A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 66

The world was anguish and flame. A pound, pound, pound of a fierce hammer on the anvil of her skull. Only throbbing all over, deep within. Every breath, each swallow ended in shooting pain, her throat charred to ash.

Crunching leaves and hissed swears edged closer. Baleful canine whines and a rugged, dewy nose nuzzled her ear and her cheek. As she was hoisted up by strong limbs, Gwyn's entire body jerked and jolted.

"Stop squirming," a male snarled into her ear.

Tremors wracked her with each jostling, hurried step, awareness caught in an ebb and flow of a painful tide. Doors opening and closing. Softness against her back, her head. More hinges and creaks. A gentle, vaguely lilting feminine voice soon joined the carping man.

"...in the kitchen...ice water, pails of it...and clean rags...tonic from the dresser in my chamber. And be quick about it," the female ordered in a subdued tone.

"...perhaps placing her in the bath...?"

"...the copper will warm...now make haste..."

Gwyn could make out the opening and shutting of a door, repeated. Another period of silence before shocking cold slapped her blazing face, her arms as if she'd fallen through cracks in an iced-over river. So cold even her teeth chattered.

"Shh," the female allayed as fingers gently carded through Gwyn's untied hair. "...she had powers..?" Muffled remarks that Gwyn could not form. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I've been busy..." Shuffling and then abruptly ice and sweet relief covered Gwyn's legs and torso. She shivered even as steam hissed from her skin.

"...Mala's powers bound but it seems not..."

"...judge my choices, son. Choices you left to me," the female shot back with conviction. "She had her entire world ripped...take everything from her."

The male voice loosed a quiet curse followed by a quieter apology.

Son? Was—was the Lady of Autumn here? Tending to her? Despite her efforts, Gwyn was unable to open her eyes to find out.

She groaned, and Jora quickly replaced the rag upon her brow with a comforting hand. Pleasant glacial chills sank into her once more. Gwyn sighed gratefully.

"Shh, rest, Cat—"

"Gwyn," Eris cut in. "Her real name is Gwyn."

The spy in her was cringing at the revelation, and damned Eris for speaking it. For exposing her. But there was something about the way the Lady repeated the name back, in equal parts shock and marvel, that kept Gwyn's pulse steady and lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

𝄋

"So, Eris. That rogue Illyrian scout sent word. I'm assuming this is one of the few bats who can read or write, I presume?" Paper crinkled. The sound and the word Illyrian slowly floated Gwyn to the surface. "He says the shadowsinger rarely deigns to visit Windhaven, or anywhere in Illyria. But your source confirms no one in their Court has seen Azriel in any capacity in weeks. The last time in public was in Hewn City escorting Rhysand."

Tap. Tap. Tap. "So there's truth to Rhysand's assumption. That means father probably still has him."

"Or his ashes."

"For Cauldron's fucking sake, use your head. Beron has wanted all of Rhysand's secrets for centuries. He gains nothing by killing the shadowsinger outright."

"True. But you know as well as I do, brother. Father craves vengeance more than clout. My own men, far better trained than Father's, rarely survive long enough to gain intel near the Night Court. Their Spymaster is brutal on most days, lethal on his best. How many spies has Father lost over the years to those scarred hands of death, hmm?"