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In the months since that horrible fact had been revealed, Amren had sought a way to undo it, to no avail. Helion had put the scholars at his one thousand libraries on the hunt, too, also to no avail.
Azriel rarely thought Rhys or Feyre were fools, but to be that reckless, to be that in love—
He’d never known such a feeling. Once, he’d longed for it with his entire being, but now . . . now he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted it.
“What do we do with the Trove in the meantime?” Nesta asked, breaking the quiet with a question no one really wanted to ask. She turned toward the group at last.
It wasn’t the same face that Az had seen emerging from the Blood Rite this past spring. This one was hollower—bleaker. As if, in recent weeks, she’d stumbled back toward who she’d been a year ago, a female who saw little joy to be found. Whose blue-gray eyes lacked their usual intensity.
Az couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad for her. Or even for Cassian, who looked at her with such pain and anger. Nesta had made her choices. She could live with the consequences.
“The Trove remains in its current hiding place with me,” Rhys said firmly, and Feyre nodded. “Our enemies and Koschei could very well be hoping that we’ll panic and move the Trove. They are likely watching our every move out of the expectation that we do so, in order to catch us in the process.”
Az glanced toward his shadows by the door. They’d reported nothing—nor had any of his flesh-and-blood spies, but that didn’t mean their enemies didn’t have their own methods of surveillance. He certainly knew Montesere had a similarly unearthly arsenal of watchers to deploy around the world.
Amren said firmly to Rhys and Feyre, “You should go to Fomoria.”
Even Az jerked in surprise. The large territory in the northeast of the continent had ignored all overtures at contact since even before the Hybern War. From both them and their enemies, thankfully.
Feyre shook her head. “Without proof of the three territories working with Koschei, I doubt they’d even grant us an audience. Plus, we’ve already tried to contact them—thrice now.”
“Try again,” Amren said simply. “They’re the only territory that might make Rask think twice, not to mention Montesere and Vallahan. If Rask backs down, the other two will as well.”
“Short of showing up on their doorstep and banging on the gates,” Feyre said a shade testily, “there’s no way they answer our letters or invitations to meet.”
“So show up on their doorstep,” Amren pushed. “Bang on the gates until they open.”
Feyre crossed her arms. “That would be too aggressive, even for us. It might annoy them enough that they run right to Rask.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Mor chimed in, “they’re not as vindictive as that, but they can be quick to anger.”
“Then do what you’re good at,” Amren ordered Rhys. “Charm them; trick them.”
Feyre said sharply, “You told us moments ago that we don’t have time, but that would take a great deal of time. With no guarantee of success.” Amren opened her mouth to reply, but before she could make a sound, Feyre kept speaking. “We’re better off finding allies within Prythian than dashing across the world to woo people who have shown us every time we’ve attempted contact that they don’t want to be bothered.”
“You will need far more than Prythian to thwart our enemies’ armies,” Amren replied, eyes flashing. “You will need allies on the continent. And Fomoria is your best bet. You should go—leave right after Nyx’s Naming Day, if you can.”
Feyre was having none of it. “We don’t even know the full scope of their forces and power—we could waste all that precious time for nothing.”
Amren bristled, and Az braced himself. “I’m not inventing the urgency of this—”
Feyre cut her off, and Az winced as she said, “What we do know is what our allies in Prythian can offer. Tarquin and the Summer Court are a good start. Getting him to ally with us again would send a strong message to the other courts here, as well as to our enemies.”
“Tarquin should be the backup, not the first option,” Amren said. “This threat is graver than you can imagine—drastic steps must be taken.”
The tension in the room once again became almost palpable. Even Rhys shifted a bit uncomfortably. Feyre’s blue-gray eyes narrowed. “I can imagine quite a bit regarding how grave it is, thank you.”
“I don’t think you can,” Amren retorted. “Or else you’d be at Fomoria’s door, begging on your knees for help.”
Feyre shot back, “What did you advise all of them”—a nod to the others—“to do when Amarantha first appeared on these shores?”
“What are you getting at?” Amren demanded, voice dangerously low.
Only Feyre and Rhys, Az knew, could go head-to-head with Amren and walk away alive. But this conversation was edging into dangerous territory.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Feyre said tersely. “What was your advice regarding Amarantha when she came to Prythian? And how did it work out for all of you?”
Az’s shadows whispered, Rhys is desperately trying to speak to his mate mind to mind, to call her off—
