A Court of Wings and Ruin

She only stared right back at him. Unruffled, unimpressed.

“Who is your guest?” the High Lord of Day asked a bit too quietly for my liking.

Cassian revealed nothing—not even a glimmer that he knew Nesta. But he didn’t move an inch from his casual defensive position. Neither did Azriel.

“She is my sister, and our emissary to the human lands,” I said at last to him, stepping to her side. “And she will tell her story when the others are here.”

“She is Fae.”

“No shit,” Viviane muttered under her breath, and Mor’s snort was cut off as Kallias raised his brows at them. Helion ignored them.

“Who Made her?” Thesan asked politely, angling his head.

Nesta surveyed Thesan. Then Helion. Then Kallias.

“Hybern did,” she said simply. Not a flicker of fear in her eyes, in her upraised chin.

Stunned silence.

But I’d had enough of my sister being ogled. I linked elbows with her, heading toward the low-backed chairs that I assumed were for us. “They threw her in the Cauldron,” I said. “Along with my other sister, Elain.” I sat, placing Nesta beside me, and gazed at the three assembled High Lords without an inch of manners or niceness or flattery. “After the High Priestess Ianthe and Tamlin sold out Prythian and my family to them.”

Nesta nodded her silent confirmation.

Helion’s eyes blazed like a forge. “That is a heavy accusation to make—especially of your former lover.”

“It is no accusation,” I said, folding my hands in my lap. “We were all there. And now we’re going to do something about it.”

Pride flickered down the bond.

And then Viviane muttered to Kallias, jabbing him in the ribs, “Why can’t I be High Lady as well?”

The others arrived late.

We took our seats around the reflection pool, Thesan’s impeccably mannered attendants bringing us plates of food and goblets of exotic juices from the tables against the wall. Conversation halted and flowed, Mor and Viviane sitting next to each other to catch up on what seemed like fifty years’ worth of gossip.

Viviane had not been Under the Mountain. As her childhood friend, Kallias had been protective of her to a fault over the years—had placed the sharp-minded female on border duty for decades to avoid the scheming of his court. He didn’t let her near Amarantha, either. Didn’t let anyone get a whiff of what he felt for his white-haired friend, who had no clue—not one—that he had loved her his entire life. And in those last moments, when his power had been ripped from him by that spell … Kallias had flung out the remnants to warn her. To tell Viviane he loved her. And then he begged her to protect their people.

So she had.

As Mor and my friends had protected Velaris, Viviane had veiled and guarded the small city under her watch, offering safe harbor to those who made it.

Never forgetting the High Lord and friend trapped Under the Mountain, never ceasing her hunt for finding a way to free him. Especially while Amarantha unleashed her horrors upon his court to break them, punish them. Yet Viviane held them together. And through that reign of terror—during all those years—she realized what Kallias was to her, what she felt for him in return.

The day he’d returned home, he’d winnowed right to her.

She’d kissed him before he could speak a word. He’d then knelt down and asked her to be his wife.

They went an hour later to a temple and swore their vows. And that night—during the you-know, Viviane grinned at Mor—the mating bond at last snapped into place.

The story occupied our time while we waited, since Mor wanted details. Lots of them. Ones that pushed the boundaries of propriety and left Thesan choking on his elderberry wine. But Kallias smiled at his wife and mate, warm and bright enough that despite his icy coloring, he should have been the High Lord of Day.

Not the sharp-tongued, brutal Helion, who watched my sister and me like an eagle. A great, golden eagle—with very sharp talons.

I wondered what his beast form was; if he grew wings like Rhysand. And claws.

If Thesan did, too—white wings like the watchful Peregryns who kept silent, his own fierce-eyed lover not uttering a word to anyone. Perhaps the High Lords of the Solar Courts all possessed wings beneath their skin, a gift from the skies that their courts claimed ownership of.

It was an hour before Thesan announced, “Tarquin is here.”

My mouth went dry. An uncomfortable silence spread.

“Heard about the blood rubies.” Helion smirked at Rhys, toying with the golden cuff on his bicep. “That is a story I want you to tell.”

Rhys waved an idle hand. “All in good time.” Prick, he said to me with a wink.

But then Tarquin cleared the top step into the chamber, Varian and Cresseida flanking him.

Varian glanced among us for someone who was not there—and glowered when he beheld Cassian, seated to Nesta’s left. Cassian just gave him a cocky grin.

I wrecked one building, Cassian had said once of his last visit to the Summer Court. Where he was now banned. Apparently, even assisting them in battle hadn’t lifted it.

Tarquin ignored Rhysand and me—ignored all of us, Rhys’s wings included—as he made vague apologies for the tardiness, blaming it on the attack. Possibly true. Or he’d been deciding until the last minute whether to come, despite his acceptance of the invitation.

He and Helion were nearly as tense, and only Thesan seemed to be on decent terms with him. Neutral indeed. Kallias had become even colder—distant.

But the introductions were done, and then …

An attendant whispered to Thesan that Beron and all of his sons had arrived. The smile instantly vanished from Mor’s mouth, her eyes.

From my own as well.

The violence simmering off my friends was enough to boil the pool at our toes as the High Lord of Autumn filed through the archway, his sons in rank behind him, his wife—Lucien’s mother—at his side. Her russet eyes scanned the room, as if looking for that missing son. They settled instead on Helion, who gave her a mocking incline of his dark head. She quickly averted her gaze.

She had saved my life once—Under the Mountain. In exchange for my sparing Lucien’s.

Did she wonder where her lost son was now? Had she heard the rumors I’d crafted, the lies I’d spun? I couldn’t tell her that Lucien currently hunted the continent, dodging armies, for an enchanted queen. To find a scrap of salvation.

Beron—slender-faced and brown-haired—didn’t bother to look anywhere but at the High Lords assembled. But his remaining sons sneered at us. Sneered enough that the Peregryns ruffled their feathers. Even Varian flashed

his teeth in warning at the leer Cresseida earned from one of them. Their father didn’t bother to check them.

But Eris did.

A step behind his father, Eris murmured, “Enough,” and his younger brothers fell into line. All three of them.

Whether Beron noticed or cared, he did not let on. No, he merely stopped halfway across the room, hands folded before him, and scowled—as if we were a pack of mongrels.

Beron, the oldest among us. The most awful.

Rhys smoothly greeted him, though his power was a dark mountain shuddering beneath us, “It’s no surprise that you’re tardy, given that your own sons were too slow to catch my mate. I suppose it runs in the family.”

Beron’s lips curled slightly as he looked to me, my crown. “Mate—and High Lady.”

I leveled a flat, bored stare at him. Turned it on his hateful sons. On—Eris.

Eris only smiled at me, amused and aloof. Would he wear that mask when he ended his father’s life and stole his throne?

Cassian was watching the would-be High Lord like a hawk studying his next meal. Eris deigned a glance at the Illyrian general and inclined his head in invitation, subtly patting his stomach. Ready for round two.

Then Eris’s attention shifted to Mor, sweeping over her with a disdain that made me see red. Mor only stared blankly at him. Bored.

Even Viviane was biting her lip. So she knew of what had been done to Mor—what Eris’s presence would trigger.

Unaware of the meeting that had already occurred, the unholy alliance struck. Azriel was so still I wasn’t sure he was breathing. Whether Mor noticed, whether she knew that though she’d tried to move past the bargain we’d made, the guilt of it still haunted Azriel, she didn’t let on.

They sat—filling in the final seats.

Not one empty chair left.

It said enough about Tamlin’s plans.

I tried not to sag in my chair as the attendants took care of the Autumn Court, as we all settled.

Thesan, as host, began. “Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.”

Rhys blinked—slowly. “Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.”