Feyre had fallen into the role of mistress of this horrible city with far more ease than she had. Clad in a sparkling onyx gown, the crescent-moon diadem atop her head, her friend looked every part the imperious ruler. As much a part of this place as the twining, serpentine beasts carved and etched everywhere. What Keir, perhaps, had one day pictured for Mor herself.
Not the red gown Mor wore, bright and bold, or the gold jewelry at her wrists, her ears, shimmering like sunlight down here in the gloom.
“If you wanted this little liaison to remain private,” Rhys was saying with lethal calm, “perhaps a public gathering was not the wisest place to meet.”
Indeed.
The Steward of the Hewn City waved a hand. “Why should we have anything to hide? After the war, we’re all such good friends.”
She often dreamed of gutting him. Sometimes with a knife; sometimes with her own bare hands.
“And how does your father’s court fare, Eris?” A mild, bored question from Feyre.
His amber eyes held nothing but distaste.
A roaring filled Mor’s head at that look. She could barely hear his drawled answer. Or Rhys’s reply.
It had once been her delight to taunt Keir and this court, to keep them on their toes. Hell, she’d even snapped a few of the Steward’s bones this spring—after Rhys had shattered his arms into uselessness. Had been glad to do it, after what Keir had said to Feyre, and then delighted when her mother had banished her from their private quarters. An order that still held. But from the moment Eris had walked into that council chamber all those months ago …
You are over five hundred years old, she often reminded herself. She could face it, handle it better than this.
I am not in the habit of fucking Illyrian leftovers.
Even now, even after Azriel had found her in those woods, after Madja had healed her until no trace of those nails marred her stomach … She should not have come here tonight.
Her skin became tight, her stomach roiling. Coward.
She had faced down enemies, fought in many wars, and yet this, these two males together—
Mor felt more than saw Feyre stiffen beside her at something Eris had said.
Her High Lady answered Eris, “Your father is forbidden to cross into the human lands.” No room for compromise with that tone, with the steel in Feyre’s eyes.
Eris only shrugged. “I don’t think it’s your call.”
Rhys slid his hands into his pockets, the portrait of casual grace. Yet the shadows and star-flecked darkness that wafted from him, that set the mountain shuddering beneath his every step—that was the true face of the High Lord of the Night Court. The most powerful High Lord in history. “I would suggest reminding Beron that territory expansion is not on the table. For any court.”
Eris wasn’t fazed. Nothing had ever disturbed him, ruffled him. Mor had hated it from the moment she’d met him—that distance, that coldness. That lack of interest or feeling for the world. “Then I would suggest to you, High Lord, that you speak to your dear friend Tamlin about it.”
“Why.” Feyre’s question was sharp as a blade.
Eris’s mouth curved in an adder’s smile. “Because Tamlin’s territory is the only one that borders the human lands. I’d think that anyone looking to expand would have to go through the Spring Court first. Or at least obtain his permission.”
Another person she’d one day kill. If Feyre and Rhys didn’t do it first.
It didn’t matter what Tamlin had done in the war, if he’d brought Beron and the human forces with him. If he’d played Hybern.
It was another day, another female lying on the ground, that Mor would not forget, could not forgive.
Rhys’s cold face turned contemplative, though. She could easily read the reluctance in his eyes, the annoyance at having Eris tip him off, but information was information.
Mor glanced toward Keir and found him watching her.
Save for her initial order to the Steward, she had not spoken a word. Contributed to this meeting. Stepped up.
She could see that in Keir’s eyes. The satisfaction.
Say something. Think of something to say. To strip him down to nothing.
But Rhys deemed they were done, linking his arm through Feyre’s and guiding them away, the mountain indeed trembling beneath their steps. What he’d said to Eris, Mor had no idea.
Pathetic. Cowardly and pathetic.
Truth is your gift. Truth is your curse.
Say something.
But the words to strike down her father did not come.
Her red gown flowing behind her, Mor turned her back on him, on the smirking heir to Autumn, and followed her High Lord and Lady through the darkness and back into the light.