I braced myself as Rhys said, “Since these objects are spelled to the individual High Lords, and can only be found by them—through their power … Then, in addition to her uses regarding the handling of the Book of Breathings itself, it seems we possibly have our own detector.”
Now they all looked at me.
I cringed. “Perhaps was what the Bone Carver said in regard to me being able to track things. You don’t know … ” My words faded as Rhys smirked.
“You have a kernel of all our power—like having seven thumbprints. If we’ve hidden something, if we’ve made or protected it with our power, no matter where it has been concealed, you will be able to track it through that very magic.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” I tried again.
“No—but there is a way to test it.” Rhys was still smiling.
“Here we go,” Cassian grumbled. Mor gave Azriel a warning glare to tell him not to volunteer this time. The spymaster just gave her an incredulous look in return.
I might have lounged in my chair to watch their battle of wills had Rhys not said, “With your abilities, Feyre, you might be able to find the half of the Book at the Summer Court—and break the wards around it. But I’m not going to take the carver’s word for it, or bring you there without testing you first. To make sure that when it counts, when we need to get that book, you—we do not fail. So we’re going on another little trip. To see if you can find a valuable object of mine that I’ve been missing for a considerably long time.”
“Shit,” Mor said, plunging her hands into the thick folds of her sweater.
“Where?” I managed to say.
It was Azriel who answered. “To the Weaver.”
Rhys held up a hand as Cassian opened his mouth. “The test,” he said, “will be to see if Feyre can identify the object of mine in the Weaver’s trove. When we get to the Summer Court, Tarquin might have spelled his half of the Book to look different, feel different.”
“By the Cauldron, Rhys,” Mor snapped, setting both feet on the carpet. “Are you out of your—”
“Who is the Weaver?” I pushed.
“An ancient, wicked creature,” Azriel said, and I surveyed the faint scars on his wings, his neck, and wondered how many such things he’d encountered in his immortal life. If they were any worse than the people who shared blood ties with him. “Who should remain unbothered,” he added in Rhys’s direction. “Find another way to test her abilities.”
Rhys merely shrugged and looked to me. To let me choose. Always—it was always my choice with him these days. Yet he hadn’t let me go back to the Spring Court during those two visits—because he knew how badly I needed to get away from it?
I gnawed on my lower lip, weighing the risks, waiting to feel any kernel of fear, of emotion. But this afternoon had drained any reserve of such things. “The Bone Carver, the Weaver … Can’t you ever just call someone by a given name?”
Cassian chuckled, and Mor settled back in the sofa cushions.
Only Rhys, it seemed, understood that it hadn’t entirely been a joke. His face was tight. Like he knew precisely how tired I was—how I knew I should be quaking at the thought of this Weaver, but after the Bone Carver, what I’d revealed to it … I could feel nothing at all.
Rhys said to me, “What about adding one more name to that list?”
I didn’t particularly like the sound of that. Mor said as much.
“Emissary,” Rhysand said, ignoring his cousin. “Emissary to the Night Court—for the human realm.”
Azriel said, “There hasn’t been one for five hundred years, Rhys.”
“There also hasn’t been a human-turned-immortal since then, either.” Rhys met my gaze. “The human world must be as prepared as we are—especially if the King of Hybern plans to shatter the wall and unleash his forces upon them. We need the other half of the Book from those mortal queens—and if we can’t use magic to influence them, then they’re going to have to bring it to us.”
More silence. On the street beyond the bay of windows, wisps of snow brushed past, dusting the cobblestones.
Rhys jerked his chin at me. “You are an immortal faerie—with a human heart. Even as such, you might very well set foot on the continent and be … hunted for it. So we set up a base in neutral territory. In a place where humans trust us—trust you, Feyre. And where other humans might risk going to meet with you. To hear the voice of Prythian after five centuries.”
“My family’s estate,” I said.
“Mother’s tits, Rhys,” Cassian cut in, wings flaring wide enough to nearly knock over the ceramic vase on the side table next to him. “You think we can just take over her family’s house, demand that of them?”
Nesta hadn’t wanted any dealings with the Fae, and Elain was so gentle, so sweet … how could I bring them into this?
“The land,” Mor said, reaching over to return the vase to its place, “will run red with blood, Cassian, regardless of what we do with her family. It is now a matter of where that blood will$flow—and how much will spill. How much human blood we can save.”