A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 32

"How's darling Gwyn holding up?" Rhys asked, gently prodding the shadowsinger for updates.

Azriel sipped his liquor before responding. "She's...working on it."

But what other option was Gwyn left with? A choice under duress was not a choice. Either leave the priestesshood or take part in Fire Night—there was no other option.

Well, in the shadowsinger's opinion, there was one other one. Dismantle and overhaul the entire practice from fucking scratch, something his High Lord was acting on with both Tarquin and Kallias. Helion would surely join their cause if he'd left his chambers long enough to get him a message. Thesan would yield to the majority. Beron and Tamlin could go fuck themselves.

Gwyn had been subdued since the High Lord had dropped the truth at her feet a week before, but thankfully, not distant. They'd spent a lot of private time nestled together, she reading one of her romance books—if one could call a book ripe with explicit fucking romance —while he went over all the reports about Autumn, scouting for hints he may have missed. Calculating when their Court needed to make a decisive move or have Eris execute his own.

The silence bothered him deep down. Azriel was used to quietude his own life as the priestess was in the library. But, around him, and her chosen sisters, Gwyn had always been the one to talk, and he...missed her voice. Her keen observations and her irreverent commentary.

The shadowsinger wasn't sure what to do. What piece to move—a fact that ate at the ego of a master strategist.

You are doing fine, Shadowsinger. She just needs you and her friends. Her family. Support.

But was he? Kind of Azriel's shadows to say, but the need to do more pulsed inside him, demanding his help. To ease and comfort Gwyn's ever-churning mind as she claimed she would do for him. To share the weight of her burdens. But she wasn't speaking about any of that, at least not to him. And fuck, didn't that sting after all their talks trapped in the cave.

"I'm glad Gwyn agreed to join Feyre and Nesta for lunch," Az admitted, allowing his mask to slip.

A sharp squeal sounded down the corridor, followed by a hoot. "Fuck! I mean shit! Crap! Godsdammit, when did you get teeth, little man?" Cassian yelled.

"Should you go check on them?" Azriel asked, his shadows already on their way.

Rhysand's smirk turned downright feline. "No. I believe it was the General that insisted he is the one to get some nephew-uncle playtime, correct? Besides, it's great practice for Cass one day. Or the very best reminder to take a contraceptive tonic." The High Lord shrugged, lounging, flinging an arm over the back of the tufted dove-gray sofa. "Either way, I'm not turning down a minute of not being vomited on and a stiff drink."

Azriel snorted and raised his glass in cheers from his perch on the armchair across the way. They reveled in the sounds of the roaring fire in the hearth and the boisterous giggles joining low chuckles from the playroom. Azriel's eyes squinted over Rhysand to the windows, noting the fallen golden leaves swirling in the chilly breeze. Temperatures were dropping, and they were in the thick of autumn.

Shit. Did Gwyn have her coat, he considered, trying to recall if she had worn one or a cloak as he winnowed them in shadows to the river estate.

She did, his shadows whispered. The lovely sleek dark gray one the Illyrian Valkyrie bought for her. The Priestess will be fine.

But would she?

Azriel hoped Gwyn was enjoying her time out with the girls and having fun. As long as it was only Feyre and Nesta, anyway.