A Court of Mist and Fury

Chapter 32

A+A++

“And you were friends after that?”

“No—Cauldron no,” Rhysand said. “We hated each other, and only behaved because if one of us

got into trouble or provoked the other, then neither of us ate that night. My mother started tutoring

Cassian, but it wasn’t until Azriel arrived a year later that we decided to be allies.”

Cassian’s grin grew as he reached around Amren to clap his friend on the shoulder. Azriel sighed—

the sound of the long-suffering. The warmest expression I’d seen him make. “A new bastard in the

camp—and an untrained shadowsinger to boot. Not to mention he couldn’t even fly thanks to—”

Mor cut in lazily, “Stay on track, Cassian.”

Indeed, any warmth had vanished from Azriel’s face. But I quieted my own curiosity as Cassian

again shrugged, not even bothering to take note of the silence that seemed to leak from the

shadowsinger. Mor saw, though—even if Azriel didn’t bother to acknowledge her concerned stare,

the hand that she kept looking at as if she’d touch, but thought better of it.

Cassian went on, “Rhys and I made his life a living hell, shadowsinger or no. But Rhys’s mother had

known Az’s mother, and took him in. As we grew older, and the other males around us did, too, we

realized everyone else hated us enough that we had better odds of survival sticking together.”

“Do you have any gifts?” I asked him. “Like—them?” I jerked my chin to Azriel and Rhys.

“A volatile temper doesn’t count,” Mor said as Cassian opened his mouth.

He gave her that grin I realized likely meant trouble was coming, but said to me, “No. I don’t—not

beyond a heaping pile of the killing power. Bastard-born nobody, through and through.” Rhys sat

forward like he’d object, but Cassian forged ahead, “Even so, the other males knew that we were

different. And not because we were two bastards and a half-breed. We were stronger, faster—like

the Cauldron knew we’d been set apart and wanted us to find each other. Rhys’s mother saw it, too.

Especially as we reached the age of maturity, and all we wanted to do was fuck and fight.”

“Males are horrible creatures, aren’t they?” Amren said.

“Repulsive,” Mor said, clicking her tongue.

Some surviving, small part of my heart wanted to … laugh at that.

Cassian shrugged. “Rhys’s power grew every day—and everyone, even the camp-lords, knew he

could mist everyone if he felt like it. And the two of us … we weren’t far behind.” He tapped his

crimson Siphon with a finger. “A bastard Illyrian had never received one of these. Ever. For Az and

me to both be appointed them, albeit begrudgingly, had every warrior in every camp across those

mountains sizing us up. Only pure-blood pricks get Siphons—born and bred for the killing power. It

still keeps them up at night, puzzling over where the hell we got it from.”

“Then the War came,” Azriel took over. Just the way he said the words made me sit up. Listen. “And

Rhys’s father visited our camp to see how his son had fared after twenty years.”

“My father,” Rhys said, swirling his wine once—twice, “saw that his son had not only started to rival

him for power, but had allied himself with perhaps the two deadliest Illyrians in history. He got it into

his head that if we were given a legion in the War, we might very well turn it against him when we

returned.”

Cassian snickered. “So the prick separated us. He gave Rhys command of a legion of Illyrians who

hated him for being a half-breed, and threw me into a different legion to be a common foot soldier,

even when my power outranked any of the war-leaders. Az, he kept for himself as his personal

shadowsinger—mostly for spying and his dirty work. We only saw each other on battlefields for the

seven years the War raged. They’d send around casualty lists amongst the Illyrians, and I read

each one, wondering if I’d see their names on it. But then Rhys was captured—”

“That is a story for another time,” Rhys said, sharply enough that Cassian lifted his brows, but

nodded. Rhys’s violet eyes met mine, and I wondered if it was true starlight that flickered so

intensely in them as he spoke. “Once I became High Lord, I appointed these four to my Inner Circle,

and told the rest of my father’s old court that if they had a problem with my friends, they could leave.

They all did. Turns out, having a half-breed High Lord was made worse by his appointment of two

females and two Illyrian bastards.”

As bad as humans, in some ways. “What—what happened to them, then?”

Rhys shrugged, those great wings shifting with the movement. “The nobility of the Night Court fall

into one of three categories: those who hated me enough that when Amarantha took over, they

joined her court and later found themselves dead; those who hated me enough to try to overthrow

me and faced the consequences; and those who hated me, but not enough to be stupid and have

since tolerated a half-breed’s rule, especially when it so rarely interferes with their miserable lives.”

“Are they—are they the ones who live beneath the mountain?”

A nod. “In the Hewn City, yes. I gave it to them, for not being fools. They’re happy to stay there,

rarely leaving, ruling themselves and being as wicked as they please, for all eternity.”

That was the court he must have shown Amarantha when she first arrived—and its wickedness

must have pleased her enough that she modeled her own after it.

“The Court of Nightmares,” Mor said, sucking on a tooth. Content rights belong to NôvelDrama.Org.

“And what is this court?” I asked, gesturing to them. The most important question.

It was Cassian, eyes clear and bright as his Siphon, who said, “The Court of Dreams.”

The Court of Dreams—the dreams of a half-breed High Lord, two bastard warriors, and … the two

females. “And you?” I said to Mor and Amren.

Amren merely said, “Rhys offered to make me his Second. No one had ever asked me before, so I

said yes, to see what it might be like. I found I enjoyed it.”

Mor leaned back in her seat, Azriel now watching every movement she made with subtle, relentless

focus.

“I was a dreamer born into the Court of Nightmares,” Mor said. She twirled a curl around a finger,

and I wondered if her story might be the worst of all of them as she said simply, “So I got out.”

“What’s your story, then?” Cassian said to me with a jerk of his chin.

I’d assumed Rhysand had told them everything. Rhys merely shrugged at me.

So I straightened. “I was born to a wealthy merchant family, with two older sisters and parents who

only cared about their money and social standing. My mother died when I was eight; my father lost

his fortune three years later. He sold everything to pay off his debts, moved us into a hovel, and

didn’t bother to find work while he let us slowly starve for years. I was fourteen when the last of the

money ran out, along with the food. He wouldn’t work—couldn’t, because the debtors came and

shattered his leg in front of us. So I went into the forest and taught myself to hunt. And I kept us all

alive, if not near starvation at times, for five years. Until … everything happened.”

They fell quiet again, Azriel’s gaze now considering. He hadn’t told his story. Did it ever come up?

Or did they never discuss those burns on his hands? And what did the shadows whisper to him—

did they speak in a language at all?

But Cassian said, “You taught yourself to hunt. What about to fight?” I shook my head. Cassian

braced his arms on the table. “Lucky for you, you’ve just found yourself a teacher.”

I opened my mouth, protesting, but— Rhysand’s mother had given him an arsenal of weapons to

use if the other failed. What did I have in my own beyond a good shot with a bow and brute

stubbornness? And if I had this new power—these other powers …

I would not be weak again. I would not be dependent on anyone else. I would never have to endure

the touch of the Attor as it dragged me because I was too helpless to know where and how to hit.

Never again.

But what Ianthe and Tamlin had said … “You don’t think it sends a bad message if people see me

learning to fight—using weapons?”

The moment the words were out, I realized the st

upidity of them. The stupidity of—of what had been shoved down my throat these past few months.

Silence. Then Mor said with a soft venom that made me understand the High Lord’s Third had

received training of her own in that Court of Nightmares, “Let me tell you two things. As someone

who has perhaps been in your shoes before.” Again, that shared bond of anger, of pain throbbed

between them all, save for Amren, who was giving me a look dripping with distaste. “One,” Mor

said, “you have left the Spring Court.” I tried not to let the full weight of those words sink in. “If that

does not send a message, for good or bad, then your training will not, either. Two,” she continued,

laying her palm flat on the table, “I once lived in a place where the opinion of others mattered. It

suffocated me, nearly broke me. So you’ll understand me, Feyre, when I say that I know what you

feel, and I know what they tried to do to you, and that with enough courage, you can say to hell with

a reputation.” Her voice gentled, and the tension between them all faded with it. “You do what you

love, what you need.”

Mor would not tell me what to wear or not wear. She would not allow me to step aside while she

spoke for me. She would not … would not do any of the things that I had so willingly, desperately,

allowed Ianthe to do.

I had never had a female friend before. Ianthe … she had not been one. Not in the way that

mattered, I realized. And Nesta and Elain, in those few weeks I’d been at home before Amarantha,

had started to fill that role, but … but looking at Mor, I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand it, but

… I felt it. Like I could indeed go to dinner with her. Talk to her.

Not that I had much of anything to offer her in return.

But what she’d said … what they’d all said … Yes, Rhys had been wise to bring me here. To let me

decide if I could handle them—the teasing and intensity and power. If I wanted to be a part of a

group who would likely push me, and overwhelm me, and maybe frighten me, but … If they were

willing to stand against Hybern, after already fighting them five hundred years ago …

I met Cassian’s gaze. And though his eyes danced, there was nothing amused in them. “I’ll think

about it.”

Through the bond in my hand, I could have sworn I felt a glimmer of pleased surprise. I checked my

mental shields—but they were intact. And Rhysand’s calm face revealed no hint of its origin.

So I said clearly, steadily to him, “I accept your offer—to work with you. To earn my keep. And help

with Hybern in whatever way I can.”

“Good,” Rhys merely replied. Even as the others raised their brows. Yes, they’d obviously not been

told this was an interview of sorts. “Because we start tomorrow.”

“Where? And what?” I sputtered.

Rhys interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table, and I realized there was another point to

this dinner beyond my decision as he announced to all of us, “Because the King of Hybern is indeed

about to launch a war, and he wants to resurrect Jurian to do it.”

Jurian—the ancient warrior whose soul Amarantha had imprisoned within that hideous ring as

punishment for killing her sister. The ring that contained his eye …

Source:

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

by

Articles you may like

Ads by