A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2)

by Sarah J. Maas

“My mother didn’t want me to rely on my power,” Rhysand said. “She knew from the moment she conceived me that I’d be hunted my entire life. Where one strength failed, she wanted others to save me. “My education was another weapon—which was why she went with me: to tutor me after lessons were done for the day.

I opened my mouth, protesting, but— Rhysand’s mother had given him an arsenal of weapons to use if the other failed. What did I have in my own beyond a good shot with a bow and brute stubbornness?

I would not be weak again. I would not be dependent on anyone else. I would never have to endure the touch of the Attor as it dragged me because I was too helpless to know where and how to hit. Never again.

“You don’t think it sends a bad message if people see me learning to fight—using weapons?” The moment the words were out, I realized the stupidity of them. The stupidity of—of what had...

I was not prey any longer, I decided as I eased up to that door. And I was not a mouse. I was a wolf.

“I’d like my sisters to meet you. Maybe not today. But if you ever feel like it …” She cocked her head. I rubbed the back of my bare neck. “I want them to hear your story. And know that there is a special strength … ” As I spoke I realized I needed to hear it, know it, too. “A special strength in enduring such dark trials and hardships … And still remaining warm, and kind. Still willing to trust—and reach out.”

“There are good days and hard days for me—even now. Don’t let the hard days win.”

He snorted, unbuttoning his jacket. I realized I stood in all my finery—with nothing to wear to sleep. A snap of Rhys’s fingers, and my nightclothes—and some flimsy underthings—appeared on the bed. “I couldn’t decide which scrap of lace I wanted you to wear, so I brought you a few to choose from.”

“When is your birthday?” “Do I even need to count them anymore?” He merely waited. I sighed. “It’s the Winter Solstice.” He paused. “That was months ago.” “Mmmhmm.” “You didn’t … I don’t remember seeing you celebrate it.” Through the bond, through my unshielded, mess of a mind. “I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want a party when there was already all that celebrating going on. Birthdays seem meaningless now, anyway.” He was quiet for a long minute. “You were truly born on the Winter Solstice?”

“Maybe you should … go.” “Why? You seemed so insistent that I train you.” “I can’t concentrate with you around,” I admitted. “And go … far. I can feel you from a room away.” A suggestive curve shaped his lips.

Alone in the frost-gilded forest, I replayed his words and a quiet chuckle rasped out of me.

People often made the mistake of assuming Cassian was the wilder one; the one who couldn’t be tamed. But Cassian was all hot temper—temper that could be used to forge and weld. There was an icy rage in Azriel I had never been able to thaw.

I left of my own free will. I am cared for and safe. I am grateful for all that you did for me, all that you gave. Please don’t come looking for me. I’m not coming back.

Even go against orders to do so.” “Rhys doesn’t punish him for disobeying?” Those silver eyes glowed. “The Court of Dreams is founded on three things: to defend, to honor, and to cherish. Were you expecting brute strength and obedience? Many of Rhysand’s top officials have little to no power. He values loyalty, cunning, compassion. And Azriel, despite his disobedience, is acting to defend his court, his people. So, no. Rhysand does not punish that. There are rules, but they are flexible.” “What about the Tithe?” “What Tithe?”

I stood from the little bench. “The Tithe—taxes, whatever. Twice a year.” “There are taxes on city dwellers, but there is no Tithe.” She clicked her tongue. “But the High Lord of Spring enacts one.”

It was so unusual that I kept silent, merely observing them—their world. The normalcy that they each fought so hard to preserve. That I had once raged against, resented.

“I wouldn’t be troubling myself—not when I like your cooking so much.” The owner beamed, flushing, and looked to where I’d half twisted in my seat to watch her. “Is it to your liking?” The happiness on her face, the satisfaction that only a day of hard work doing something you love could bring, hit me like a stone. I—I remembered feeling that way. After painting from morning until night. Once, that was all I had wanted for myself. I looked to the dishes, then back at her, and said, “I’ve lived in the mortal realm, and lived in other courts, but I’ve never had food like this. Food that makes me … feel awake.”

I turned back to my plate, but found Rhysand’s eyes on me. His face was softer, more contemplative than I’d ever seen it, his mouth slightly open. I lifted my brows. What?

I had done everything—everything for that love. I had ripped myself to shreds, I had killed innocents and debased myself, and he had sat beside Amarantha on that throne. And he couldn’t do anything, hadn’t risked it—hadn’t risked being caught until there was one night left, and all he’d wanted to do wasn’t free me, but fuck me, and—

“You can either let it wreck you, let it get you killed like it nearly did with the Weaver, or you can learn to live with

“There are different kinds of darkness,” Rhys said. I kept my eyes shut. “There is the darkness that frightens, the darkness that soothes, the darkness that is restful.” I pictured each. “There is the darkness of lovers, and the darkness of assassins. It becomes what the bearer wishes it to be, needs it to be. It is not wholly bad or good.”

“Do not threaten me in my own home, Rhysand,” Tarquin said. “My gratitude goes only so far.” “It’s not a threat,” Rhys countered, the crab claws on his plate cracking open beneath invisible hands. “It’s a promise.”

“No. I wouldn’t want to go back. But I would. Pain and killing wouldn’t win me.” Rhys stared at me for a moment longer, his face unreadable, before he strode to the door. He stopped with his fingers on the sea urchin–shaped handle. “He locked you up because he knew—the bastard knew what a treasure you are. That you are worth more than land or gold or jewels. He knew, and wanted to keep you all to himself.” The words hit me, even as they soothed some jagged piece in my soul. “He did—does love me, Rhysand.” “The issue isn’t whether he loved you, it’s how much. Too much. Love can be a poison.”

“See you later.” Something brushed against my mental shield, a rumble of something dark—powerful. Perhaps a warning to be careful. Though it felt an awful lot like the dark, flickering emotion that had haunted me—so much like it that I stepped a bit closer to Tarquin. And then I gave the High Lord of Summer a pretty, mindless smile that I had not given to anyone in a long, long time. That brush of emotion went silent on the other side of my shields.

“I know I’m supposed to look at you,” Tarquin said, “and see that he’s made you into a pet, into a monster. But I see the kindness in you. And I think that reflects more on him than anything. I think it shows that you and he might have many secrets—” “Stop,” I blurted.

“Forgive me if I’ve been forward. I’m still learning how to play the games of these courts—to my advisers’ chagrin.” “I hope you never learn how to play the games of these courts.”

“Then allow me to ask you a blunt question. Is it true you left Tamlin because he locked you up in his house?” I tried to block out the memory, the terror and agony of my heart breaking apart. But I nodded. “And is it true that you were saved from confinement by the Night Court?” I nodded again.

“Is that what got under your skin? That I shut you out, or that it was so easy for Tarquin to get in?” “What got under my skin,” Rhys said, his breathing a bit uneven, “is that you smiled at him.” The rest of the world faded to mist as the words sank in. “You are jealous.”

I was jealous of him—because it will always be easy for him. And he will never know what it is to look up at the night sky and wish.” The Court of Dreams. The people who knew that there was a price, and one worth paying, for that dream. The bastard-born warriors, the Illyrian half-breed, the monster trapped in a beautiful body, the dreamer born into a court of nightmares … And the huntress with an artist’s soul.

“To the people who look at the stars and wish, Rhys.” He picked up his glass, his gaze so piercing that I wondered why I had bothered blushing at all for Tarquin. Rhys clinked his glass against mine. “To the stars who listen—and the dreams that are answered.”

Rhys waved a lazy hand. “By all means, Tarquin, spend the day with my lady.” My lady.

The others were all watching, but I felt a chuckle whisper out of me. Followed by a laugh, as rasping and raw as my lungs. But a real laugh, perhaps edged by hysteria—and profound relief.

To the huntresses who remember to reach back for those less fortunate—and

“Someone thinks mighty highly of herself.” “Why shouldn’t I? You seem to have difficulty not staring at me day and night.” There it was—a kernel of truth and a question. “Am I supposed to deny,” he drawled, but something sparked in those eyes, “that I find you attractive?” “You’ve never said it.” “I’ve told you many times, and quite frequently, how attractive I find you.”

The gleam in his eyes turned into something predatory. A thrill went through me as he braced his powerful arms on the table and purred, “Is that a challenge, Feyre?” I held that predator’s gaze—the gaze of the most powerful male in Prythian. “Is it?” His pupils flared. Gone was the quiet sadness, the isolated guilt. Only that lethal focus—on me. On my mouth. On the bob of my throat as I tried to keep my breathing even. He said, slow and soft, “Why don’t we go down to that store right now, Feyre, so you can try on those lacy little things—so

I ate with Mor that night beside the crackling fire in the town house dining room, Rhys and the others off somewhere, and when she finally asked why I kept scowling every time Rhysand’s name was mentioned, I told her about the vision he’d sent into my mind. She’d laughed until wine came out of her nose, and when I scowled at her, she told me I should be proud: when Rhys was prepared to brood, it took nothing short of a miracle to get him out of it.

For a moment, I hadn’t been able to stop myself from comparing: Tamlin hadn’t wanted to be High Lord. He resented being High Lord—and maybe … maybe that was part of why the court had become what it was. But Rhysand, with a vision, with the will and desire and passion to do it … He’d built something. And then gone to the mat to defend it. It was what he’d seen in Tarquin, why those blood rubies had hit him so hard.

At least you make up for your shameless flirting by being one hell of a High Lord. He’d returned that evening, smirking like a cat, and had merely said “One hell of a High Lord?” by way of greeting.

“Amren and Mor told me that the span of an Illyrian male’s wings says a lot about the size of … other parts.” His eyes shot to mine, then to pine-tree-coated slopes below. “Did they now.”

“They also said Azriel’s wings are the biggest.”

You are good, Rhys. You are kind. This mask does not scare me. I see you beneath it.

I leaned a bit more against him, my legs widening ever so slightly. Why’d you stop? I said into his mind, into him. A near-silent growl reverberated against me.

I had been awful. He’d told me those secrets, those vulnerabilities in confidence. And I’d thrown them in his face.

“When Rhys came back, after Amarantha, he was a ghost. He pretended he wasn’t, but he was. You made him come alive again.”

“He thinks he’ll be remembered as the villain in the story.” She snorted. “But I forgot to tell him,” I said quietly, opening the door, “that the villain is usually the person who locks up the maiden and throws away the key.” “Oh?” I shrugged. “He was the one who let me out.”

I laughed, the sound rasping out of me. Not a chuckle or snort, but a cackling laugh. And I laughed again, and again, as he lowered his hands from his eyes. The entire left side of his face had been hit.

His fingers tightened on mine, and I looked up. He was smiling at me. And looked so un-High-Lord-like with the glowing dust on the side of his face that I grinned back. I hadn’t even realized what I’d done until his own smile faded, and his mouth parted slightly. “Smile again,” he whispered.

Even when I had just … I had just painted something. On him. For him. I’d—painted again.

So I smiled at him, broad and without restraint.

“You’re exquisite,” he...