A Court of Mist and Fury

Chapter 28

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The wings swept back.

But he tightened his arm. Bracing me for takeoff. Mother save me. “You say the word tonight, and

we come back here, no questions asked. And if you can’t stomach working with me, with them, then

no questions asked on that, either. We can find some other way for you to live here, be fulfilled,

regardless of what I need. It’s your choice, Feyre.”

I debated pushing him on it—on insisting I stay. But stay for what? To sleep? To avoid a meeting I

should most certainly have before deciding what I wanted to do with myself? And to fly …

I studied the wings, the arm around my waist. “Please don’t drop me. And please don’t—”

We shot into the sky, fast as a shooting star.

Before my yelp finished echoing, the city had yawned wide beneath us. Rhys’s hand slid under my

knees while the other wrapped around my back and ribs, and we flapped up, up, up into the star-

freckled night, into the liquid dark and singing wind.

The city lights dropped away until Velaris was a rippling velvet blanket littered with jewels, until the

music no longer reached even our pointed ears. The air was chill, but no wind other than a gentle

breeze brushed my face—even as we soared with magnificent precision for the House of Wind.

Rhys’s body was hard and warm against mine, a solid force of nature crafted and honed for this.

Even the smell of him reminded me of the wind—rain and salt and something citrus-y I couldn’t

name.

We swerved into an updraft, rising so fast it was instinct to clutch his black tunic as my stomach

clenched. I scowled at the soft laugh that tickled my ear. “I expected more screaming from you. I

must not be trying hard enough.”

“Do not,” I hissed, focusing on the approaching tiara of lights in the eternal wall of the mountain. All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

With the sky wheeling overhead and the lights shooting past below, up and down became mirrors—

until we were sailing through a sea of stars. Something tight in my chest eased a fraction of its grip.

“When I was a boy,” Rhys said in my ear, “I’d sneak out of the House of Wind by leaping out my

window—and I’d fly and fly all night, just making loops around the city, the river, the sea. Sometimes

I still do.”

“Your parents must have been thrilled.”

“My father never knew—and my mother …” A pause. “She was Illyrian. Some nights, when she

caught me right as I leaped out the window, she’d scold me … and then jump out herself to fly with

me until dawn.”

“She sounds lovely,” I admitted.

“She was,” he said. And those two words told me enough about his past that I didn’t pry.

A maneuver had us rising higher, until we were in direct line with a broad balcony, gilded by the light

of golden lanterns. At the far end, built into the red mountain itself, two glass doors were already

open, revealing a large, but surprisingly casual dining room carved from the stone, and accented

with rich wood. Each chair fashioned, I noted, to accomodate wings.

Rhys’s landing was as smooth as his takeoff, though he kept an arm beneath my shoulders as my

knees buckled at the adjustment. I shook off his touch, and faced the city behind us.

I’d spent so much time squatting in trees that heights had lost their primal terror long ago. But the

sprawl of the city … worse, the vast expanse of dark beyond—the sea … Maybe I remained a

human fool to feel that way, but I had not realized the size of the world. The size of Prythian, if a city

this large could remain hidden from Amarantha, from the other courts.

Rhysand was silent beside me. Yet after a moment, he said, “Out with it.”

I lifted a brow.

“You say what’s on your mind—one thing. And I’ll say one, too.”

I shook my head and turned back to the city.

But Rhys said, “I’m thinking that I spent fifty years locked Under the Mountain, and I’d sometimes let

myself dream of this place, but I never expected to see it again. I’m thinking that I wish I had been

the one who slaughtered her. I’m thinking that if war comes, it might be a long while yet before I get

to have a night like this.”

He slid his eyes to me, expectant.

I didn’t bother asking again how he’d kept this place from her, not when he was likely to refuse to

answer. So I said, “Do you think war will be here that soon?”

“This was a no-questions-asked invitation. I told you … three things. Tell me one.”

I stared toward the open world, the city and the restless sea and the dry winter night.

Maybe it was some shred of courage, or recklessness, or I was so high above everything that no

one save Rhys and the wind could hear, but I said, “I’m thinking that I must have been a fool in love

to allow myself to be shown so little of the Spring Court. I’m thinking there’s a great deal of that

territory I was never allowed to see or hear about and maybe I would have lived in ignorance

forever like some pet. I’m thinking … ” The words became choked. I shook my head as if I could

clear the remaining ones away. But I still spoke them. “I’m thinking that I was a lonely, hopeless

person, and I might have fallen in love with the first thing that showed me a hint of kindness and

safety. And I’m thinking maybe he knew that—maybe not actively, but maybe he wanted to be that

person for someone. And maybe that worked for who I was before. Maybe it doesn’t work for who—

what I am now.”

There.

The words, hateful and selfish and ungrateful. For all Tamlin had done—

The thought of his name clanged through me. Only yesterday afternoon, I had been there. No—no,

I wouldn’t think about it. Not yet.

Rhysand said, “That was five. Looks like I owe you two thoughts.” He glanced behind us. “Later.”

Because the two winged males from earlier were standing in the doorway.

Grinning.

CHAPTER

16

Rhys sauntered toward the two males standing by the dining room doors, giving me the option to

stay or join.

One word, he’d promised, and we could go.

Both of them were tall, their wings tucked in tight to powerful, muscled bodies covered in plated,

dark leather that reminded me of the worn scales of some serpentine beast. Identical long swords

were each strapped down the column of their spines—the blades beautiful in their simplicity.

Perhaps I needn’t have bothered with the fine clothes after all.

The slightly larger of the two, his face masked in shadow, chuckled and said, “Come on, Feyre. We

don’t bite. Unless you ask us to.”

Surprise sparked through me, setting my feet moving.

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets. “The last I heard, Cassian, no one has ever taken you up on

that offer.”

The second one snorted, the faces of both males at last illuminated as they turned toward the

golden light of the dining room, and I honestly wondered why no one hadn’t: if Rhysand’s mother

had also been Illyrian, then its people were blessed with unnatural good looks.

Like their High Lord, the males—warriors—were dark-haired, tan-skinned. But unlike Rhys, their

eyes were hazel and fixed on me as I at last stepped close—to the waiting House of Wind behind

them.

That was where any similarities between the three of them halted.

Cassian surveyed Rhys from head to foot, his shoulder-length black hair shifting with the

movement. “So fancy tonight, brother. And you made poor Feyre dress up, too.” He winked at me.

There was something rough-hewn about his features—like he’d been made of wind and earth and

flame and all these civilized trappings were little more than an inconvenience.

But the second male, the more classically beautiful of the two … Even the light shied from the

elegant planes of his face. With good reason. Beautiful, but near-unreadable. He’d be the one to

look out for—the knife in the dark. Indeed, an obsidian-hilted hunting knife was sheathed at his

thigh, its dark scabbard embossed with a line of silver runes I’d never seen before.

Rhys said, “This is Azriel—my spymaster.” Not surprising. Some buried instinct had me checking

that my mental shields were intact. J

ust in case.

“Welcome,” was all Azriel said, his voice low, almost flat, as he extended a brutally scarred hand to

me. The shape of it was normal—but the skin … It looked like it had been swirled and smudged and

rippled. Burns. They must have been horrific if even their immortal blood had not been able to heal

them.

The leather plates of his light armor flowed over most of it, held by a loop around his middle finger.

Not to conceal, I realized as his hand breached the chill night air between us. No, it was to hold in

place the large, depthless cobalt stone that graced the back of the gauntlet. A matching one lay

atop his left hand; and twin red stones adorned Cassian’s gauntlets, their color like the slumbering

heart of a flame.

I took Azriel’s hand, and his rough fingers squeezed mine. His skin was as cold as his face.

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