I straightened. “I wasn’t prepared in Hybern. None of us were. If I tried again—”
Mor cut in. “If you tried again, it might very well kill you. Not to mention, we’d have to actually get to the Cauldron, which isn’t an option.”
“The king,” Azriel clarified at my furrowed brow, “won’t allow the Cauldron out of his sight. And he’s rigged it with more spells and traps than the last time.” I opened my mouth to object, but the shadowsinger added, “We looked into it. It’s not a viable path.”
I believed him—the stark honesty in those hazel eyes was confirmation enough that they’d weighed it thoroughly. “Well, if it’s too risky to nullify the Cauldron,” I mused, “then can I somehow fix the wall? If the wall was made by faeries coming together, and my very magic is a blend of so many …”
Amren considered in the silence that fell. “Perhaps. The relationship would be tenuous, but … yes, perhaps you could patch it up. Though your sisters, directly forged by the Cauldron itself, might bear the sort of magic we—”
“My sisters play no part in this.”
Another beat of silence, interrupted only by the rustle of Azriel’s wings.
“I asked them to help once—and look what happened. I won’t risk them again.”
Amren snorted. “You sound exactly like Tamlin.”
I felt the words like a blow.
Rhys slid a hand against my back, having appeared so fast I didn’t see him move. But before he could reply, Mor said quietly, “Don’t you ever say that sort of bullshit again, Amren.”
There was nothing on Mor’s face beyond cold calm—fury.
I’d never seen her look so … terrifying. She had been furious with the mortal queens, but this … This was the face of the High Lord’s third in command.
“If you’re cranky because you’re hungry, then tell us,” Mor went on with that frozen quiet. “But if you say anything like that again, I will throw you in the gods-damned Sidra.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
A little smile was Mor’s only answer.
Amren slid her attention to me. “We need your sisters—if not for this, then to convince others to join us, of the risk. Since any would-be ally might have some … difficulty believing us after so many years of lies.”
“Apologize,” said Mor.
“Mor,” I murmured.
“Apologize,” she hissed at Amren.
Amren said nothing.
Mor took a step toward her, and I said, “She’s right.”
They both looked to me, brows raised.
I swallowed. “Amren is right.” I walked out of Rhys’s touch—realizing he’d kept silent to let me sort it out. Let me figure out how to deal with both of them, as family, but mostly as their High Lady.
Mor’s face tightened, but I shook my head. “I can—ask my sisters. See if they have any sort of power. See if they’d be willing to … talk to others about what they endured. But I won’t force them to help, if they do not wish to participate. The choice will be theirs.” I glanced at my mate—the male who had always presented me with a choice not as a gift, but as my own gods-given right. Rhys’s violet eyes flickered in acknowledgment. “But I’ll make our … desperation clear.”
Amren huffed, hardly more than a bird of prey puffing its feathers.
“Compromise, Amren,” Rhys purred. “It’s called compromise.”
She ignored him. “If you want to start convincing your sisters, get them out of the House. Being cooped up never helped anyone.”
Rhys said smoothly, “I’m not entirely sure Velaris is prepared for Nesta Archeron.”
“My sister’s not some feral animal,” I snapped.
Rhys recoiled a bit, the others suddenly finding the carpet, the divan, the books incredibly fascinating. “I didn’t mean that.”
I didn’t answer.
Mor frowned in disapproval at Rhys, who I felt watching me carefully, but asked me, “What of Elain?”
I shifted slightly, pushing past the words still hanging between me and Rhys. “I can ask, but … she might not be ready to be around so many people.” I clarified, “She was supposed to be married next week.”
“So she keeps saying, over and over,” Amren grumbled.
I shot her a glare. “Careful.” Amren blinked up at me in surprise. But I went on, “So, we need to find a way to patch up the wall before Hybern uses the Cauldron to break it. And fight this war before any other territories join Hybern’s assault. And eventually get the Cauldron itself. Anything else?”
Rhys said behind me, his own voice carefully casual, “That covers it. As soon as a force can be assembled, we take on Hybern.”
“The Illyrian legions are nearly ready,” Cassian said.
“No,” Rhys said. “I mean a bigger force. A force not just from the Night Court, but from all of Prythian. Our only decent shot at finding allies in this war.”
None of us spoke, none of us moved as Rhys said simply, “Tomorrow, invitations go out to every High Lord in Prythian. For a meeting in two weeks. It’s time we see who stands with us. And make sure they understand the consequences if they don’t.”
CHAPTER
17
I let Cassian carry me to the House two hours later, just because he admitted he was still working to strengthen his wings and needed to push himself.
Heat rippled off the tiled roofs and red stone as we soared high over them, the sea breeze a cool kiss against my face.
We’d barely finished debating thirty minutes ago, only stopping when Mor’s stomach had grumbled as loudly as a breaking thunderhead. We’d spent our time weighing the merits of where to meet, who to bring along to the meeting with the High Lords.
Invitations would go out tomorrow—but not specify the meeting place. There was no point in selecting one, Rhys said, when the High Lords would no doubt refuse our initial selection and counter with their own choice of where to gather. All we had chosen was the day and the time—the two weeks a cushion against the bickering that was sure to ensue. The rest … We’d just have to prepare for every possibility.
We’d quickly returned to the town house to change before heading back up to the House—and I’d found Nuala and Cerridwen waiting in my room, smiles on their shadowy faces.
I’d embraced them both, even if Rhys’s hello had been less … enthusiastic. Not for dislike of the half-wraiths, but …
I’d snapped at him. In Amren’s apartment. He hadn’t seemed angry, and yet … I’d felt him carefully watching me these past few hours. It’d made it … strange to look at him. Strange enough that the appetite I’d been steadily building had gone a bit queasy. I’d challenged him before, but … not as High Lady. Not with the … tone.
So I didn’t get to ask him about it as Nuala and Cerridwen helped me dress and he headed into the bathing room to wash up.
Not that there was much finery to bother with. I’d opted for my Illyrian leather pants and a loose, white shirt—and a pair of embroidered slippers that Cassian kept snorting at as we flew.
When he did so for the third time in two minutes, I pinched his arm and said, “It’s hot. Those boots are stuffy.”
His brows rose, the portrait of innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You grunted. Again.”