A Court of Mist and Fury

CHAPTER

68

Rhysand

I slammed into the floor of the town house, and Amren was instantly there,
hands on Cassian’s wings, swearing at the damage. Then at the hole in
Azriel’s chest.

Even her healing couldn’t fix both. No, we’d need a real healer for each
of them, and fast, because if Cassian lost those wings … I knew he’d prefer
death. Any Illyrian would.

“Where is she?” Amren demanded.
Where is she where is she where is she
“Get the Book out of here,” I said, dumping the pieces onto the ground. I
hated the touch of them, their madness and despair and joy. Amren ignored
the order.
Mor hadn’t appeared—dropping off or hiding Nesta and Elain wherever
she deemed safest.
“Where is she?” Amren said again, pressing a hand to Cassian’s ravaged
back. I knew she didn’t mean Mor.
As if my thoughts had summoned her, my cousin appeared—panting,
haggard. She dropped to the floor before Azriel, her blood-caked hands
shaking as she ripped the arrow free of his chest, blood showering the
carpet. She shoved her fingers over the wound, light flaring as her power
knit bone and flesh and vein together.
“Where is she?” Amren snapped one more time.
I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
So Mor said them for me as she knelt over Azriel, both of my brothers
mercifully unconscious. “Tamlin offered passage through his lands and our
heads on platters to the king in exchange for trapping Feyre, breaking her

bond, and getting to bring her back to the Spring Court. But Ianthe betrayed
Tamlin—told the king where to find Feyre’s sisters. So the king had Feyre’s
sisters brought with the queens—to prove he could make them immortal.
He put them in the Cauldron. We could do nothing as they were turned. He
had us by the balls.”

Those quicksilver eyes shot to me. “Rhysand.”
I managed to say, “We were out of options, and Feyre knew it. So she
pretended to free herself from the control Tamlin thought I’d kept on her
mind. Pretended that she … hated us. And told him she’d go home—but
only if the killing stopped. If we went free.”
“And the bond,” Amren breathed, Cassian’s blood shining on her hands
as she slowed its dribbling.
Mor said, “She asked the king to break the bond. He obliged.”
I thought I might be dying—thought my chest might actually be cleaved
in two.
“That’s impossible,” Amren said. “That sort of bond cannot be broken.”
“The king said he could do it.”
“The king is a fool,” Amren barked. “That sort of bond cannot be
broken.”
“No, it can’t,” I said.
They both looked at me.
I cleared my head, my shattering heart—breaking for what my mate had
done, sacrificed for me and my family. For her sisters. Because she hadn’t
thought … hadn’t thought she was essential. Even after all she had done.
“The king broke the bargain between us. Hard to do, but he couldn’t tell
that it wasn’t the mating bond.”
Mor started. “Does—does Feyre know—”
“Yes,” I breathed. “And now my mate is in our enemy’s hands.”
“Go get her,” Amren hissed. “Right now.”
“No,” I said, and hated the word.
They gaped at me, and I wanted to roar at the sight of the blood coating
them, at my unconscious and suffering brothers on the carpet before them.
But I managed to say to my cousin, “Weren’t you listening to what Feyre
said to him? She promised to destroy him—from within.”
Mor’s face paled, her magic flaring on Azriel’s chest. “She’s going into
that house to take him down. To take them all down.”

I nodded. “She is now a spy—with a direct line to me. What the King of
Hybern does, where he goes, what his plans are, she will know. And report
back.”

For between us, faint and soft, hidden so none might find it … between
us lay a whisper of color, and joy, of light and shadow—a whisper of her.
Our bond.

“She’s your mate,” Amren bit at me. “Not your spy. Go get her.”
“She is my mate. And my spy,” I said too quietly. “And she is the High
Lady of the Night Court.”
“What?” Mor whispered.
I caressed a mental finger down that bond now hidden deep, deep within
us, and said, “If they had removed her other glove, they would have seen a
second tattoo on her right arm. The twin to the other. Inked last night, when
we crept out, found a priestess, and I swore her in as my High Lady.”
“Not—not consort,” Amren blurted, blinking. I hadn’t seen her surprised
in … centuries.
“Not consort, not wife. Feyre is High Lady of the Night Court.” My
equal in every way; she would wear my crown, sit on a throne beside mine.
Never sidelined, never designated to breeding and parties and child-rearing.
My queen.
As if in answer, a glimmer of love shuddered down the bond. I clamped
down on the relief that threatened to shatter any calm I feigned having.
“You mean to tell me,” Mor breathed, “that my High Lady is now
surrounded by enemies?” A lethal sort of calm crept over her tear-stained
face.
“I mean to tell you,” I said, watching the blood clot on Cassian’s wings
with Amren’s tending. Beneath Mor’s own hands, Azriel’s bleeding at last
eased. Enough to keep them alive until the healer got here. “I mean to tell
you,” I said again, my power building and rubbing itself against my skin,
my bones, desperate to be unleashed upon the world, “that your High Lady
made a sacrifice for her court—and we will move when the time is right.”
Perhaps Lucien being Elain’s mate would help—somehow. I’d find a
way.
And then I’d assist my mate in ripping the Spring Court, Ianthe, those
mortal queens, and the King of Hybern to shreds. Slowly.
“Until then?” Amren demanded. “What of the Cauldron—of the Book?”

“Until then,” I said, staring toward the door as if I might see her walk
through it, laughing and vibrant and beautiful, “we go to war.”

CHAPTER

69

Feyre

Tamlin landed us in the gravel of the front drive.
I had forgotten how quiet it was here.
How small. Empty.
Spring bloomed—the air gentle and scented with roses.
Still lovely. But there were the front doors he’d sealed me behind. There

was the window I’d banged on, trying to get out. A pretty, rose-covered
prison.

But I smiled, head throbbing, and said through my tears, “I thought I’d
never see it again.”

Tamlin was just staring at me, as if not quite believing it. “I thought you
would never, either.”

And you sold us out—sold out every innocent in this land for that. All so
you could have me back.

Love—love was a balm as much as it was a poison.
But it was love that burned in my chest. Right alongside the bond that the
King of Hybern hadn’t so much as touched, because he hadn’t known how
deep and far he’d have to delve to cleave it. To cleave me and Rhysand
apart.
It had hurt—hurt like hell to have the bargain between us ended—and
Rhys had done his job perfectly, his horror flawless. We had always been so
good at playing together.
I had not doubted him, had not said anything but Yes when he’d taken me
down to the temple the night before, and I’d sworn my vows. To him, to
Velaris, to the Night Court.

And now … a gentle, loving stroke down that bond, concealed beneath
that wasteland where the bargain had been. I sent a glimmer of feeling back
down the line, wishing I could touch him, hold him, laugh with him.

But I kept those thoughts clear from my face. Kept anything but quiet
relief from it as I leaned into Tamlin, sighing. “It feels—feels as if some of
it was a dream, or a nightmare. But … But I remembered you. And when I
saw you there today, I started clawing at it, fighting, because I knew it
might be my only chance, and—”

“How did you break free of his control,” Lucien said flatly from behind
us.

Tamlin gave him a warning growl.
I’d forgotten he was there. My sister’s mate. The Mother, I decided, did
have a sense of humor. “I wanted it—I don’t know how. I just wanted to
break free of him, so I did.”
We stared each other down, but Tamlin brushed a thumb over my
shoulder. “Are—are you hurt?”
I tried not to bristle. I knew what he meant. That he thought Rhysand
would do anything like that to anyone— “I—I don’t know,” I stammered. “I
don’t … I don’t remember those things.”
Lucien’s metal eye narrowed, as if he could sense the lie.
But I looked up at Tamlin, and brushed my hand over his mouth. My
bare, empty skin. “You’re real,” I said. “You freed me.”
It was an effort not to turn my hands into claws and rip out his eyes.
Traitor—liar. Murderer.
“You freed yourself,” Tamlin breathed. He gestured to the house. “Rest—
and then we’ll talk. I … need to find Ianthe. And make some things very,
very clear.”
“I—I want to be a part of it this time,” I said, halting when he tried to
herd me back into that beautiful prison. “No more … No more shutting me
out. No more guards. Please. I have so much to tell you about them—bit
and pieces, but … I can help. We can get my sisters back. Let me help.”
Help lead you in the wrong direction. Help bring you and your court to
your knees, and take down Jurian and those conniving, traitorous queens.
And then tear Ianthe into tiny, tiny pieces and bury them in a pit no one can
find.

Tamlin scanned my face, and finally nodded. “We’ll start over. Do things
differently. When you were gone, I realized … I’d been wrong. So wrong,
Feyre. And I’m sorry.”

Too late. Too damned late. But I rested my head on his arm as he slipped
it around me and led me toward the house. “It doesn’t matter. I’m home
now.”

“Forever,” he promised.
“Forever,” I parroted, glancing behind—to where Lucien stood in the
gravel drive.
His gaze on me. Face hard. As if he’d seen through every lie.
As if he knew of the second tattoo beneath my glove, and the glamour I
now kept on it.
As if he knew that they had let a fox into a chicken coop—and he could
do nothing.
Not unless he never wanted to see his mate—Elain—again.
I gave Lucien a sweet, sleepy smile. So our game began.
We hit the sweeping marble stairs to the front doors of the manor.
And so Tamlin unwittingly led the High Lady of the Night Court into the
heart of his territory.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTs

Thank you to the following people who make my life blessed beyond all
measure:

To my husband, Josh: You got me through this year. (Through many
years before it, but this one in particular.) I don’t have the words to describe
how much I love you, and how grateful I am for all that you do. For the
countless meals you cooked so I didn’t have to stop writing; for the
hundreds of dishes you washed afterward so I could run back into my office
and keep working; for the hours of dog-walking, especially those early
mornings, just so I could get some sleep … This book is now a real book
because of you. Thank you for carrying me when I was too weary, for
wiping away my tears when my heart was heavy, and for coming with me
on so many adventures around the world.

To Annie, who can’t read this, but who deserves credit, anyway: Every
second with you is a gift. Thank you for making a fairly solitary job not the
slightest bit lonely—and for the laughter and joy and love you’ve brought
into my life. Love you, baby pup.

To Susan Dennard, my Threadsister and anam cara: Pretty sure I’m a
broken record at this point, but thank you for being a friend worth waiting
for, and for the fun, truly epic times we’ve had together. To Alex Bracken,
Erin Bowman, Lauren Billings, Christina Hobbs, Victoria Aveyard, Jennifer
L. Armentrout, Gena Showalter, and Claire Legrand: I’m so lucky to call
you guys my friends. I adore you all.

To my agent, Tamar Rydzinski: What would I do without you? You’ve
been my rock, my guiding star, and my fairy godmother from the very
beginning. Seven books later, I still don’t have the words to express my

gratitude. To my editor, Cat Onder: Working with you on these books has
been a highlight of my career. Thank you for your wisdom, your kindness,
and your editorial brilliance.

To my phenomenal teams at Bloomsbury worldwide and CAA—Cindy
Loh, Cristina Gilbert, Jon Cassir, Kathleen Farrar, Nigel Newton, Rebecca
McNally, Natalie Hamilton, Sonia Palmisano, Emma Hopkin, Ian Lamb,
Emma Bradshaw, Lizzy Mason, Courtney Griffin, Erica Barmash, Emily
Ritter, Grace Whooley, Eshani Agrawal, Nick Thomas, Alice Grigg, Elise
Burns, Jenny Collins, Linette Kim, Beth Eller, Diane Aronson, Emily
Klopfer, Melissa Kavonic, Donna Mark, John Candell, Nicholas Church,
Adiba Oemar, Hermione Lawton, Kelly de Groot, and the entire foreign
rights team—it’s an honor to know and work with you. Thank you for
making my dreams come true. To Cassie Homer: Thank you for everything.
You are an absolute delight.

To my family (especially my parents): I love you to the moon and back.
To Louisse Ang, Nicola Wilksinson, Elena Yip, Sasha Alsberg, Vilma
Gonzalez, Damaris Cardinali, Alexa Santiago, Rachel Domingo, Jamie
Miller, Alice Fanchiang, and the Maas Thirteen: your generosity, friendship,
and support mean the world to me.
And, lastly, to my readers: You guys are the greatest. The actual greatest.
None of this would have been possible without you. Thank you from the
very bottom of my heart for all that you do for me and my books.

HEARTS HAVE BEEN HEALED.
POWER GAMES HAVE BEGUN.

WAR IS UPON THEM.

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ALSO BY SARAH J. MAAS

A Court of Thorns and Roses

THE THRONE OF GLASS SERIES

Throne of Glass
Crown of Midnight

Heir of Fire
Queen of Shadows
The Assassin’s Blade

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Oxford, New York, New Delhi and Sydney

First published in Great Britain in May 2016 by
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

First published in the USA in May 2016 by
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Text copyright © Sarah J. Maas 2016
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