A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 14

Glacial rain and sleet poured, flowing between the exposed tips of wings like a gutter, freezing into icicles on the ends. Even Azriel's fleece-lined, hooded cloak couldn't protect him from the brutal winds whipping through the alley.

Unseasonable warmth brought rain to the already waterlogged city from quick snowmelt, nearly filling its sewers to the brink. Locks to the river would need to be opened. And soon to prevent flooding of the worst sort. Not that anything could worsen the stench of filth. The tang of sweat and gods knew what else from the slums. The people living on the streets or making a living from them.

Gods, Az hated this place. Everything about it reminded him too much of Illyria. The shitty weather. The ice that infiltrated your bones. The supposed proud people who still perpetuated the archaic caste system. Males of means abusing power to their own end. Making their gold marks on the backs of the lesser. Forcing females to make desperate decisions to work on their backs for a semblance of freedom.

The few working girls at home, whether due to how much money they made or for fulfillment; the ones of Velaris wanted to do it. No one in Rhysand's city was ever forced—or they would certainly face the wrath of their High Lord.

And every single coin the Velaris girls gained through their effort in the pleasure houses went straight into their pockets. Not to a pimp or some other oppressor. And most of the females Azriel met, some who had attended to his needs over the years, were refugees from other regions. They had the stories and scars to prove why they had made the treacherous journey to the mythical City of Starlight.

But, Vallahan? Particularly this town; the southwestern coastal city of Verre? What a fucking waste of space.

Azriel wished he were anywhere but here. But he was the Spymaster for the Night Court. And he had been tasked with a mission; track Beron Vanserra by any means necessary. The High Lord on his trip to the continent should have been the only thing on his mind. After all, he had planned for a month down to minute detail. Scouting locations. Slipping coin to merchants returning from the Autumn territory. And barkeeps who may have listened to the loose lips of drunken soldiers.

Those details were the only reason he was currently tucked in the shadows between two nondescript brick buildings, with rodents scurrying around his ankles.

Despite that, he couldn't get his priestess off his mind.

No, the priestess. Not his.

Az planned on leaving without saying a word. To make it easier. But, sneaky Gwyn had tucked into the shadows behind the door to the training room roof, completely catching him by surprise.

"So you were leaving without saying goodbye?" she said behind him as he was about the winnow away. Azriel closed his eyes, shifting to face her.

Her leathered arms were crossed, booted foot tapping, an eyebrow arched. A portrait of obstinance. From the tight braid in her hair, and the beads of sweat on her brow, she must have spent most of her time waiting by training. And his damn shadows didn't tell him she was up on the roof—again.

"How did you know I was leaving?" he asked, taking a step closer to her, hands in the pockets of his leathers.

Gwyn smiled coyly. "I have my sources, Shadowsinger."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I'm sure you do, Berdara." He'd drawn his lower lip between his teeth, noting how her eyes caught the motion. "You sure you're not the Spymaster here? He'd tilted his chin downward. Because I would be all right with retirement."

She snorted. "You don't need me upstaging you. Besides, retirement for you would be what? Sharpening Truth-Teller until it's no more than a toothpick? A near eternity of everlasting brooding?"