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“As far as I can recall, Cassian,” Rhys countered drily, “you actually said you needed a reprieve from staring at our ugly faces, and that some ladies would add some much-needed prettiness for you to look at all day.”
“Pig,” Amren said.
Cassian gave her a vulgar gesture that made Lucien choke on his green beans. “I was a young Illyrian and didn’t know better,” he said, then pointed his fork at Azriel. “Don’t try to blend into the shadows. You said the same thing.”
“He did not,” Mor said, and the shadows that Azriel had indeed been subtly weaving around himself vanished. “Azriel has never once said anything that awful. Only you, Cassian. Only you.”
The general of the High Lord’s armies stuck out his tongue. Mor returned the gesture.
Amren scowled at Rhys. “You’d be wise to leave both of them at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They’ll cause nothing but trouble.”
I dared a peek at Lucien—just to gauge his reaction.
His face was indeed controlled, but—a hint of surprise twinkled there. Wariness, too, but … surprise. I risked another glance at Nesta, but she was watching her plate, dutifully ignoring the others.
Rhys said, “It remains to be seen if they’ll be joining us.” Lucien looked at him then, the curiosity in that one eye unmistakable. Rhys noted it and shrugged. “You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. Invitations are going out tomorrow, calling all the High Lords to gather to discuss this war.”
Lucien’s hand tightened on his fork. “All?”
I wasn’t sure if he meant Tamlin or his father, but Rhys nodded nonetheless.
Lucien considered. “Can I offer my unsolicited advice?”
Rhys smirked. “I think that’s the first time anyone at this table has ever asked such a thing.”
Mor and Cassian now stuck out their tongues at him.
But Rhys waved a lazy hand at Lucien. “By all means, advise away.”
Lucien studied my mate, then me. “I assume Feyre is going.”
Amren sipped from her glass of blood—the only sound in the room as Lucien considered again. “Are you planning to hide her powers?”
Silence.
Rhys at last said, “That was something I’d planned to discuss with my mate. Are you leaning one way or another, Lucien?”
There was still something sharp in his tone, something just a little vicious.
Lucien studied me again, and it was an effort not to squirm. “My father would likely join with Hybern if he thought he stood a chance of getting his power back that way—by killing you.”
A snarl from Rhys.
“Your brothers saw me, though,” I said, setting down my fork. “Perhaps they could mistake the flame as yours, but the ice …”
Lucien jerked his chin to Azriel. “That’s the information you need to gather. What my father knows—if my brothers realized what she was doing. You need to start from there, and build your plan for this meeting accordingly.”
Mor said, “Eris might keep that information to himself and convince the others to as well, if he thinks it’ll be more useful that way.” I wondered if Mor looked at that red hair, the golden-brown skin that was a few shades darker than his brothers’, and still saw Eris.
Lucien said evenly, “Perhaps. But we need to find that out. If Beron or Eris has that information, they’ll use it to their advantage in that meeting—to control it. Or control you. Or they might not show up at all, and instead go right to Hybern.”
Cassian swore softly, and I was inclined to echo the sentiment.
Rhys swirled his wine once, set it down, and said to Lucien, “You and Azriel should talk. Tomorrow.”
Lucien glanced toward the shadowsinger—who only nodded at him. “I’m at your disposal.”
None of us were dumb enough to ask if he’d be willing to reveal details on the Spring Court. If he thought that Tamlin would arrive. That was perhaps a conversation best left for another time. With just him and me.
Rhys leaned back in his seat. Contemplating—something. His jaw tightened, then he let out a near-silent huff of air. Steeling himself.
For whatever he was about to reveal, whatever plans he had decided not to reveal until now. And even as my stomach tightened, some sort of thrill went through me at it—at that clever mind at work.
Until Rhys said, “There is another meeting that needs to be had—and soon.”
CHAPTER
“Please don’t say we need to go to the Court of Nightmares,” Cassian grumbled around a mouthful of food.
Rhys lifted a brow. “Not in the mood to terrorize our friends there?”
Mor’s golden face paled. “You mean to ask my father to fight in this war,” she said to Rhys.
I reined in my sharp intake of breath.
“What is the Court of Nightmares?” Nesta demanded.
Lucien answered for us. “The place where the rest of the world believes the majority of the Night Court to be.” He jerked his chin at Rhys. “The seat of his power. Or it was.”
“Oh, it still is,” Rhys said. “To everyone outside Velaris.” He leveled a steady look at Mor. “And yes. Keir’s Darkbringer legion is considerable enough that a meeting is warranted.”
The last meeting had resulted in Keir’s arm being shattered in so many places it had gone saggy. I doubted the male would be inclined to help us anytime soon—perhaps why Rhys wanted this meeting.
Nesta’s brows narrowed. “Why not just order them? Don’t they answer to you?”
Cassian set down his fork, food forgotten. “Unfortunately, there are protocols in place between our two subcourts regarding this sort of thing. They mostly govern themselves—with Mor’s father their steward.”
Mor’s throat bobbed. Azriel watched her carefully, his mouth a tight line.
“The steward of the Hewn City is legally entitled to refuse to aid my armies,” Rhys explained to Nesta, to me. “It was part of the agreement my ancestor made with the Court of Nightmares all those thousands of years ago. They would remain within that mountain, would not challenge or disturb us beyond its borders … and would retain the right to decide not to assist in war.”
“And have they—refused?” I asked.