But as I strode through the flaps, sound greeted me within—talking. Many voices, one of them belonging to my mate.
I got one step inside and knew I wouldn’t be changing my clothes anytime soon.
For seated in a chair before the brazier was Prince Drakon, Rhys sprawled and still bloody on the cushions across from him. And on the pillows beside Rhys sat a lovely female, her dark hair tumbling down her back in luscious curls, already smiling at me.
Miryam.
CHAPTER
79
Miryam’s smiling face was more human than High Fae. But Miryam, I remembered as she and Drakon rose to their feet to greet me, was only half Fae. She bore the delicately pointed ears, but … there was something still human about her. In that broad smile that lit up her brown eyes.
I instantly liked her. Mud splattered her own leathers—a different make than the Illyrians’, but obviously designed by another aerial people to keep warm in the skies—and a few speckles of blood coated the honey-brown skin along her neck and hands, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or care. She held out her hands to me. “High Lady,” Miryam said, her accent the same as Drakon’s. Rolling and rich.
I took her hands, surprised to find them dry and warm. She squeezed my fingers tightly while I managed to say, “I’ve heard so much about you—thank you for coming.” I cast a look at where Rhys still remained sprawled on the cushions, watching us with raised brows. “For someone who was just dead,” I said tightly, “you seem remarkably relaxed.”
Rhys smirked. “I’m glad you’re bouncing back to your usual spirits, Feyre darling.”
Drakon snorted, and took my hands, squeezing them as tightly as his mate had. “What he doesn’t want to tell you, my lady, is that he’s so damn old he can’t stand up right now.”
I whirled to Rhys. “Are you—”
“Fine, fine,” Rhys said, waving a hand, even as he groaned a bit. “Though perhaps now you see why I didn’t bother visiting these two for so long. They’re terribly cruel to me.”
Miryam laughed, plopping down on the cushions again. “Your mate was in the middle of telling us your story, as it seems you’ve already heard ours.”
I had, but even as Prince Drakon gracefully returned to his seat and I slid into the chair beside his, just watching the two of them … I wanted to know the entire thing. One day—not tomorrow or the day after, but … one day, I wanted to hear their tale in full. But for now …
“I—saw you two. Battling Jurian.” Drakon instantly stiffened, Miryam’s eyes going shuttered as I asked, “Is he … Is he dead?”
“No,” was all Drakon said.
“Mor,” Miryam cut in, frowning, “wound up convincing us not to … settle things.”
They would have. From the expression on Drakon’s face, the prince still didn’t seem convinced. And from the haunted gleam in Miryam’s eyes, it seemed as if far more had occurred during that fight than they let on. But I still asked, “Where is he?”
Drakon shrugged. “After we didn’t kill him, I have no idea where he slithered off to.”
Rhys gave me a half smile. “He’s with Lord Graysen’s men—seeing to the wounded.”
Miryam asked carefully, “Are you—friends with Jurian?”
“No,” I said. “I mean—I don’t think so. But … every word he said was true. And he did help me. A great deal.”
Neither of them so much as nodded as they exchanged a long glance, unspoken words passing between them.
Rhys asked, “I thought I saw Nephelle during the battle—any chance I’ll get to say hello, or is she too important now to bother with me?” Laughter—beautiful laughter—danced in his eyes.
I straightened, smiling. “She’s here?”
Drakon lifted a dark brow. “You know Nephelle?”
“Know of her,” I said, and glanced toward the tent flaps as if she’d come striding right in. “I—it’s a long story.”
“We have time to hear it,” Miryam said, then added, “Or … a bit of time, I suppose.”
For there were indeed many, many things to sort out. Including—
I shook my head. “Later,” I said to Miryam, to her mate. The proof that a world could exist without a wall, without a Treaty. “There’s something …” I relayed my thought down the bond to Rhys, earning a nod of approval before I said, “Is your island still secret?”
Miryam and Drakon exchanged a guilty look. “We do apologize for that,” Miryam offered. “It seems that the glamour worked too well, if it kept well-meaning messengers away.” She shook her head, those beautiful curls moving with her. “We would have come sooner—we left the moment we realized what trouble you all were in.”
“No,” I said, shaking my own head, scrambling for the words. “No—I don’t blame you. Mother above, we owe you …” I blew out a breath. “We are in your debt.” Drakon and Miryam objected to that, but I went on, “What I mean is … If there was an object of terrible power that now needed to be hidden … Would Cretea remain a good place to conceal it?”
Again that look between them, a look between mates. “Yes,” Drakon said.
Miryam breathed, “You mean the Cauldron.”
I nodded. It had been hauled into our camp, guarded by whatever Illyrians could still stand. None of the other High Lords had asked—for now. But I could see the debate that would rage, the war we might start internally over who, exactly, got to keep the Cauldron. “It needs to disappear,” I said softly. “Permanently.” I added, “Before anyone remembers to lay claim to it.”
Drakon and Miryam considered, some unspoken conversation passing between them, perhaps down their own mating bond. “When we leave,” Drakon said at last, “one of our ships might find itself a little heavier in the water.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“When are you, exactly, planning to leave?” Rhys asked, lifting a brow.
“Kicking us out already?” Drakon said with a half smile.
“A few days,” Miryam cut in wryly. “As soon as the injured are ready.”