s it?”

Amren stomped on my foot this time.

Bryaxis whispered in my ear, Will I be able to hunt without restraint on the battlefields? Drink in their fear and dread until I am sated?

I felt slightly bad for Hybern as I said, “Yes—only Hybern. And only until the war is over.” One way or another.

A beat of silence. What would you have me do, then?

I gestured to Amren. “She will explain. She will disable the wards—when we need you.”

Then I will wait.

“Then it’s a bargain. You will obey our orders in this war, fight for us until we no longer need you, and in exchange … we shall bring the sun and moon and stars to you. In your home.” Another prisoner who had come to love its cell. Perhaps Bryaxis and the Carver should meet. An ancient death-god and the face of nightmares. The painting, dreadful yet alluring, began to creep roots deep within my mind.

I kept my shoulders loose, posture as casual as I could summon while the darkness slid around me, winding between me and Amren, and whispered into my ear, It is a bargain.

I made the hour count. When we all gathered in the town house foyer once more to winnow to the Illyrian camp, I’d changed into my fighting leathers, my new tattoo concealed beneath.

No one asked where I’d gone. Though Mor looked me over and said, “Where’s Amren?”

“Still poring over the Book,” I answered just as Rhys winnowed into the town house. Not a lie. Amren would stay here—until we needed her at the battlefields.

Rhys angled his head. “Looking for what? The wall is gone.”

“For anything,” I said. “For another way to nullify the Cauldron that doesn’t involve the insides of my head leaking out through my nose.”

Rhys cringed and opened his mouth to object, but I cut him off. “There must be another way—Amren thinks there must be another way. It doesn’t hurt to look. And have her hunt for any other spell that might stop the king.”

And when Amren was not doing that … she’d bring down those complex wards containing Bryaxis beneath the library—to be severed only when I called for Bryaxis. Only when the might of Hybern’s army was fully upon us. If I could not get the Ouroboros for the Carver … then Bryaxis was better than nothing.

I wasn’t entirely certain why I didn’t mention it to the others.

Rhys’s eyes flickered, no doubt warring with the idea of what role any other route would require of me in regard to the Cauldron, but he nodded.

I interlaced my fingers with his, and he squeezed once.

Behind me, Mor took Nesta and Cassian by the hand, readying to winnow them to the camp, while shadows gathered around Azriel, Elain at his side, wide-eyed at the spymaster’s display.

But we hesitated—all of us. And I allowed myself one last time to drink it in, the furniture and the wood and the sunlight. To listen to the sounds of Velaris, the laughing of children in the streets, the song of the gulls.

In the silence, I knew my friends were, too.

Rhys cleared his throat, and nodded to Mor. Then she was gone, Cassian and Nesta with her. Then Azriel, gently taking Elain’s hand in his own, as if afraid his scars would hurt her.

Alone with Rhys, I savored the buttery sunshine leaking in from the windows of the front door. Breathed in the smell of the bread Nuala and Cerridwen had baked that morning with Elain.

“The creature in the library,” I murmured. “Its name is Bryaxis.”

Rhys lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“I offered it a bargain. To fight for us.”

Stars danced in those violet eyes. “And what did Bryaxis say?”

“Only that it wants a window—to see the stars and moon and sun.”

“You did explain that we need it to slaughter our enemies, didn’t you?”

I nudged him with a hip. “The library is its home. It only wanted some adjustments made to it.”

A crooked smile tugged on Rhys’s mouth. “Well, I suppose if I now have to redecorate my own lodgings to match Thesan’s splendor, I might as well add a window for the poor thing.”

I elbowed him in the ribs that time. He still wore his finery from the meeting. Rhys chuckled. “So our army grows by one. Poor Cassian will never recover when he sees his newest recruit.”

“With any luck, Hybern won’t, either.”

“And the Carver?”

“He can rot down there. I don’t have time for his games. Bryaxis will have to be enough.”

Rhys glanced at my arm, as if he could see the new, second band beside the first one. He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of my palm.

Again, we silently looked around the town house, taking in every last detail, the quiet that now lay like a layer of dust upon it.

Rhys said softly, “I wonder if we’ll see it again.”

I knew he wasn’t just talking about the house. But I rose up on my toes and kissed his cheek. “We will,” I promised as a dark wind gathered to sweep us to the Illyrian war-camp. I held tightly to him as I added, “We’ll see it all again.”

And when that night-kissed wind winnowed us away, away into war, away into untold danger … I prayed that my promise held true.

PART THREE

HIGH LADY

CHAPTER

51

Even at the height of summer, the Illyrian mountain-camp was damp. Brisk. There were some truly lovely days, Rhys assured me when I scowled as we winnowed in, but cooler weather was better anyway, when an army was involved. Heat made tempers rise. Especially when it was too hot to sleep comfortably. And considering the Illyrians were a testy lot to begin with … It was a blessing that the sky was cloudy and the wind mist-kissed.

But even the weather wasn’t enough to make the greeting party look pleasant.

I only recognized one of the muscle-bound Illyrians in full armor waiting for us. Lord Devlon. The sneer was still on his face—though milder compared to the outright contempt contorting the features of a few. Like Azriel and Cassian, they possessed dark hair and eyes of assorted hazel and brown. And like my friends, their skin was rich shades of golden brown, some flecked with bone-white scars of varying severity.

But unlike my friends, one or two Siphons adorned their hands. The seven Azriel and Cassian wore seemed almost vulgar by comparison.

But the gathered males only looked at Rhys, as if the two Illyrians flanking him were little more than trees. Mor and I remained on either side of Nesta, who had changed into a dark blue, practical dress and now surveyed the camp, the winged warriors, the sheer size of the host assembled in the camp around us …

We kept Elain half-hidden behind the wall of our bodies. Considering the backward view of the Illyrians toward females, I’d suggested we remain a step away on this meeting—literally. There were only a few female fighters in the legion … Now was not the time to test the tolerance of the Illyrians. Later—later, if we won this war. If we survived.

Devlon was speaking, “It’s true, then. The wall came down.”

  “A temporary failure,” Rhys crooned. He was still wearing his fine jacket and pants from the meeting with the High Lords. For whatever reason, he hadn’t chosen to wear the Illyrian leathers. Or the wings.

It’s because they already know I trained with them, am one of them. They need to remember that I’m also their High Lord. And I have no intention of loosening the leash.

The words were a silk-covered scrape of nails down my mind.

Rhys began giving unwavering, cold instructions about the impending push southward. The voice of the High Lord—the voice of a warrior who had fought in the War and had no intention of losing this one. Cassian frequently added his own orders and clarifications.

Azriel—Azriel just stared them all down. He had not wanted to come to the camp months ago. Disliked being back here. Hated these people, his heritage.

The other lords kept glancing to the shadowsinger in dread and rage and disgust. He only leveled that lethal gaze back at them.