A Court of Mist and Fury

Chapter 33

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“Bullshit,” Cassian spat. “There’s no way to do that.”

Amren had gone still, and it was she whom Azriel was observing, marking.

Amarantha was just the beginning, Rhys had once told me. Had he known this even then? Had

those months Under the Mountain merely been a prelude to whatever hell was about to be

unleashed? Resurrecting the dead. What sort of unholy power—

Mor groaned, “Why would the king want to resurrect Jurian? He was so odious. All he liked to do

was talk about himself.”

The age of these people hit me like a brick, despite all they’d told me minutes earlier. The War—

they had all … they had all fought in the War five hundred years ago.

“That’s what I want to find out,” Rhysand said. “And how the king plans to do it.”

Amren at last said, “Word will have reached him about Feyre’s Making. He knows it’s possible for

the dead to be remade.” NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

I shifted in my seat. I’d expected brute armies, pure bloodshed. But this—

“All seven High Lords would have to agree to that,” Mor countered. “There’s not a chance it

happens. He’ll take another route.” Her eyes narrowed to slits as she faced Rhys. “All the

slaughtering—the massacres at temples. You think it’s tied to this?”

“I know it’s tied to this. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for certain. But Azriel confirmed that

they’d raided the memorial in Sangravah three days ago. They’re looking for something—or found

it.” Azriel nodded in confirmation, even as Mor cast a surprised look in his direction. Azriel gave her

an apologetic shrug back.

I breathed, “That—that’s why the ring and the finger bone vanished after Amarantha died. For this.

But who …” My mouth went dry. “They never caught the Attor, did they?”

Rhys said too quietly, “No. No, they didn’t.” The food in my stomach turned leaden. He said to

Amren, “How does one take an eye and a finger bone and make it into a man again? And how do

we stop it?”

Amren frowned at her untouched wine. “You already know how to find the answer. Go to the Prison.

Talk to the Bone Carver.”

“Shit,” Mor and Cassian both said.

Rhys said calmly, “Perhaps you would be more effective, Amren.”

I was grateful for the table separating us as Amren hissed, “I will not set foot in the Prison, Rhysand,

and you know it. So go yourself, or send one of these dogs to do it for you.”

Cassian grinned, showing his white, straight teeth—perfect for biting. Amren snapped hers once in

return.

Azriel just shook his head. “I’ll go. The Prison sentries know me—what I am.”

I wondered if the shadowsinger was usually the first to throw himself into danger. Mor’s fingers

stilled on the stem of her wineglass, her eyes narrowing on Amren. The jewels, the red gown—all

perhaps a way to downplay whatever dark power roiled in her veins—

“If anyone’s going to the Prison,” Rhys said before Mor opened her mouth, “it’s me. And Feyre.”

“What?” Mor demanded, palms now flat on the table.

“He won’t talk to Rhys,” Amren said to the others, “or to Azriel. Or to any of us. We’ve got nothing to

offer him. But an immortal with a mortal soul …” She stared at my chest as if she could see the

heart pounding beneath … And I contemplated yet again what she ate. “The Bone Carver might be

willing indeed to talk to her.”

They stared at me. As if waiting for me to beg not to go, to curl up and cower. Their quick, brutal

interview to see if they wanted to work with me, I supposed.

But the Bone Carver, the naga, the Attor, the Suriel, the Bogge, the Middengard Wyrm … Maybe

they’d broken whatever part of me truly feared. Or maybe fear was only something I now felt in my

dreams.

“Your choice, Feyre,” Rhys said casually.

To shirk and mourn or face some unknown horror—the choice was easy. “How bad can it be?” was

my response.

“Bad,” Cassian said. None of them bothered to contradict him.

ChapterJurian.

The name clanged through me, even after we finished dinner, even after Mor and Cassian and

Azriel and Amren had stopped debating and snarling about who would do what and be where while

Rhys and I went to the Prison—whatever that was—tomorrow.

Rhys flew me back over the city, plunging into the lights and darkness. I quickly found I much

preferred ascending, and couldn’t bring myself to watch for too long without feeling my dinner rise

up. Not fear—just some reaction of my body.

We flew in silence, the whistling winter wind the only sound, despite his cocoon of warmth blocking

it from freezing me entirely. Only when the music of the streets welcomed us did I peer into his face,

his features unreadable as he focused on flying. “Tonight—I felt you again. Through the bond. Did I

get past your shields?”

“No,” he said, scanning the cobblestone streets

below. “This bond is … a living thing. An open channel between us, shaped by my powers, shaped

… by what you needed when we made the bargain.”

“I needed not to be dead when I agreed.”

“You needed not to be alone.”

Our eyes met. It was too dark to read whatever was in his gaze. I was the one who looked away

first.

“I’m still learning how and why we can sometimes feel things the other doesn’t want known,” he

admitted. “So I don’t have an explanation for what you felt tonight.”

You needed not to be alone… .

But what about him? Fifty years he’d been separated from his friends, his family …

I said, “You let Amarantha and the entire world think you rule and delight in a Court of Nightmares.

It’s all a front—to keep what matters most safe.”

The city lights gilded his face. “I love my people, and my family. Do not think I wouldn’t become a

monster to keep them protected.”

“You already did that Under the Mountain.” The words were out before I could stop them.

The wind rustled his hair. “And I suspect I’ll have to do it again soon enough.”

“What was the cost?” I dared ask. “Of keeping this place secret and free?”

He shot straight down, wings beating to keep us smooth as we landed on the roof of the town

house. I made to step away, but he gripped my chin. “You know the cost already.”

Amarantha’s whore.

He nodded, and I think I might have said the two vile words aloud.

“When she tricked me out of my powers and left the scraps, it was still more than the others. And I

decided to use it to tap into the mind of every Night Court citizen she captured, and anyone who

might know the truth. I made a web between all of them, actively controlling their minds every

second of every day, every decade, to forget about Velaris, to forget about Mor, and Amren, and

Cassian, and Azriel. Amarantha wanted to know who was close to me—who to kill and torture. But

my true court was here, ruling this city and the others. And I used the remainder of my power to

shield them all from sight and sound. I had only enough for one city—one place. I chose the one

that had been hidden from history already. I chose, and now must live with the consequences of

knowing there were more left outside who suffered. But for those here … anyone flying or traveling

near Velaris would see nothing but barren rock, and if they tried to walk through it, they’d find

themselves suddenly deciding otherwise. Sea travel and merchant trading were halted—sailors

became farmers, working the earth around Velaris instead. And because my powers were focused

on shielding them all, Feyre, I had very little to use against Amarantha. So I decided that to keep

her from asking questions about the people who mattered, I would be her whore.”

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