The mass of cloudy gray watercolors faded, revealing a stone oval-shaped structure. It looked like a theater of some kind, except the walls were impossibly high and there was no ceiling, leaving it exposed to the elements. But then the image blurred and another took its place—miles of cold iron and lumbering giants causing the ground to quake and the mountains to tremble. Once more, the colors bled away, this time to display the dungeon of the Spring Court. Dozens of cages were filled with fae, stretching their arms through the thin bars, all of them moaning and wailing, their eyes glazed with bloodlust. They looked fiendish. Drugged.
Again the grays of the mural roiled and Tiernan swore every hair on his body stood on end, for now he stared at a nightmare come to life.
It was the Sluagh. The damned ones.
Thousands of them.
All at Parisa’s disposal.
“Oh, fuck,” Rowan muttered as the mural returned to its distorted swirls of gray.
Sun and sky, it was worse than Tiernan ever thought possible. If they weren’t prepared, it wouldn’t be a war. It would be a massacre.
Rowan slammed his book shut, jarring Tiernan from his thoughts. “Perhaps you better call that meeting with the other Courts sooner rather than later.”
Tiernan winced. “I promised Maeve a day with her father, without talks of war. She deserves that much.”
Across from him, Rowan sat back. “Very well. One more day of avoiding the inevitable won’t hurt…much.”
Tiernan told himself it would be fine. It was just as Rowan said, one more day. Maeve needed to see Dorian, she needed that time to establish a connection with her father since she’d been taken away so quickly after their first meeting. It was the least he could do for her, given there might never be another chance.
He adjusted his sleeves, rolling them up, then glamoured a piece of parchment and pen. He would have to note everything the mural revealed to make sure everyone knew exactly what was coming. To ensure they understood that this impending war might indeed be the end.
Rowan cleared his throat, and Tiernan glanced up.
“That’s new.” He was staring at Tiernan’s wrist, where Maeve’s Strand glimmered against his skin like ribbons of rose gold silk.
“Yes.” Tiernan swallowed. It wouldn’t come to that. He would do whatever necessary to make sure itnevercame to that.
Rowan studied him, his face impassive. Unreadable. “A bargain or a vow?”
“A vow.”
“What kind?” There was an edge in Rowan’s voice now, and Tiernan was growing weary of his constant questions.
He stood, refusing to get into another fight. Because this time, Lir wasn’t here to stop either of them from killing each other. “The kind that binds me to kill someone we both love…in the event that Faeven falls.”
Rowan paled, but offered a weak smile. “Sounds like something she would do.”
“Indeed.”
Tiernan turned to go when Lir strode into the library.
He drew himself up, glancing warily between the two of them, a scowl forming across his brow. Then he met Tiernan’s gaze, nodding once in greeting. “My lord, we’ve got company.”
Chapter Eight
Maeve stirred from her sleep, stretching out her muscles. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at a violet-hued sky. The stars were just beginning to peek out from behind wisps of indigo clouds as dusk settled across the glass domed ceiling.
She was no longer in the Vista, but back in Tiernan’s room. Glancing down, she realized she was still in her robe from earlier. He must havefadedthem back to the palace after she fell asleep. Granted, she hadn’t planned on taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon, but maybe her body was still recovering from her exchange with the memory keeper.
Yawning once, Maeve climbed out of bed, her gaze latching onto the adjoining door. The one that led to her bedroom. She had yet to step foot inside it since her return from the Ether. She padded across the hardwood floor, her hand hovering just above the handle to the door. There was no reason to be nervous or anxious, it was only a bedroom, but for some reason, she couldn’t quite shake off the hesitancy rooting her in place.
Ridiculous.
Maeve pushed the door open and was met with the cool rush of familiarity.
This was where she stayed when she first arrived in Faeven, the room Tiernan had arranged just for her. On the far wall was the weapon rack Lir had constructed for her. The sword she’d crafted for Queen Marella was still there, its pearlescent blade shimmering like the sea when the waves were kissed by moonlight. Her sword of sunlight was there as well, glowing. Pulsing with power. A pile of books was stacked on her nightstand and her mother’s wardrobe—a gift from Shay—was partially open, as though she’d been searching for something the last time she was in this room.
