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My blood chilled. Had Koschei’s unholy presence truly woken the Made objects in the world? What Az’s spy had heard indicated that he’d helped our enemies in their quest for this Made item, hinted at the location of the weapon—in exchange for what? Why?
My heavy breasts gave a throb, reminding me of what—who—awaited me at home. I got to my feet, the motion setting my milk leaking. I squared my shoulders as I swore, “We will continue to seek a path toward peace for all the peoples of this world.”
The Queen and Prince of Vallahan snorted. But their king nodded sadly at me, at Mor, before vanishing into nothing.
The Mistress of the Unseen inclined her head to me. “May the Unseen and your neglectful Mother have mercy on your son’s soul.” Before I could wrap a whip of flame around her neck and squeeze, she, too, vanished, the vizier with her, sniffing his distaste. Only the Duke of Bernion remained, the icy wind from the open doors rustling his hair.
For a moment, the crashing of the sea beyond roared through the chamber.
The duke’s craggy features filled with something akin to pain. “I have no desire for an invasion, or a war.” He considered his broad, scarred hands, as if he could already see the blood on them. “But I will follow my king into battle if he goes.”
Rhys’s face was hard as the stone table between us. “Did your king even send you here today, Valderic?”
“No.” His throat bobbed. “He refused to come himself, and refused to send me as his emissary. I lied to the vizier and the Mistress to get them to come—they think it was royally sanctioned.”
Voice cracking with dread and anguish, Mor demanded, “Why bother, then?”
The duke regarded her plainly, openly. “I hoped you might sway them—and that they in turn might sway my king. I lost his ear long ago—they believed my lie that I’ve mended things with him. There will be hell to pay for it when I return home.” He didn’t seem to relish the thought. “But your worries about who Montesere might ally with are well founded. More than that, I cannot say. Not without damning myself and my entire family to traitorhood.”
Rhys said nothing. The wind howled outside.
“You are a good male, Rhysand,” the duke continued, shaking his head slowly. “Be a smart one, too. Do not needlessly waste your people’s lives. This invasion will happen, and we will win it, no matter what you do. If you bring the Trove onto the battlefield, you will risk war coming to your doorstep as well. So do not engage. Do not provoke Koschei the Deathless, who whispers in so many ears and through so many dark dreams. Remain in Prythian, in your Night Court. Be happy. Raise your son.”
My throat closed up.
Rhys stared at the untouched wine as he asked hoarsely, “When does the invasion begin?”
The duke shook his head. “I could not tell you that, even if I knew. But considering that you bear the Trove, I’d guess that the others will wait to march until they feel they have a weapon to counter yours.”
I offered him a grim smile of thanks. He might not desire to be a traitor, but he’d given us this gift: a solid indication that none of the three territories had a Made object in their possession yet. Rhys closed his eyes—just for a beat. I reached for his hand. His fingers were as icy as the sea outside.
“Do not let the matters of the continent concern you,” the duke said to us. “I shall do my best to make it fair enough for the humans.”
Unlike the others, he walked slowly through the doors, staring for a moment at the sea before vanishing as his companions had done.
The wind howled, the braziers and fireplace guttering in the chill. Mor sank back into her seat, putting her head in her hands.
“You can come out now, Az,” Rhys said, voice heavy with exhaustion. An invisible weight was pressing on his shoulders already—I knew, because I bore it, too.
Az didn’t appear.
Rhys lifted his gaze toward the open doors, to the rocky earth of Storr, the violent sea beyond. “Azriel.”
Nothing.
Mor lowered her hands to her lap. “He’s not here.”
Rhys’s eyes blazed. “And where, exactly,” he asked, every word clipped, “did he go?”
Mor nodded to the now-empty chairs. To where the royals from Vallahan had been sitting. “Take a wild guess.”
CHAPTER
3
Azriel
Winter always arrived early in Vallahan. Though the Night Court was still basking in the glory of autumn, already veils of snow drifted through the hulking, barren mountains in which the fabled golden fortress of Thrudheim had been built.
