“No,” Tamlin said with equal ease, “you’re just in the business of fucking them.”
Every thought and sound eddied out of my head.
Cassian, Azriel, and Mor were still as death—their fury rippling off them in silent waves. But whether Tamlin noticed or cared that three of the deadliest people in this room were currently contemplating his demise, he didn’t let on.
Rhys shrugged, smiling faintly. “Seems a far less destructive alternative to war.”
“And yet here you are, having started it in the first place.”
Rhysand’s blink was the only sign of his confusion.
A claw slid out of Tamlin’s knuckle.
Kallias tensed, a hand drifting to the arm of Viviane’s chair—as if he’d throw himself in front of it. But Tamlin only dragged that claw lightly down the carved arm of his own chair—as he’d once dragged them down my skin. He smiled as if he knew precisely what memory it triggered, but said to my mate, “If you hadn’t stolen my bride away in the night, Rhysand, I would not have been forced to take such drastic measures to get her back.”
I said quietly, “The sun was shining when I left you.”
Those green eyes slid to me, glazed and foreign. He let out a low snort, then looked away again.
Dismissal.
Kallias asked, “Why are you here, Tamlin?”
Tamlin’s claw dug into the wood, puncturing deep even as his voice remained mild. I had no doubt that gesture was meant for me, too. “I bartered access to my lands to get back the woman I love from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern—to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back. Only Rhysand and his cabal had turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge—either her own or her … master’s.”
“You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,” I breathed. “You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.”
Tamlin only angled his head at Rhys. “When you fuck her, have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?”
Heat stained my cheeks. This wasn’t outright battle, but a steady, careful shredding of my dignity, my credibility. Beron beamed, delighted—while Eris carefully monitored.
Rhys turned his head, looking me over from head to toe. Then back to Tamlin. A storm about to be unleashed.
But it was Azriel who said, his voice like cold death, “Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.”
Surprise flashed in Tamlin’s eyes—then vanished. Vanished, swallowed by pure fury as he realized what that tattoo coating my hand was for. “It was not enough to sit at my side, was it?” A hateful smile curled his lips. “You once asked me if you’d be my High Lady, and when I said no …” A low laugh. “Perhaps I underestimated you. Why serve in my court, when you could rule in his?”
Tamlin at last faced the other gathered High Lords and their retinues. “They peddle tales of defending our land and peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind—after she shattered her bones for spite. And if you are asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us … Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain—what they stand to gain from this war, or lack of it. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s proved her ambition—and you saw how he was more than happy to serve Amarantha to remain unscathed.”
It was an effort not to snarl, not to grip the arms of my chair and roar at him.
Rhys let out a dark laugh. “Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.”
Ire contorted Tamlin’s face at the condescension. But he faced Kallias. “You asked why I’m here? I might ask the same of you.” He jerked his chin at the High Lord of Winter, at Viviane—the few other members of their retinue who had remained silent. “You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain, you can stomach working with him?” A finger flung in Rhysand’s direction.
I wanted to rip that finger right off Tamlin’s hand. And feed it to the Middengard Wyrm.
The silvery glow about Kallias dulled.
Even Viviane seemed to dim. “We came here to decide that for ourselves.”
Mor was staring at her friend in quiet question. Viviane, for the first time since we’d arrived, did not look toward her. Only at her mate.
Rhys said softly to them, to everyone, “I had no involvement in that. None.”
Kallias’s eyes flared like blue flame. “You stood beside her throne while the order was given.”
I watched, stomach twisting, as Rhys’s golden skin paled. “I tried to stop it.”
“Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,” Kallias said. “That you tried.”
I had forgotten. Forgotten that bit of Amarantha’s despicable history. It had happened while I was still at the Spring Court—a report one of Lucien’s contacts at the Winter Court managed to smuggle out. Of two dozen children killed by the “blight.” By Amarantha.
Rhys’s mouth tightened. “There is not one day that passes when I don’t remember it,” he said to Kallias, to Viviane. To their companions. “Not one day.”
I hadn’t known.
He had told me once, all those months ago, that there were memories he could not bring himself to share—even with me. I had assumed it was only in regard to what Amarantha had done to him. Not … what he might have been forced to witness, too. Forced to endure, bound and trapped.
And standing by, leashed to Amarantha, while she ordered the murder of those children—
“Remembering,” Kallias said, “doesn’t bring them back, does it?”
“No,” Rhys said plainly. “No, it doesn’t. And I am now fighting to make sure it never happens again.”
Viviane glanced between her husband and Rhys. “I was not present Under the Mountain. But I would hear, High Lord, how you tried to—stop her.” Pain tightened her face. She, too, had been unable to prevent it while she guarded her small slice of the territory.
Rhys said nothing.
Beron snorted. “Finally speechless, Rhysand?”
I put a hand on Rhys’s arm. I had no doubt Tamlin marked it. And I didn’t care. I said to my mate, not bothering to keep my voice down, “I believe you.”
“Says the woman,” Beron countered, “who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead—for Amarantha to butcher as well.”
I blocked out the words, the memory of Clare.
Rhys swallowed. I tightened my grip on his arm.
His voice was rough as he said to Kallias, “When your people rebelled …” They had, I recalled. Winter had rebelled against Amarantha. And the children … that had been Amarantha’s answer. Her punishment for the disobedience. “She was furious. She wanted you dead, Kallias.”
Viviane’s face drained of color.
Rhys went on, “I … convinced her that it would serve little purpose.”
“Who knew,” Beron mused, “that a cock could be so persuasive?”