A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 50: Illyria

Chapter 50: Illyria

Cassian and Azriel had decided to leave early for Illyria, which was perfectly timed with Galadriel's desire to not see Rhysand. He'd caught on to what she learned as soon as she came home with Mor on her tail, but she didn't let him get a word out of her, only telling him that she was going to Illyria for four days.

They stood now in the foyer entrance of the town house, Rhysand's hand in the pockets of his black trousers, his matching jacket as impeccable as always. He did well to keep his face blank, but she could see enough to know that he didn't want her to go. Cassian and Azriel stood on either side of her, decked out in full Illyrian armour, their steel blades in line with their spines. They'd never looked so vicious as they did now and it took more will than she anticipated needing to not baulk at the sight—at what it meant she'd been going into.

It was strange to see Azriel like this. Physically he looked no different from the times he'd visited her, but the air around them had changed. No longer was he preparing her for something. Now he was preparing himself.

"Devlon's in for a nice surprise," Cassian grunted as he fixed a buckle near his elbow.

"Nobody ever thinks your visits are nice," Azriel commented.

Cassian threw him a look. "Tell that to the faerie who practically threw herself at me last night."

Azriel wrinkled his nose. "No wonder you reek." Cassian did in fact have a peculiar scent clinging to him ever since he came home with Mor late last night, but it didn't particularly remind her of sex. No, it was more bitter—like citrus. Alcohol mixed with something else. Something that would warn people that didn't know him off.

It occurred to her that Azriel had picked up on that too and was prodding to see what Cassian said of it, but the general shrugged him off. Even Rhys didn't say anything to feed the taunt and pry, watching with tight lips.

Cassian regarded Azriel for a moment more before those hazel eyes slid onto her, heavy with judgement. "Ready?"

No, she certainly was not ready. "I am."

He heard the crack in her voice, or perhaps he just knew her too well, because he looked at her as though he knew every thought racing around her mind, that the fingers she had stuffed deep in the coat of her thick coat were fidgeting restlessly. But as soon as he took that step toward her, a hand of comfort raising, Galadriel turned to Rhys. "You're winnowing us?"

Rhysand nodded slowly. "I am."

With a whirr of colour, the town house around them disappeared, replaced by a world of white and brown and grey. The sky overhead, pleated with dull clouds, masked the sun. What had been a beautiful scene in Velaris—the snow blanketing sills and benches, draped on the branches of trees—was utterly cold here. In every direction but one, all she could see was thick pine and the grey rock of a mountainside. Even the green, still poking from beneath the white heaps, seemed bleached of colour.

In the one direction that was not bland, was north. Cassian had told her many of the Illyrian camps were nomadic, wandering the mountains and plains throughout the year. But this one—Windhaven—was clearly not one of them with a few primitive but sturdy and permanent fixtures set out like a small village around the rest of the tents. Fire pits with smoke curling from them were scattered around, bodies with great wings standing near to leech the warmth. All of the males, taller and broader, wore armour and weapons.

Suddenly, what Rhysand had once told her hit her again at full force. Illyrians were first and foremost a warrior race. Their instincts were made for slaughtering and surviving. And she was walking right into their den, uninvited and unwanted.