A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses #2) by Sarah J. Maas

“Are they spying on me?”

“No.” She frowned at a loose thread in her rain cloud–colored shirt. Her chin-length dark hair swayed as she lifted her head. “Rhys has told them time and again not to, but I don’t think Azriel will ever trust me fully. So they’re reporting on my movements. And with good reason.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I’d be disappointed if Rhysand’s spymaster didn’t keep tabs on me. Even go against orders to do so.”

“Rhys doesn’t punish him for disobeying?”

Those silver eyes glowed. “The Court of Dreams is founded on three things: to defend, to honor, and to cherish. Were you expecting brute strength and obedience? Many of Rhysand’s top officials have little to no power. He values loyalty, cunning, compassion. And Azriel, despite his disobedience, is acting to defend his court, his people. So, no. Rhysand does not punish that. There are rules, but they are flexible.”

“What about the Tithe?”

“What Tithe?”

I stood from the little bench. “The Tithe—taxes, whatever. Twice a year.”

“There are taxes on city dwellers, but there is no Tithe.” She clicked her tongue. “But the High Lord of Spring enacts one.”

I didn’t want to think about it entirely, not yet—not with that letter now on its way to him, if not already delivered. So I reached for the small box on the vanity and pulled out her amulet. “Here.” I handed over the gold-and-jewel-encrusted thing. “Thank you.”

Amren’s brows rose as I dropped it into her waiting palm. “You gave it back.”

“I didn’t realize it was a test.”

She set it back into the case. “Keep it. There’s no magic to it.”

I blinked. “You lied—”

She shrugged, heading for the door. “I found it at the bottom of my jewelry box. You needed something to believe you could get out of the Prison again.”

“But Rhys kept looking at it—”

“Because he gave it to me two hundred years ago. He was probably surprised to see it again, and wondered why I’d given it to you. Likely worried why I might have given it to you.”

I clenched my teeth, but Amren was already breezing through the door with a cheerful, “You’re welcome.”





CHAPTER

29

Despite the chill night, every shop was open as we walked through the city. Musicians played in the little squares, and the Palace of Thread and Jewels was packed with shoppers and performers, High Fae and lesser faeries alike. But we continued past, down to the river itself, the water so smooth that the stars and lights blended on its dark surface like a living ribbon of eternity.

The five of them were unhurried as we strolled across one of the wide marble bridges spanning the Sidra, often moving forward or dropping back to chat with one another. From the ornate lanterns that lined either side of the bridge, faelight cast golden shadows on the wings of the three males, gilding the talons at the apex of each.

The conversation ranged from the people they knew, matches and teams for sports I’d never heard of (apparently, Amren was a vicious, obsessive supporter of one), new shops, music they’d heard, clubs they favored … Not a mention of Hybern or the threats we faced—no doubt from secrecy, but I had a feeling it was also because tonight, this time together … they did not want that terrible, hideous presence intruding. As if they were all just ordinary citizens—even Rhys. As if they weren’t the most powerful people in this court, maybe in all of Prythian. And no one, absolutely no one, on the street balked or paled or ran.

Awed, perhaps a little intimidated, but … no fear. It was so unusual that I kept silent, merely observing them—their world. The normalcy that they each fought so hard to preserve. That I had once raged against, resented.

But there was no place like this in the world. Not so serene. So loved by its people and its rulers.

The other side of the city was even more crowded, with patrons in finery out to attend the many theaters we passed. I’d never seen a theater before—never seen a play, or a concert, or a symphony. In our ramshackle village, we’d gotten mummers and minstrels at best—herds of beggars yowling on makeshift instruments at worst.

We strolled along the riverside walkway, past shops and cafés, music spilling from them. And I thought—even as I hung back from the others, my gloved hands stuffed into the pockets of my heavy blue overcoat—that the sounds of it all might have been the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard: the people, and the river, and the music; the clank of silverware on plates; the scrape of chairs being pulled out and pushed in; the shouts of vendors selling their wares as they ambled past.

How much had I missed in these months of despair and numbness?

But no longer. The lifeblood of Velaris thrummed through me, and in rare moments of quiet, I could have sworn I heard the clash of the sea, clawing at the distant cliffs.

Eventually, we entered a small restaurant beside the river, built into the lower level of a two-story building, the whole space bedecked in greens and golds and barely big enough to fit all of us. And three sets of Illyrian wings.

But the owner knew them, and kissed them each on the cheek, even Rhysand. Well, except for Amren, whom the owner bowed to before she hustled back into her kitchen and bade us sit at the large table that was half in, half out of the open storefront. The starry night was crisp, the wind rustling the potted palms placed with loving care along the riverside walkway railing. No doubt spelled to keep from dying in the winter—just as the warmth of the restaurant kept the chill from disturbing us or any of those dining in the open air at the river’s edge.