“Not the most important things, thank the Mother,” Tarquin said.
Behind me, Cresseida tensed. The three advisers peeled off to attend to other duties, murmuring farewell—with wary looks in Tarquin’s direction. As if this might very well be the first time he’d needed to play host and they were watching their High Lord’s every move.
He gave them a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and said nothing more as he led us into a vaulted room of white oak and green glass—overlooking the mouth of the bay and the sea that stretched on forever.
I had never seen water so vibrant. Green and cobalt and midnight. And for a heartbeat, a palette of paint flashed in my mind, along with the blue and yellow and white and black I might need to paint it …
“This is my favorite view,” Tarquin said beside me, and I realized I’d gone to the wide windows while the others had seated themselves around the mother-of-pearl table. A handful of servants were heaping fruits, leafy greens, and steamed shellfish onto their plates.
“You must be very proud,” I said, “to have such stunning lands.”
Tarquin’s eyes—so like the sea beyond us—slid to me. “How do they compare to the ones you have seen?” Such a carefully crafted question.
I said dully, “Everything in Prythian is lovely, when compared to the mortal realm.”
“And is being immortal lovelier than being human?”
I could feel everyone’s attention on us, even as Rhys engaged Cresseida and Varian in bland, edged discussion about the status of their fish markets. So I looked the High Lord of Summer up and down, as he had examined me, brazenly and without a shred of politeness, and then said, “You tell me.”
Tarquin’s eyes crinkled. “You are a pearl. Though I knew that the day you threw that bone at Amarantha and splattered mud on her favorite dress.”
I shut out the memories, the blind terror of that first trial.
What did he make of that tug between us—did he realize it was his own power, or think it was a bond of its own, some sort of strange allure?
And if I had to steal from him … perhaps that meant getting closer. “I do not remember you being quite so handsome Under the Mountain. The sunlight and sea suit you.”
A lesser male might have preened. But Tarquin knew better—knew that I had been with Tamlin, and was now with Rhys, and had now been brought here. Perhaps he thought me no better than Ianthe. “How, exactly, do you fit within Rhysand’s court?”
A direct question, after such roundabout ones—to no doubt get me on uneven footing.
It almost worked—I nearly admitted, “I don’t know,” but Rhys said from the table, as if he’d heard every word, “Feyre is a member of my Inner Circle. And is my Emissary to the Mortal Lands.”
Cresseida, seated beside him, said, “Do you have much contact with the mortal realm?”
I took that as an invitation to sit—and get away from the too-heavy stare of Tarquin. A seat had been left open for me at Amren’s side, across from Rhys.
The High Lord of the Night Court sniffed at his wine—white, sparkling—and I wondered if he was trying to piss them off by implying they’d poisoned it as he said, “I prefer to be prepared for every potential situation. And, given that Hybern seems set on making themselves a nuisance, striking up a conversation with the humans might be in our best interest.”
Varian drew his focus away from Amren long enough to say roughly, “So it’s been confirmed, then? Hybern is readying for war.”
“They’re done readying,” Rhys drawled, at last sipping from his wine. Amren didn’t touch her plate, though she pushed things around as she always did. I wondered what—who—she’d eat while here. Varian seemed like a good guess. “War is imminent.”
“Yes, you mentioned that in your letter,” Tarquin said, claiming the seat at the head of the table between Rhys and Amren. A bold move, to situate himself between two such powerful beings. Arrogance—or an attempt at friendship? Tarquin’s gaze again drifted to me before focusing on Rhys. “And you know that against Hybern, we will fight. We lost enough good people Under the Mountain. I have no interest in being slaves again. But if you are here to ask me to fight in another war, Rhysand—”
“That is not a possibility,” Rhys smoothly cut in, “and had not even entered my mind.”
My glimmer of confusion must have shown, because Cresseida crooned to me, “High Lords have gone to war for less, you know. Doing it over such an unusual female would be nothing unexpected.”
Which was likely why they had accepted this invitation, favor or no. To feel us out.
If—if Tamlin went to war to get me back. No. No, that wouldn’t be an option.
I’d written to him, told him to stay away. And he wasn’t foolish enough to start a war he could not win. Not when he wouldn’t be fighting other High Fae, but Illyrian warriors, led by Cassian and Azriel. It would be slaughter.