Court of Shadows (Indefinite Hiatus)

PART 19: FEYRE

When the group arrived back from the wall three days later, Lucien was irate. Feyre visited him in his rooms later that night, and he ranted about the fruitlessness of their trip. Not only had Lucien been unable to find anything resembling the powder she suspected the Hyberns were using to poison them, but at one of their camps, Dagdan and Brannagh had slaughtered three innocents. Three Children of the Blessed who had approached the wall.

Feyre's blood boiled as Lucien told her how he has been unable to deter the bloodthirsty royals, and that they spent the rest of the journey relishing their kills. Feyre swore to herself that the Commanders would have a particularly painful death. If and when the opportunity presented itself.

Lucien's chambers grew even more solemn as Feyre announced that her attempts had been no more successful. Against her own expectations, Feyre had found an opening to search Dagdan and Brannagh's rooms; however, her search had revealed nothing.

The shadows seemed to darken across his room, as they both slipped into deep thought. Eventually, Feyre lifted her skirts and left, a mutual agreement to keep their eyes and ears open hovering in the air. Her mind raced as she took a short detour on the way to her rooms, the hollow click of her steps mirroring her thoughts.

Feyre only had a day or two before the Queen's search extended to the corridor which contained her rooms, and neither she nor Lucien had been able to get ahold of the Hyberns' poison. She had tried to stop herself from including the substance in her plans-- it was too unreliable of a variable-- but she couldn't help herself. Now all of her escape strategies that had any level of competence hinged on the use of a substance that can weaken magical abilities.

Feyre paused in the middle of the hallway and ran her hands over her face, mentally correcting herself. Everything-- Feyre's ability to get Aelin out of the Spring Court, and the wyrdkey out of Maeve's reach-- Feyre's fate in the Spring Court entirely-- everything hinged on the discovery of this poison.

As Feyre started back toward her own rooms, she began to make a separate set of mental plans. Plans for the very likely possibility that she had to abandon her spying and return to the Night Court with the stone and the very little intel she has managed the gather. She longed to contact Rhysand through the bond, but the Queen's presence still had her too concerned to risk it. She figured that if it came down to it, she would be better off not giving anyone even the slightest idea that she was leaving.

Feyre reached down inside of herself, feeling for her long-suppressed powers. The existence of the poison hung over her head in more ways than one. Constantly dampening her magic in front of the Queen's soldiers meant that Feyre had no inclination of weather or not her powers were intact. She didn't feel any different, but neither did Lucien, and she knew for a fact that he must have consumed a fair amount in the wine on the night she discovered the poison's use.

Suddenly, Feyre was outside her rooms, having spent the night-time walk lost in thought. She slipped inside and went straight to the bathtub, untying her dress as she went.

Feyre no longer bothered to look around for Alis. A couple weeks into her arrival, the wooded faery had asked Feyre for a warning before she took whatever retribution she desired from the Spring Court. Alis had always been receptive-- observant and caring enough to see when Feyre was deteriorating, and Feyre often found herself relying on her warm-hearted nature for a reprieve from the rest of the court. Four days ago, Feyre had heavily implied that Alis leave very soon. The next day, the faery was gone.

Feyre's bath was short-lived, it's only purpose for cleaning off dirt and sweat that wasn't really there. Feyre often thought that her bathing habits alone were symbolic of how much she had changed from her human self, who had spent days--sometimes weeks-- without going through the hassle of baths.

She stalked out of the tile room, water dripping down her back in small rivulets. She stepped over the skirts of the dress she had left on the floor and was making her way to the armoire, when something caught her eye. She turned and crossed the room to the chaise that sat in the corner.

Laying in the same spot the dark male she'd been forced to paint had been lounging, was a small drawstring bag and a folded card of paper. Feyre switched her towel to her other hand, and delicately lifted the card.

Written in black, elegant script, the card simply read: I'll be calling in my question soon.

The message needed no signature.

Feyre set the card back onto the chair and lifted the small velvet bag. She held her breath as she slowly pulled on the silk strings and dipped a finger into its contents.

Feyre couldn't help the smile that spread across her face as she lifted her finger and saw that is was covered in a remarkably fine, almost translucently white powder.