Chapter Text
The satyr’s hands were steady. Daphne could not remember her name. She had known it, moments ago, she was sure, but now, she couldn’t think of anything. She barely remembered how her hands worked. The female laced up the back of a spare servant’s dress, and then tossed Daphne’s old gown into the rubbish heap, burying it beneath food scraps and piles of ash. Last to go were her sandals. Rather than destroy them – it would have been suspicious for her to go barefoot – Daphne grabbed one of the butchers’ knives and hacked away at the high, crossed laces, yanking the copper fasteners out. Her satyr companion picked them as they scattered, and tossed them away. When she was done, she had a pair of shoes that looked old – run-down.
“There’s no time to fix your hair,” the satyr murmured. “Here – did you get the pieces out?”
Daphne nodded, but put her hands up to the complexity of knots. It was too elaborate for a girl who was supposed to be working for a living, but she’d have to find some excuse, at least until she could find a moment to fix it. And how – how would that even work? There was no way she’d be able to properly care for her hair in Amarantha’s court. Perhaps she would die, and it wouldn't even really matter. Daphne had never properly understood the term “spiraling” until this moment. She’d already removed all traces of gold – of anything that marked her as a noblewoman’s daughter, or anything that connected her to Helion in anyway. With her shoes now destroyed, and her gown now smelling of dust, she looked passably ordinary.
And not a moment too soon, for now they heard the clang of metal armor and the thud of heavy boots – and the smell of smoke began to waft down the hall.
“It’s them,” said the satyr, still amazingly calm.
“Go,” Daphne whispered. “Go first – I’ll be right behind you.”
"Lady, you can’t –”
“They’ll kill you,” said Daphne, and the realization hit her like a brick to the head. Amarantha hated the lesser faeries only slightly less than she hated humans. Her hands began to tremble, and she closed them into fists. “But they might not kill me. You should go first.”
Maybe it was stupid of her to obey the selfless impulse. But her mother would have said it was their duty to look out for those with less, and even now, she could not bear to disappoint her mother's ghost. The satyr went first, slipping into a servants’ passage that would take her into the wine cellars. From there, she could safely escape into the vineyards, or the mountainside.
The soldiers were closer now. Their armored footsteps clanked and thudded, and doors began to slam open. They were knocking on the walls with heavy fists. The sharp, metallic odor was growing stronger. Then, Daphne made another decision that she’d regret: She sealed the servants’ passage from the outside. Hopefully, she’d bought enough time for the satyr to escape.
But the only other way out of the kitchen was through a high window. Daphne grimaced, hiked up her skirt, and climbed up on to the countertop, nearly slipping in her mangled sandals. She pushed the window open as quietly as she could.
She was not strong, but she gritted her teeth and pulled herself up – first her head, then her shoulders and her torso, and she was halfway there if she could only figure out how to avoid falling directly onto her own head – before a pair of huge, ice-cold hands grabbed her by the waist, and yanked her backwards.
Daphne screamed –
(Elain shuddered, and rolled over in her sleep.)
Laughing at her obvious terror, her feeble attempts to fight them off, they dragged her in front of Helion. He didn’t so much as blink at her sudden reappearance, and Daphne could have cried from frustration. All he’d asked her to do was run, and she couldn’t even get that right. She hadn’t even gotten the chance. Helion couldn’t help her anymore. He was the High Lord of Day now.
Amarantha – Amarantha – was in in their dining room. Daphne couldn’t stand to look at her. She was wearing what appeared to be Day Court mourning clothes, her hair long and loose like a spill of blood. She wore a black crystal crown over her head, a mockery of Prythian’s style. The winery’s High Fae staff stood against the back wall, looking rather like they were awaiting execution. Even Mirche, who had become like a second father to her. But Helion was speaking calmly, casually, to Amarantha, playing things off. It sounded like they really were trying to find all the nymphs and the satyrs, and the other small-folk who aided in the winery’s business. The Hybernian guards merely shoved Daphne into line with the rest of the staff.
Without saying a word, Mirche put his arm around Daphne’s shuddering shoulders, and for just that moment, Daphne believed that things might be alright.
Helion poured Amarantha a glass of their centennial batch – one of the best years they’d ever had, so Mirche always said. Even a novice like Daphne knew that such a bottle would be wasted on the High Queen. No doubt she thought all wine more or less was the same.
“Take the pretty ones,” Amarantha announced, draining her glass. “Leave the rest.”
The pretty ones?
Before she could even register the words, the Hybernian soldiers grabbed her once again and pulled, practically lifting her from the ground and throwing her towards Helion. A scream rose and swiftly died in her throat as she landed against Helion’s arm, and managed to feel startled when he didn’t reach for her, or comfort her. She looked back, at Mirche. His face was white with suppressed rage, and for a moment, Daphne half-hoped that he’d be the one to protest. That he’d fight, and save her, somehow, since Helion wouldn’t, or couldn’t do it.
But he didn’t move.
They also took Anthe, and Callisto, who were the only two remaining female cupbearers in the room. Both of them were shaking, and Anthe’s eyes fluttered, her knees turning inwards as Amarantha approached them.
The queen’s smile was red with wine, red as blood. She reached out for Helion with one long-nailed hand.
Daphne flinched, and closed her eyes.
(The depths of the Cauldron swirled around Elain’s head. It was quiet, and someone was singing, far away, in a language that she did not know.)
She had winnowed them, into the court Under the Mountain.
Daphne had never actually seen the Middle, or the Mountain Hall, but she knew it from the stories that Helion had told her. What was once a gathering place for diplomacy was now the High Queen’s playroom, swelled with bodies, ripe with the scents of the other courts, and a myriad of faeries of all types, including many that she didn’t recognize. Hybernians – Amarantha’s lackeys. The High Lord of Night was perched on the arm of the High King’s throne in such blasphemy that would have outraged Daphne, had she been capable of feeling anything other than fear in this moment. The other High Lords lined the dais, standing at attention like soldiers.
Amarantha took her hand away from Helion’s shoulder, and stepped aside.
“Come, my dear Helion – this way, to your rightful place!”
She twirled, like a little girl dancing. Daphne began to feel as though she were falling over a cliff, as if her feet were dangling off the edge of some great abyss, and her fingers were peeling away from the ledge of reality one by one. Her heart raced; her breath came in short pants as if she had been running. But she, somehow, was the calmest, for when Helion obeyed the queen, and stepped away from the three of them, Anthe fainted – just swooned, and silently dropped to her knees, careening towards the crimson floors. Daphne recoiled automatically, but Callisto lunged, and reached out to grab her before her head could hit the floor.
“Anthe!” she cried, her cheeks wet with tears. “Wake up! Wake up!”
As if she’d died. Had she? Daphne didn’t know. Callisto’s voice was shrill with terror.
And that – that started it. The crowd rumbled, and Daphne didn’t understand at first but then, the sound grew. The voices rose, and magnified, and she realized that they were laughing. They were laughing. Amarantha grabbed Rhysand by the back of the neck and kissed him long and deep, and the chamber was full of cackling, jeering, shrieks of hysterical laughter. The sea of watchers, the dark court, shouted and howled at the three terrified Day Court girls –
(Elain bit her cheek, tasted blood, and struggled towards the surface of the Cauldron’s waters.)
Helion did not turn back to see them. What was going to become of them.
But – there. A section of the crowd that was not laughing, or smiling. The Day Court.
There were so many of them – more than what Daphne would have expected. And yet none of them moved, though their faces were lined with fury, not a single person dared to move and protect them, to defy the queen’s will.
Except –
“Well,” said the queen, her rich and joyful voice silencing the room as if she’d sucked out all of the air at once. “This calls for a celebration! How shall we entertain ourselves this evening?”
The answer was obvious, and unspoken.
Daphne was looking at a boy among the Day Court crowd, and he was looking back at her. She saw that his eyes were blue, and bright, and clear as the sky over Thira. (Thales. It’s him – it’s him.) In that moment, a resolve seemed to come over his face. He looked at the queen – not at the throne, but right at Amarantha – and he slipped, like a ray of light between clouds, through the throng of their court, until he was standing next to the three girls.
Now the silence in Under the Mountain was stunned – curious.
Amarantha’s grin was predatory; Daphne had seen sharks with fewer teeth.
“Oh?”
“With the permission of our most luminous High Queen,” said the boy, and dropped to one knee. “To celebrate the Day Court coming at last under your rule – I have written something for you.”
Amarantha’s smile stretched, ghoulish over her pale face. Daphne stared at the boy, kneeling now at her side, not looking at her. He was insane, she thought. But also –
“Written something?” asked Amarantha, in delight. “Oh, do tell.”
The High Lords stood by, their expressions stark and cautious, almost resentful. Who was this common boy in his plain blue tunic, the knees of his pants caked in white dust, his dark curls tinted grayish from – something. Daphne realized, dizzyingly, that she had no idea, not really, what had been going on in this place before she arrived. That she had been about to find out, and that she didn’t want to, and that this boy was saving her life. Hers, and Anthe’s and Callisto’s.
“I’m a poet,” he said. “And if you’ll forgive my impertinence, your majesty – you have truly inspired me, down to my soul.”
He spoke with a complete sincerity; he even smiled.
Rhysand appeared dumbfounded; the other High Lords were starting to appear alarmed, even hostile. An interloper – a common interloper at that – who without thinking, would jeopardize their lives, their courts.
Amarantha let out a high-pitched laugh. “You flatter me. But can you satisfy me? I’m in a generous mood today – and you’re very charming, but somehow, I find myself doubting that your meager talents are worthy of my High Court.”
The boy smiled. “Of course, my queen. Please, allow me.”
“Do you require an instrument?” asked the queen.
And he stood, and shook his head. “No. Peace and quiet is enough.”
He was nearly at height with Daphne, who just - looked at him, for a moment. She could not understand. Didn't he know that he'd die, sticking his neck out for them? Why?
She didn't know. But somehow, his eyes made her think that she might see the sky again. He didn't say anything, but he nodded to her.
Daphne didn’t hesitate – to her shame, she didn’t even look back to see if Anthe and Callisto made it into the safety of the crowd.
The Day Court parted smoothly to let her in. When she finally felt safe and concealed, she tried her best to glimpse the boy who had offered himself to the High Queen – and found that he was standing with his hands behind his back, his posture straight and loose. And though he was dirty, and he wasn’t highborn, he was beautiful, like a painted image of a prince from long ago.
“Well, go on,” said Amarantha. “Show me what you can do.”
The High Lords were tense, staring hard. Rhysand looked annoyed, and the throne flickered with shadows. Helion’s eyes were flat and empty again.
And the boy took a deep breath, and he began to sing.
I who was born in the dark
Am seeing the sun for the first time
That star which lights all the earth
That coin upon the metal-shining horizon
Daphne heard this line and was stunned to realizing that he was speaking the Old Tongue. It was not a song she recognized, or a tune that seemed in any way familiar, and he was singing, fluently, spontaneously. Daphne knew – she did not know how, but she knew, down to her very bones – that he had not simply had this poem tucked into his back pocket for just such an occasion as this. He making up the melody, and the words as he went along. But that didn’t show at all in his performance. His voice was sweet and clear, and strong.
The poem was not long, but when it was over, Amarantha had stopped smiling.
The entire mountain held its breath, waiting for his fate to be announced.
“Bring him an instrument,” she said.
Some shadow behind Rhysand flickered, and briefly took a feminine shape. (Nuala – that was certainly Nuala. Where was Cerridwen? Where were the others, the rest of the Night Court? Elain could not see; she did not know.)
Into the silence Under the Mountain, Amarantha asked, “Do you know any other songs?”
“Of course, your majesty,” said the boy. “Would you like me to play something in particular?”
Amarantha only said, “Surprise me.”
The shadows swirled, and a lute seemed to be pushed up from their depths, as if from the depth of a lake. The boy reached down, and picked it up. He ran his finger over the strings, contemplative. He made a few adjustments, and then positioned himself.
Once again, his voice swelled and filled the cavern.
I saw my lady weep,
And sorrow proud to be advanced so,
In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe,
But such a woe believe me as wins more hearts,
Than mirth can do with her enticing charms.
Sorrow was there made fair,
And passion wise, tears a delightful thing,
Silence beyond all speech a wisdom rare.
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move,
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
The common tongue, this time. It wasn’t a Day Court song, but it came to him as naturally as the improvised poem had. He was the instrument, but the lute underscored him, creating a balanced harmony that captivated the crowd. When he had finished, Daphne even saw a few people dabbing at their eyes. Amarantha’s lip curled.
“Would you like me to continue, my queen?” asked the boy.
“Yes. I would assume you can play The Last Rose of Summer?”
And he did – he played the ballad in full, and another song after that. And then, another, a longer song. Mostly, she let him go as he pleased, but once or twice, she put up her hand to stop him, and asked him to switch into the Old Tongue or back into common. Then she made a fifth request, and a sixth. Daphne’s heart didn’t slow the entire time. How long, she wondered, how long were they all going to stand around listening to him sing? Nobody in the crowd dared to move, or to leave, until they were dismissed. The High Lords appeared like statues, barely even daring to breathe. How long would it be until the queen was satisfied?
After finishing a seventh song, the boy rolled his shoulders, and twisted his neck this way and that. Other than this small gesture, he’d shown no signs of discomfort. Daphne covered her mouth to keep from breathing too loud, from breaking the silence.
For a very long, pregnant moment, Amarantha simply stared at him.
Then, slowly she began to applaud.
Daphne gasped – and as she did, Helion also put his hands together and joined.
One by one, each of the High Lords joined in, and the court Under the Mountain swelled with cheers, and applause.
The boy smiled modestly, and took a bow.
Amarantha beamed and said something to Helion that was drowned out in the cries of approval. Helion smiled placidly in response, but looked at Rhysand, whose eyes were fixed on the boy as if he had never seen anything more awful. Daphne bit her tongue as the queen held up a hand for silence.
“Tell me your name, poet,” said the queen.
“Thales Artiza,” said the boy, promptly.
“Henceforth, I am appointing you as the bard of my High Court. You are so named, and shall enter my service.”
Thales smiled. “You honor me, my queen.”
That was how it began. Later, Thales told her that he hadn't even really been afraid when he stepped in front of the queen. He'd seen how scared she looked, standing there alone, and he had just wanted to help her - with what little power he had, he had wanted to keep her safe.
Decades later, and miles and miles away, Elain Archeron woke up.
Helion was a fair host – but even that felt damning by faint praise. Lucien had to admit that, after the last few days, he could probably get used to spending time in the Day Court. Though it wasn’t one of the full suites reserved for the most important guests, he had a spacious bed, and plenty of space for his things – including a full, empty bookshelf for him to fill at his leisure. Fresh clothes were provided to him, and even the things he’d brought were freshly laundered each day without his so much as having to ask. He woke up each morning with a breakfast tray outside his door. Yoghurt, spiced nuts, flatbread and oil, assorted fruits and a steaming cup of coffee, with sugar, honey, chocolate, and cream.
If they were trying to make him resent the Night Court with their superior hospitality, then it was working, Lucien thought idly. He brought the tray in, and took his coffee by the window. His room overlooked the stables, which might’ve been an insult to the guest if he were in the Autumn Court. But things were different here – and Lucien doubted that he’d ever get sick of looking at the Pegasi.
There were three stallions in the yard today – one goldenrod, one richly red and chestnut, and one gray as a storm cloud. Disappointingly, he had not yet glimpsed the legendary Meallan, though Lucien doubted that Helion was magnanimous or trusting enough to allow even his most elite equestrians to take care of his prized steed.
As it had been in the last handful of mornings, the Pegasi reacted to a still-unfamiliar fae scent by snorting and tossing their heads, their wings stirring up dust in the yard. The stablehands looked up to Lucien’s window and waved.
He waved back. He cleared his throat before raising his voice to a shout: “Flying today?”
Castor, a stout and sturdy fellow with his long hair tied back, was working on saddling the goldenrod. “Always, Vanserra!”
The gray Pegasi whinnied noisily as another stablehand, Taras, checked his hooves. With a glance, he said, “Wind’s fair today! Ready to join us up there?”
“Nah,” drawled a third voice, from just below Lucien’s window, out of sight. “He can’t. It’s trial day! Star witness and all.”
Lucien frowned, craning his neck to see who was speaking. “Hey, isn’t that supposed to be a secret?”
“Oh, please. There are no secrets in the Day Court! We’re an open book.”
Snickers and chortles abounded. Lucien bit back a smile and shook his head.
“Got any read on if they’ll open it all to public viewing?” asked Castor hopefully.
Lucien made a so-so gesture with one hand.
“Should ask Serapion,” said someone.
“How the hell is he supposed to know?”
“I know everything,” said Serapion, poking his head out of the stables. He looked up at the window, grinned, and waved. “Morning!”
He’d actually apologized to Lucien for embarrassing him on Calanmai. Apparently, while he’d known that both the Lady Daphne and Keeper Eunomia were familiar with Lucien, he hadn’t realized that Elain would be there – or that Lady Daphne might hold a grudge against him. Frankly, Lucien didn’t understand that, as he’d not even had the chance to speak to her in days he’d been here. She was quite well-liked around court, and kept a full social calendar, but somehow, she’d disliked him based on rumors alone.
“At least Pyrrha likes you, though!” Serapion had added, bracingly.
Yes, well – Lucien had a feeling that was a low bar to clear, meaning no offense to the young lady, of course.
“Any updates?” Lucien called.
Serapion nodded. “It’s promising! Can’t know for certain for a few days!”
A few scattered whoops greeted this. Since so many of the winged horses had been killed during Amarantha’s attempts at subduing the Day Court, it was now Helion’s pet project to increase their numbers. Mating season had begun in earnest with the equinox, and already, Serapion was hopeful that they’d have new calves by this time next year. They had only one pregnant mare as it stood, and keeping her healthy and comfortable was Serapion’s primary task for the next several days.
“Well, keep me updated!” said Lucien. “Have you got a name yet?”
“Still time to vote. Amber’s in the lead!” Serapion reported.
Taras booed dispassionately as he and Castor finished with their last stallion. “Ready to go! Someone fetch Master Desta already?”
A volunteer went to call the horsemaster, and Lucien finished his coffee. He offered a final wave to the stablehands before drawing the curtain over his window, and began to get dressed. He ignored the sound of wings, the Pegasi whinnying as they took flight, and the peculiar sense of longing and dread that came with it.
Hurry. Elain has started chewing on her nails again.
Azriel’s report floated into their minds from downstairs. Feyre glanced at Rhysand, who sighed, but offered a half-smile.
She’ll be fine, darling, he assured her.
I hope you’re right, Feyre replied, fixing her jacket into place. I wonder if she’s talked to him yet.
Rhysand snorted. If she has, then she’s a braver soul than any of us.
Azriel obviously was as unhappy in this situation as any of them – being stared down, hunted on all sides, stabbed in the back by their friends. But mostly, he seemed embarrassed. Embarrassed that he’d let them down, somehow, and that it was Elain, of all of them, who had pointed it out. Feyre’s heart went out for him, but as High Lady, she couldn’t afford to show play mediator for her family while the court was under threat. They’d all just have to deal with it.
Downstairs, Elain was indeed chewing on her nails, and Azriel was standing against the opposite wall, deliberately not staring at her. Outside the door, no less than six guards waited to escort them to the courthouse, where the first trial would begin.
“Elain,” said Feyre. “Sorry, we’re running behind.”
Her sister didn’t answer; she stood up rapidly, brushing out the long blue tide of her skirt.
“It’s fine. Shall we go?”
If the library was the center of Rhodes, the courthouse was like an annex. It was located near the easternmost city walls, adjacent to the banking district. Feyre was surprised to see a modest building with a domed roof. Only the grand arch of its doorway and the fact that it was surrounded by a mob of curious onlookers denoted its importance.
Feyre frowned. The guards might slow us down if there’s trouble.
There won’t be, Rhysand replied, and his confidence made her relax. No one wants to disrupt the big event before it begins.
Still, Azriel’s shadows went first, snaking down the street. He nodded imperceptibly in response to Feyre’s questioning glance, a reassurance for her, personally. Once again, she was extremely glad they’d decided to leave Nyx at home.
The guards pushed their way through the crowd, which was eerily quiet as the Night Court was led up the front steps. Feyre focused on the door ahead of her, on the back of Elain’s head as she walked, not acknowledging any of them.
Someone with a long, thin arm like a twig reached between the guards and pinched Feyre’s arm.
When she turned, she saw only a pair of bright, yellow eyes.
“Murderer,” they hissed.
Without saying a word, Rhysand took her hand and laced their fingers together. His mood blackened the bridge between their minds.
We have to stay calm, Feyre said, as much to herself as to him.
But the first arrow had been loosed, and now, the crowd was taking up the faerie’s call.
“Murderers! Scum! Butchers!”
They crowd rumbled, like a jostled beehive, tried to swarm forward. The rear section of their guard turned to the crowd and began to bark orders at them – “Back! Keep clear!” – and then, just as quickly as it had started, the door of the courthouse had shut behind them.
Elain gasped sharply.
“What?” Feyre surged forward, dropping Rhysand’s hand to check her sister. “Are you alright?”
Elain was, to her eyes, completely unharmed. Her cheeks had suddenly flushed crimson.
“Feyre,” she whispered, “we are underdressed.”
There was scarcely any room to breathe in the atrium of the courthouse. White-skinned Winter Court guards were collected around Lady Vivienne, who appeared to have worn a dress carved from a single, thin sheet of pure blue ice. Nearby was Kalias, standing with his arms folded, deep conversation with Cresseida, whose seashell beads had been switched out for a hundred perfect, dazzling opals in a rainbow of colors. And there, Varian and Tarquin were wearing layers upon layers of elegant robes, while their numerous attendances fanned out like scattered seafoam. Thesan wore an iridescent silk garment that shimmered with each infinitesimal movement of his body, and his Peregryn guards were as stoic as any Day Court centurion, their feathers gleaming white and their gold and white armor glinting, reflecting the colors of their surroundings. Each of Lucien’s brothers were easily visible with their vibrant hair, and the gilded glints of their richly embroidered velvet jackets. And that wasn’t even to begin with the shoes, the hairpieces – the elaborate spools and spirals, woven through with precious metals and jewels, feathers and fishbones, dusted with crystal and snow and sand.
It made for a pretty picture, but it was a bit chaotic. Feyre could understand why her sister might feel overwhelmed.
“Oh,” said Feyre. She looked down at her own ensemble – the pant hemmed with a thin, tiny row of diamonds, the black blouse under a jacket which matched her mate’s. “Are we?”
“Feyre,” Elain repeated with genuine horror. “Our mother would rise from the grave and strange us with her bony little hands for showing up here in –”
She gestured, vaguely down at her dress, which Feyre thought was perfectly nice and appropriate, even if it was clearly Day Court attire. Rhysand snorted; even Azriel’s somber expression brightened somewhat with amusem*nt.
“It doesn’t matter. You look beautiful, as always,” Feyre assured her.
Elain stared at her like she’d grown an extra head. “I’m not even wearing any jewelry!”
Luckily, Helion broke the tension.
“Aha! And just in the nick of time.”
He waved to them from the back of the atrium, beckoning them to approach. He wore a long jacket made from a saffron-colored fabric, gold-trimmed pants and leather sandals – a sharp contrast from his ward, who wore a ballgown of stunning crimson. A strange glowing, crystalline fabric pooled and spilled from her hips, so that she appeared bathed in living fire. She wore little jewelry, but her hair had been elaborately twisted up, up, and up upon her head, crowning her in midnight. Daphne. The orphan who had become a princess. The forlorn lover, who’d spit at her feet.
I hope that she buries you. I hope your prison is hot enough for the eternity you’ll spend in hell.
Now that was one memory she had to keep locked, and buried deep.
Today, Daphne was perfectly composed, beautiful and stylish in a way would have made her any painter’s favorite muse. Feyre’s chest briefly burned with the urge to inform Helion of exactly what awful and cruel things that his prized courtier had said to her face. But even so, she bit her tongue. She hadn’t even told Rhysand about it – just imagining his reaction and they fight they’d have over how best to respond gave her an enormous headache – and besides, she had a feeling that even if she demanded an apology in her official capacity as High Lady, she’d never get one. Daphne had watched someone she'd love die in front of her; Feyre did not even like to think about living without Rhysand. Perhaps if the roles had been reversed, Feyre would be the same as her.
Daphne inclined her head. Elain was the only one who bowed back.
It’s alright, said Rhysand. She’s our ambassador now. Let her play nice.
“I was just about to send my secretary after you,” Helion declared with a laugh. “You have lived to rue the day, I assure you!”
Elain smiled. “That’s a shame. I would have so enjoyed meeting them.”
"I'm sure you would." Indulgently now, Helion added, “And I believe you two have not met our Lady Daphne – the jewel of this court, one may say!"
Daphne smiled politely but said nothing. In all truth, Feyre respected this. She kept her hatred in check, and didn’t lie just for diplomacy’s sake. A quick probe of the young lady’s mind found it shielded, and while the shields were not the strongest she’d ever encountered, they would be tough to break.
Let’s not, Rhysand suggested. I’m sure Helion hasn’t left her completely helpless, but even if she were, I can’t imagine he'd take too kindly to us flexing our power right before we're meant to go on trial. Out loud, he smiled back at her and said, “How lovely to meet you. Helion always saves the finest treasures for himself, and I’m sure you’re no exception to that.”
Daphne’s flashed briefly with something like disgust. Ignoring the comment, she turned to Elain, and spoke in a sweet, serene voice. “Elain, would you care to join me in our box? We will still have a good view of the proceedings, so you may keep an eye on your younger sister, but there is no need for you to be on the floor of the tribunal itself.”
Easy, darling, said Rhysand, though he couldn’t help his amusem*nt at Feyre’s immediate surge of indignation. She doesn’t know Elain as we do.
That had very little to do with anything. Elain was a grown adult, perfectly capable of making her own decisions, but Feyre couldn't help but feel like she was being condescended to, somehow.
“That would be lovely,” said Elain, who appeared genuinely relieved. “Thank you, Daphne.”
The two of them linked arms, and Elain glanced backward briefly at them. Feyre nodded to her – just as they had hoped. Hopefully, Daphne would prove a good lead, and they wouldn’t have to endure much more of this.
Don’t be too certain. I’m sure that Eunomia won’t go down without a fight.
A long, blue and gold carpet stretched out under their feet, sprawling out from the atrium into marbled hallways. Feyre paused, momentarily, to admire the painted friezes of an ancient goddess of balance – holding up a silver scale, pointing to the sky with one bright hand. The eyes of the goddess were marked with pale stones, wide and unblinking.
Suddenly, Feyre shuddered, and turned away.
They walked – herself, Rhysand, and Azriel, as their bodyguard – as far as they could down the hallway. There, at the end, were two small and plain doors, each staffed by a single guardsmen. The left guard opened his door, and they walked inside.
The court was a circle of glazed white stone. Feyre was rather surprised at how plain it was, with a judge’s bench, the two tables for counsel and the aggrieved parties, respectively, and a third box with two neat rows of benches. Along the floor was a perfect circle of some ancient, reddish wooden paneling, etched with symbols that carved a long and elegant ribbon around the floor. Hiigh above the proceedings so that a clear view was possible from all angles, were the viewing boxes – like an opera house, or a gladiator’s ring. The High Lords and their courts were seating themselves one by one.
She spotted Elain at once. The Day Court, of course, had given themselves the most direct view of the proceedings. Lady Daphne sat in front, next to Elain, who was looking rather pale and nervous. Helion was in the process of seating himself on their other side, a wide smile and chattering away, though she could not hear what he was saying.
There, in the box directly to the right of the Day Court, was Tamlin.
Normally, she avoided looking at him directly. It was not so much out of fear, but a principle, that he was part of her past, and he wasn’t so important that she’d be ruled by her experiences with him. But she was surprised, today, to notice that he wasn’t alone. Rather than bored soldiers strong-armed into accompanying him, she saw that he was flanked on both sides by two young High Fae – one, youthful and black-haired, whom Feyre guessed might be some kind of squire. The second was a flaxen-haired priestess in white robes, which made Feyre immediately recall Ianthe with a shudder. And there – was that Bronn?
One of the old sentries but – no, it couldn’t be. That didn’t seem right. Hadn’t he left?
Puzzled now, she looked away, but the only other place to put her gaze was on Eunomia, who was arranging an improbably large array of books and documents on her bench. She wore a slightly more elaborate golden robe today, with glorious dark hems and a belt of bronze. Prominently displayed over the top was a thin string, upon which hung a small stone that resembled a blue eye.
It’s a common ward against evil, said Rhysand, noticing her gaze. A superstition here.
Feyre made a small noise to acknowledge that she’d heard.
Azriel?
Nothing. His voice echoed in both of their heads. We were right. The spells in this place are powerful. I don't have a hope in hell of breaking them.
Could Amren, if she were here? asked Rhysand.
Feyre still thought that bringing Amren here was a bad idea, but Azriel's mouth twitched into a barely-noticeable frown. If she had a hundred thousand years and access to every book in Helion's private library, maybe. But even then, I doubt it.
As if on cue, summoned by the thought of the library, Eunomia lifted her head, and strode over to their bench.
“Are you ready to begin?” she said, without preamble. “Have you brought anything else with you?”
She looked pointedly at their empty bench.
Rhysand took his seat next to Feyre, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her into the chair. Azriel took his position behind them, hands folded, wings extended just so that they would be guarded from the back. Even if their powers would be somehow restricted, even if they lost the ability to communicate between their minds, they would still be safe with Azriel protecting them.
“This is your last chance,” said Rhysand. “We can resolve this without further embarrassment for either of our courts.”
“I see,” Eunomia replied, flatly. “So, you are determined to pursue your course.”
“We’ve told you,” Feyre dared to add. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
Eunomia’s eyes were as cold as stones, and she immediately regretted speaking up.
“We shall agree to disagree then, my lady, until the trial is fully resolved.”
She really thinks she’ll win, Feyre thought, as the Keeper marched into the center of the floor.
Like I said. Rhysand smirked faintly. She’ll go down swinging. Az, we'll meet up to debrief after we've closed the day.
When Eunomia reached the center of the court, there was a sound like a bell’s chime. Immediately, all noise – all whispers, conversations, even the rustling of clothes – ceased to be. The fragile link between their minds and Azriel's was shuttered. Feyre automatically sat up straighter.
Rhys...?
I'm here, darling, he confirmed. Our bond won't be affected.
For now, at least. At least, she had that to give her comfort.
“Good day to everyone,” said Eunomia. Just as before, she projected her voice with the utmost of confidence to the assembled High Lords and all of their courts. “Thank you all for coming. Since the defendants have arrived, we are now ready to begin. Upon my authority as Keeper of Laws and Scales, and with the High Lords’ permission, I shall now summon this court to Order.”
Helion rose briefly, and smiled around at everyone. “You have my full and expressed permission. Can’t wait, in fact.”
Feyre had to bite her tongue.
Leaning back in his chair, Rhysand drawled, “Let’s get this over with.”
“I agree,” added Feyre. On the second attempt, she sounded more assertive, more confident. “Not that you asked for my permission, of course.”
Eunomia paused.
“I suppose,” she finally admitted, “that I have. With your permission, my lady?”
She nodded, and Eunomia bowed. Rhysand smiled furtively at Feyre. Good work, darling. Don’t let them forget your power.
That was right. They just had to endure – to walk the line, to play their cards carefully. And when it was over, they would return to their ordinary lives in Velaris, focus on their people, their dreams, their son and their future. That was all they had to do.
“This court is now hereby called to order. We are here to determine how the Night Court shall defend itself to the sovereign Day. The High Lord and Lady are accused of conspiracy, sabotage, and insurrection against the sovereign Spring and sovereign Summer. Day notes that Night has rejected the charges, and yet has also failed to submit any motions of evidence in support of their answer. What say you?”
“As we’ve told you a thousand times,” said Rhysand, “we wholeheartedly reject your accusations. We will not be producing evidence of a crime we have not committed.”
“Do you understand that you are entitled to defend yourself under the Law?”
“There’s nothing to defend. And furthermore,” Rhysand added, folding his hands over each other on the table, “the Night Court does not answer to the Day Court, no matter how sovereign you claim to be. We have no need to explain or justify ourselves to you.”
As predicted, the Day Court hated this answer. From above, there was a hissing of discontent. Feyre stole a glance at Elain, who appeared to be cringing, and made a note to apologize later, for making her work more difficult than it likely needed to be.
“Do you understand,” said Eunomia, in the same deliberate voice she’d used to lecture Feyre in the garden, “that this trial will proceed now, whether you want it to or not? You have already given your word that you will fulfill the Oath of Truth. The scales must be balanced – no matter how bothersome you may find the process. Please confirm that you understand this.”
Rhysand waved a hand.
“Out loud,” Eunomia prompted.
“We understand,” said Feyre. “So long as you understand that our position won’t change no matter how much you badger us.”
Eunomia, at least, accepted this. “The Night Court has refused to answer of its own accord,” she announced, “and therefore, I invoke the Rite of Peerage.”
So far, so good. Rhysand had explained to Feyre – this was the same as a human jury trial. He said, “Agreed.”
“As the accused, you may reserve the right of first choice. Please name your first peer.”
“We call Varian.”
“Objection.” Of course, she wouldn’t let that one stand. “Prince Varian is a known associate and ally of the Night Court, and appears to be in a romantic relationship with Night’s Marshall.”
Feyre was not sure how she could have known that, but if she had been talking to Lucien, then perhaps it wasn’t so strange. In any case, Rhysand shrugged her off.
“Varian isn’t a standing member of my court. He comes around for dinner a few times a year, and he’s got a standing invite to Solstice, but I wouldn’t say that qualifies him to our inner workings. And his relationship is his own business – not mine, yours, or anyone else’s.”
Eunomia turned to where Tarquin was seated with both his cousins. “Lord Tarquin, can you vouch for your cousin’s honor in this case?”
“Certainly,” Tarquin replied. “And furthermore, I grant my expressed permission for Varian to act as a peer in this matter.”
This gave Feyre pause. After all, hadn’t Tarquin sent Amren away with a copy of Eunomia’s own thesis as a declaration of his intent? But Rhysand appeared satisfied, nodding imperceptibly at her, and so Feyre decided to put this out of her mind. At least, Eunomia did appear mildly put-off about it, so there was some good news.
“Day accepts Prince Varian as a peer, and calls Prince Eris of Autumn.”
Even Rhysand hadn’t expected that – his surprise glimmered down their bond.
In the Autumn box, Eris stood up from his seat and put one hand over his heart. “You honor me, and of course, I shall gratefully accept this responsibility. Cheers to you, fairest Keeper!”
Eunomia’s forehead wrinkled slightly at the words, but she didn’t comment further.
You don’t think she somehow got to him? Feyre wondered.
That’s not possible, Rhysand thought. And the alliance is secret –
Feyre’s mind whirled. Her stomach clenched, a pang of anxiety shooting through her. But they couldn’t afford to argue. Having an ally act as a peer would be in their best interest, but if Eunomia even slightly suspected that something was off…
You’re right. Now, before she changes her mind –
“Accepted,” said Rhysand. “We nominate Lipara.”
“Rejected. Relatives, even distant ones, are forbidden from acting as peers in this rite, as you well know.”
“But if I had called my cousin to stand in my defense, would you object then?”
Eunomia raised her eyebrows. “Will you be calling Lady Morrigan to act as your counsel or submit a motion in your defense, or will you continue acting against my advice? The choice is entirely yours, my lord.”
For a moment, the pair of them stared at each other.
Damn, Rhysand finally thought. Cassian was right – she’s got balls.
Feyre hid a smile as he spoke aloud. “Fine. We want Tyrian of Dawn.”
“Accepted. The Day Court calls Lord Arkady of Winter.”
“Fine. Pulchra of Ion.”
“Accepted. The Day Court calls Lady Murman of Winter.”
Two Winter nobles in a row – Feyre felt another, smaller twinge of unease in the back of her mind, a memory rising to the surface. Immediately, she brushed it away.
“Hyacinth of Dawn,” said Rhysand.
“Accepted. The Day Court calls Rosheen Darrach.”
Rhysand’s anger was more sudden and shocking than his surprise. “Are you out of your mind?” He barked out a humorless laugh. “You think I’d be so foolish as to allow a member of the Spring Court onto this bench? And her of all people?”
Undeterred, Eunomia argued, “Captain Darrach’s honorable military service –”
“Before or after they enslaved humans?” Feyre asked, and she was almost taken aback when she realized that she was sincerely asking. She could not imagine Tamlin permitting a woman into his army, his circle of confidants.
“Captain Darrach’s record is completely flawless. I have personally verified her character.”
“It’s a conflict of interest to have one of his own sentries act as a judge for his crimes.”
Eunomia’s eyes narrowed, and she spoke more sharply. “Lord Tamlin is not on trial, my lord. And furthermore, Captain Darrach was relieved from service to the Spring Court –”
“She wasn’t relieved, as you say, until after Feyre came to live at the Night Court.”
“And how, precisely, are you aware of that fact, my lord?”
Feyre’s head swam; her heartbeat throbbed heavily. Rhys, what are you talking about? I’ve never heard of this person before – who is this?
“Helion!” said Rhysand, casting his gaze up to the Day Court box. “Say something, would you?”
“It’s not up to me,” Helion replied, voice booming. “But if you’re asking my thoughts – I’d say that the Keeper is well within her rights to ask a member of the Spring Court to service as a peer. The other courts are already represented, and our courts can’t serve on principle, so it would seem to me that any member of the Spring Court willing to dedicate their time and energy to this affair should be welcomed with open arms. Don’t you agree?”
“Precisely, my lord,” said Eunomia, before Rhysand could reply. “It sounds to me as thought your argument, Lord Rhysand, boils down entirely to prejudice. It’s as if you believe that anyone even tangentially connected to Lord Tamlin is untrustworthy.”
Rhysand seethed; his expression was carefully controlled, his voice evenly measured. “How presumptive of you.”
“But am I wrong?”
A female sentry – she struggled to recall those days, after the Mountain, when she was broken and small. Tamlin had, indeed, made some effort at introducing her to his court, but she couldn’t remember a damn thing about any of them. Feyre was too baffled to be annoyed, but even so, she felt a twinge of old outrage at the very thought – he’d refused to train her new powers, and yet he’d employed female sentries? He’d had a female captain?
At last, Rhysand’s thoughts reached her, caressed her mind and soothed her spirit. It’s alright. I’m sorry, darling – but I’ll have to explain when we’re done.
That was alright. She looked at him, briefly locking her gaze with his. Perfect eyes, full of stars.
“Fine,” Rhysand said, and to the world, he would have sounded bored, not exhausted, as Feyre knew he was. “Whatever you say.”
“Wonderful,” said Eunomia, calmly. Feyre had to respect her self-control, if nothing else. She completely resisted the urge to gloat. It’s like she had no feelings at all – a heart made of stone. “There is still one more seat available. Is there anyone else you wish to nominate, my lord?”
Feyre shook her head, and Rhysand agreed aloud, “You pick. I don’t particularly care.”
“Very well. The Day Court calls Lord Ivo of the Black Lodge.”
And so, the Rite of Peerage was concluded. The whole thing, included the arguments about this so-called captain of Spring, had taken less than ten minutes. Feyre hadn’t expected to be so rattled; she probed down the bond, reaching for her mate.
Are you alright? That didn’t go quite as expected…
You’re right about that. Rhysand closed his eyes, rolling his neck. I got dangerously close to actually losing my temper.
About the captain?
The very thought – the memory of Feyre’s time in the Spring Court, when she had been so mistreated and neglected – filled Rhysand’s mind with a righteous fury. I’m sorry, he told her. But I can’t stand it. The idea that those people will have some say in our future.
Feyre understood. He had often said that he would never forgive those who had hurt her, and she loved him for that, dearly. But at the same time, it was hard for her to share his feelings on this. I never knew her. I swear – I’m just surprised, honestly. I had no idea there were females in the military there.
Tamlin’s always had slim pickings. After his father died, he had to take what he could get in terms of volunteers. Darrach was with him from the start of his reign.
Feyre bit back a gasp. You don’t mean – was she there when your family –?
I don’t believe so, no. Feyre was relieved at that, at least. Rhysand continued: But regardless, anyone who’s been serving Tamlin for that long has got to be pretty screwed up. Definitely not someone we want on this bench.
On that, Feyre certainly agreed. The chosen fae had now filed into the courtroom. Feyre tried not to stare too curiously at them, but she wanted to see. Where was –?
There. Rosheen Darrach was of modest build, but above average in height and strong in the shoulder, with brown skin and a proud, hooked nose. Feyre tried to recognize her – to place her, somewhere, in a memory of a ball or a fancy dinner or some matter of state – but to her dismay, she couldn’t. Rosheen was dressed in a clean, but simple tunic and jacket with a corset fitted over the shirt to accentuate her waist, and dark pants, with a pair of old boots over her feet. Feyre thought that in better circ*mstances, she would have made a lovely model for a portrait or a figure study. She was both pretty, and interesting to look at. She moved gracefully, quiet and limber as a cat. And she had been a member of Tamlin’s court, and Feyre had never known, until today.
Each of the fae took their seats within the third box. From their position, they would be able to closely observe both the witnesses, Eunomia, and the Night Court.
“Thank you all for your presence today,” said Eunomia. “This saves time. For now, we shall ask you to pay close attention to each piece of this process. If at any point you have questions, or for some reason are unable to fulfill your oaths, please speak to me directly outside of trial hours. I shall now read the peer’s oath – please give your assent.”
And Eunomia recited some short words on duty, on justice. The words washed over Feyre – honor, great responsibility, truth – and she stared hard at the lone Spring fae, at the solemn and pensive face. When Eunomia finished, each fae gave their assent, one by one. Varian and Eris and their respective vassals, the duos from Dawn and Winter, and then Rosheen Darrach.
“I do so swear to fulfill my duty.”
For some reason, Feyre shuddered.
Eunomia took another bow, and then announced, “Since all peers are present and accounted for, the Day Court will now present its case. The Night Court will be given the opportunity to respond in turn to each charge. We shall begin with the question of conspiracy against the sovereign Spring Court.”
Again, a bell’s chime sounded.
Feyre and Rhysand both sat up. Here we go, she thought.
“What you are about to hear is, in part, widely known and accepted fact,” said Eunomia, still addressing the jury. “The events which precluded the curse brought upon us by the so-called High Queen of Prythian are well-established, as are many of the events which followed. However, I seek to turn our attention to a murkier period, after our courts had been freed and the winds began to turn towards Hybern. The renewed violence of war came with the sudden force of a lightning strike, and altered each of our lives irrevocably – and we were faced with the threat of having our hard-won freedom snatched away from us once again.
“The violence from Hybern was difficult for all of us. I am certain that every individual in this room, and most outside of it, have some story to tell – someone that they have lost over the course of the last half century in this struggle between our two nations. But the sovereign Spring and sovereign Summer suffered more than any other, perhaps. I argue that this suffering was caused intentionally and directly by the hands of the Night Court. The evidence I shall now present, and the witnesses I have brought to testify before you, shall prove my claim far beyond reasonable doubt.”
Then, Eunomia raised her hand, and gestured to a door behind the witness’s stand, which opened with a click.
A small figure emerged, and Eunomia went to open the bench for them.
Feyre sucked in a breath. The world fell away beneath her.
You only had to mean it, you stupid, stupid girl.
Why was she remembering that, of all things, now? Why did it have to be her?
“We shall now begin to probe the question of conspiracy. Our first principal witness has entered and taken up the stand. Please state your name for the record,” said Eunomia.
The witness looked at Feyre, familiar brown eyes locking with hers for just an instant before she lowered her gaze, as if ashamed.
“I have no family name,” she said. “I’m called Alis.”
