A Court of Wings and Ruin
Page 144“We’ll rest on it,” Tarquin said, blowing out a breath. “Meet at dawn tomorrow. Making a decision after a long day never helped anyone.”
Helion agreed, and saw himself out. It was hard not to stare, not to compare his features to Lucien’s. Their nose was the same—eerily identical. How had no one ever called him out for it?
I supposed it was the least of my worries. Tarquin frowned at the map one last time and declared, “We’ll find a way to face this.”
Rhys nodded, while Cassian’s mouth quirked to the side. He’d slid back into his chair for the discussion, and now nursed a cup of some healing brew Azriel had fetched for him.
Tarquin turned from the table, just as the tent flaps parted for a pair of broad shoulders—
Varian. He didn’t so much as look at his High Lord, his focus going right to where Amren sat at the head of the table. As if he’d sensed she was here—or someone had reported. And he’d come running.
Amren’s eyes flicked up from the Book as Varian halted. A coy smile curved her red lips.
There was still blood and dirt splattered on Varian’s brown skin, coating his silver armor and close-cropped white hair. He didn’t seem to notice or care as he strode for Amren.
And none of us dared to speak as Varian dropped to his knees before Amren’s chair, took her shocked face in his broad hands, and kissed her soundly.
CHAPTER
63
None of us lasted long after dinner.
No, she’d just wrapped her legs around his waist, right there in front of us, and he’d stood, lifting her in one swift movement. I wasn’t entirely sure how Varian managed to walk them out of the tent while still kissing her, Amren’s hands dragging through his hair, letting out noises that were unnervingly like purring as they vanished into the camp.
Rhys had let out a low laugh as we all gawked in their wake. “I suppose that’s how Varian decided he’d tell Amren he was feeling rather grateful she ordered us to go to Adriata.”
Tarquin cringed. “We’ll alternate who has to deal with them on holidays.”
Cassian chuckled hoarsely, and looked to Nesta, who remained pale and quiet. What she’d seen, what I’d seen in her mind …
The size of that army …
“Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape.
Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.
Rhys and I managed to eat, quietly discussing what we’d seen. Exhaustion weighted my every breath, and I’d barely finished my plate of roast mutton before I crawled into bed and passed out atop the blankets. Rhys woke me only to tug off my boots and jacket.
Tomorrow morning. We’d figure out how to deal with everything tomorrow morning. I’d talk to Amren about finally mustering Bryaxis to help us wipe out that army.
Maybe there was something else we weren’t seeing. Some additional shot at salvation beyond that nullifying spell.
My dreams were a tangled garden, thorns snagging on me as I stumbled through them.
I dreamed of the Suriel, bleeding out and smiling. I dreamed of the Weaver’s open mouth ripping into Ianthe while she still screamed. I dreamed of Lord Graysen—so mortal and young—standing at the edge of the camp, beckoning to Elain. Telling her he’d come for her. To come home with him. That he’d found a way to undo what had been done to her—to make her human again.
I dreamed of that Cauldron in the King of Hybern’s war-tent, so dark and slumbering … Awakening as Nesta and I stood there, invisible and unseen.
How it had watched back. Known us.
I jolted awake.
Rhys’s naked body was wrapped around mine, his face softened with sleep. In the blackness of the tent, I listened.
Crackling fires outside. The drowsy murmurs of the soldiers on watch. The wind sighing along the canvas tents, snapping at the banners crowning them.
I scanned the dark, listening.
The skin on my arms pebbled.
“Rhys.”
He was instantly awake—sitting upright. “What is it?”
“Something …” I listened so hard my ears strained. “Something is here. Something is wrong.”
He moved, hauling on his pants and knife-belt. I followed suit, still trying to listen, fingers stumbling over the buckles. “I dreamed,” I whispered. “I dreamed about the Cauldron … that it was watching again.”
“Shit.” The word was a hiss of breath.
“I think we opened a door,” I breathed, shoving my feet into my boots. “I think … I think …” I couldn’t finish the sentence as I hurried for the tent flaps, Rhys at my heels. Nesta. I had to find Nesta—
Gold-brown hair flashed in the firelight, and she was already there, hurrying for me, still in her nightgown. “You hear it, too,” she panted.
Hear—I couldn’t hear, but just feel—
Amren’s small figure darted around a tent, wearing what looked to be Varian’s shirt. It came down to her knees, and its owner was indeed behind her, bare-chested as Rhys was, and wide-eyed.
“The Cauldron,” Varian said, brows narrowing. “But—it’s aware?”
“We pried too deep,” Amren said. “Battle aside, it knows where we are as much as we now know its location.”
Nesta raised a hand. “Listen.”
And I heard it then.
It was a song and invitation, a cluster of notes sung by a voice that was male and female, young and old, haunting and alluring and—
“I can’t hear anything,” Rhys said.
“You were not Made,” Amren snapped. But we were. The three of us …
Again, the Cauldron sang its siren song.
My very bones recoiled. “What does it want?”
I felt it pulling away—felt it sliding off into the night.
Azriel stepped out of a shadow. “What is that,” he hissed.
My brows rose. “You hear it?”