A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 37: The Cell

Chapter 37: The Cell

Rhys had to consciously remind himself to unfurl his fists as his footsteps thundered off the stone walls deep within the mountain below the House of Wind. The walls were dark, but not dark enough to hide the tendrils of power that leaked from him, lashing like whips through the long corridor lit only by the occasional torch that shied as he passed it. He didn't know whether it was what he had just come from, or what he was going to that fed his magic.

When Mor had informed him what had happened—where they had taken his mate—it had been an effort not to snap at her. He'd seen the smoke as he'd flown to the mountain from the townhouse, the charred and collapsed roof and crumbled stone walls. Amren barely said two words after Mor's recount of the flames, the power that had struck that villa, before vanishing to wherever she found her sources of research. That might be a little further below him now in the library, or somehow obtaining a book from the great library in the Day Court. Frankly, he didn't want to know.

Rhys had flown off before he thought to bring Mor with him, leaving her in the townhouse. Something he was glad for after the fact. They'd taken his mate to one of the old cells his ancestors used before control of the prison island came under the wardenship of the Night Court.

Veering a corner, he caught sight of light bleeding from one of those cells nearest to the corridor he'd come down. The iron bars, infused with magic he'd never bothered to learn about, were pushed wide open. A small relief.

Cassian had taken perch on a chair he must have dragged in from somewhere else, his head tipped back against the wall. His eyes were bruised with tire but widened from the slits they'd been resting in when he saw Rhys enter.

Galadriel lay on the cot, the only other piece of furniture inside the cell, her back facing him. That at least, had been adorned with some comforts. A pillow from one of the bedrooms in the House, fresh sheets and a thick, ruffled blanket that she lay atop. She wore a short, pale pink nightslip that had ridden up far enough that jealousy twanged through him knowing that Cassian had probably taken note of it too.

"It wasn't my idea," was the first thing Cassian quietly said, hands up in surrender. "But technically Mor outranks me when you're not here and she thought this was best." Rhys had spent the flight over telling himself that—that the stone walls, impenetrable to flame, was a reasonable solution. Cassian's wings rustled. "Mor tell you everything?"

"She did." Rhys knelt by the cot but halted his advances to wake her. Where Cassian looked tired, Galadriel appeared completely drained, pallid even through her burnt, sunken cheeks. Not even a twitch when the chair groaned under Cassian's shifting weight.

"I've barely gotten a word out of her," Cassian said, offering Rhys a break from his indecision. "What happened at Hewn City?" If Cassian could see Rhysand's face, he might have asked it with a little more caution. Might not have asked it at all.

The simple answer was, "I dealt with it." Dealt with it he had. If Cassian learned what that meant through other means, Rhys didn't care, but he had no desire to relive it again. The screams... He shook his head.

Azriel elected to remain on guard—the exact words he told Rhys. Rhysand understood enough to know that meant Azriel would be in the field, likely penetrating through the Autumn Court's wards right now, snooping around Beron to know if their show in the throne room had worked.

"Might be best to let her sleep. We can move her up to the House." Cassian, it seemed, was just as eager to escape the stone cell as Rhysand was intent on them all leaving it.

He shook his head again. "She's a light sleeper. She'll wake if I move her anyway." The mating bond didn't let him see anything that he normally couldn't without venturing into her mind, but he'd often felt the echo of her heartbeat, like someone tapping water across a lake, the ripples knocking against him. He always rose earlier than her, and if the townhouse was quiet enough, he could often pinpoint the moment she woke, usually a little after sunrise, when the light finally threaded through her drapes.