“How does that … vanishing work?” I said softly. I’d seen only a few High Fae do it—and no one had ever explained.
Rhys didn’t look at me, but he said, “Winnowing? Think of it as … two different points on a piece of cloth. One point is your current place in the world. The other one across the cloth is where you want to go. Winnowing … it’s like folding that cloth so the two spots align. The magic does the folding—and all we do is take a step to get from one place to another. Sometimes it’s a long step, and you can feel the dark fabric of the world as you pass through it. A shorter step, let’s say from one end of the room to the other, would barely register. It’s a rare gift, and a helpful one. Though only the stronger Fae can do it. The more powerful you are, the farther you can jump between places in one go.”
I knew the explanation was as much for my benefit as it was to distract himself. But I found myself saying, “I’m sorry about the temple—and the priestesses.”
The wrath still glimmered in those eyes as he at last turned to me. “Plenty more people are going to die soon enough, anyway.”
Maybe that was why he’d allowed me to get close, to overhear this conversation. To remind me of what might very well happen with Hybern.
“What are … ,” I tried. “What are Illyrian war-bands?”
“Arrogant bastards, that’s what,” he muttered.
I crossed my arms, waiting.
Rhys stretched his wings, the sunlight setting the leathery texture glowing with subtle color. “They’re a warrior-race within my lands. And general pains in my ass.”
“Some of them supported Amarantha?”
Darkness danced in the hall as that distant storm grew close enough to smother the sun. “Some. But me and mine have enjoyed ourselves hunting them down these past few months. And ending them.”
Slowly was the word he didn’t need to add.
“That’s why you stayed away—you were busy with that?”
“I was busy with many things.”
Not an answer. But it seemed he was done talking to me, and whoever Cassian and Azriel were, meeting with them was far more important.
So Rhys didn’t as much as say good-bye before he simply walked off the edge of the veranda—into thin air.
My heart stopped dead, but before I could cry out, he swept past, swift as the wicked wind between the peaks. A few booming wing beats had him vanishing into the storm clouds.
“Good-bye to you, too,” I grumbled, giving him a vulgar gesture, and started my work for the day, with only the storm raging beyond the house’s shield for company.
Even as snow lashed the protective magic of the hall, even as I toiled over the sentences—Rhysand is interesting; Rhysand is gorgeous; Rhysand is flawless—and raised and lowered my mental shield until my mind was limping, I thought of what I’d heard, what they’d said.
I wondered what Ianthe would know about the murders, if she knew any of the victims. Knew what Cesere was. If temples were being targeted, she should know. Tamlin should know.
That final night, I could barely sleep—half from relief, half from terror that perhaps Rhysand really did have some final, nasty surprise in store. But the night and the storm passed, and when dawn broke, I was dressed before the sun had fully risen.
I’d taken to eating in my rooms, but I swept up the stairs, heading across that massive open area, to the table at the far veranda.
Sprawled in his usual chair, Rhys was in the same clothes as yesterday, the collar of his black jacket unbuttoned, the shirt as rumpled as his hair. No wings, fortunately. I wondered if he’d just returned from wherever he’d met Mor and the others. Wondered what he’d learned.
“It’s been a week,” I said by way of greeting. “Take me home.”
Rhys took a long sip of whatever was in his cup. It didn’t look like tea. “Good morning, Feyre.”
“Take me home.”
He studied my teal and gold clothes, a variation of my daily attire. If I had to admit, I didn’t mind them. “That color suits you.”
“Do you want me to say please? Is that it?”
“I want you to talk to me like a person. Start with ‘good morning’ and let’s see where it gets us.”
“Good morning.”
A faint smile. Bastard. “Are you ready to face the consequences of your departure?”
I straightened. I hadn’t thought about the wedding. All week, yes, but today … today I’d only thought of Tamlin, of wanting to see him, hold him, ask him about everything Rhys had claimed. During the past several days, I hadn’t shown any signs of the power Rhysand believed I had, hadn’t felt anything stirring beneath my skin—and thank the Cauldron.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Right. You’ll probably ignore it, anyway. Sweep it under the rug, like everything else.”
“No one asked for your opinion, Rhysand.”
“Rhysand?” He chuckled, low and soft. “I give you a week of luxury and you call me Rhysand?”
“I didn’t ask to be here, or be given that week.”
“And yet look at you. Your face has some color—and those marks under your eyes are almost gone. Your mental shield is stellar, by the way.”
“Please take me home.”