A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 56

Azriel grunted, beating his knuckles until they wept into the heavy canvas sack again and again. Each thud extolled the private, raging thoughts in his head.

She's safe. She's home. She's safe. She's home.

When he was at the river house, summoned there by his High Lord, the shadows apprised him of Gwyn's whereabouts. Nevertheless, he had to endure the hellish meeting in progress in the study.

Lucien Vanserra and his High Lady Feyre Archeron continued their verbal sparring match already in progress by the time the shadowsinger had arrived. With Rhysand there to bolster his mate and act as a buffer—but he would not fight his High Lady's battle.

Feyre paced across the room, her tattooed hands wringing. "I don't believe this. I don't believe Elain could—"

"You," Lucien said, pointing an accusing finger at Feyre, who stood her ground. "I told you. Forewarned you something was unsettling, rousing something harmful within Elain. But not once had I expected Rhysand to be the fucking voice of reason and heed my words—and for you, her own sister, to choose willful ignorance."

He strode closer, chest heaving as Feyre lifted her gaze, eyes shimmering. "I had thought perhaps out of everyone, my friend would listen. I stood up for you against Tam. I let your little game of sabotage be carried out and even played a hand. I thought I had your trust and confidence, Feyre."

"Lucien—" Feyre sputtered. "You do. But Elain was doing better. I—"

"You assumed, perhaps, the pull of the bond was working a part? You just didn't believe me? Or, you didn't want to believe me? Do yourself a godsdamn favor and stop lying!"

Dark power had trickled from around Rhysand, expanding. A silent warning.

Lucien rolled his eyes, both natural and gilded. "Yes, Rhysand, we are all undoubtedly aware of your great, unmatched power. Does it not get old?"

Rhysand's fingers steepled on the desk as he leaned forward in his seat. "Does what get old, little Lucien?"

"Waving your power around like it's a magical dick-measuring contest?"

Oh, for fucking Mother's sake. Azriel didn't have time for this.

Rhysand's lips curled with smug arrogance. "Never. And it's certainly not a crime to make sure those know one's place—and whose might is the largest."

"It's not the size of the might, Rhysand. It's how you wield it."

"Oh, I think all of Prythian has seen and indeed heard my skillful handling. Am I detecting a hint of jealousy?"

Lucien's eyes rolled again. "Hardly. But tell me, how does your heavy crown sit upon your enormous ego?"

"Oh, Lucien." Rhysand crooned, picking a fleck of dust off his ebony jacket. "My heavy crown doesn't sit upon my ego, but my enormous, broad—"

"Heading out after this meeting," came Cassian's deep voice as he and his mate, clad in fighting leathers, entered the study, apparently wondering if the team was discussing something of importance or not.

By that point, Azriel was losing what precious limited patience he had. His body tensed, shoulders rolling as he so often did before battle. He didn't want to fucking be there. Didn't want to hear petty squabbles and diatribes.

Feyre had made a grievous error—one which Rhys had enabled by placating his mate. Consequences be damned. And for all the shadowsinger cared right then, let them contend with the mess they'd wrought.