Chapter Text
Rhys tapped his fingers idly on his colossal desk as he thought. He couldn’t believe he was actually entertaining this idea. From the look on Azriel’s face, Rhys could tell that Az felt the same way. His jaw was tight and his eyes cold as he stood by the window, arms crossed in disapproval across his chest. He wasn’t looking at Rhys, but rather out at Elain’s garden.
“It took days last time for everyone to agree on a location,” Rhys said, tracing the edge of his desk with a finger. “I have no reason to believe that the choice of venue won’t be just as contentious this time around.”
It wasn’t a question. Rhys was thinking out loud, and Lucien took it as the invitation he needed to keep talking.
“There are few places in Prythian that could be considered neutral, I agree,” Lucien offered. “But my thought on that matter was actually . . . to invite them here.”
Rhys paused, revealing nothing on his face.
“You would have me invite five high lords to Velaris?” Rhys drawled, not unkindly. He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and reached for an object on his desk. He began to move the thing, small and slim, back and forth between his fingers. A paintbrush, Lucien saw. It was an old, dainty paintbrush.
Half of Rhys’ face was pulled up into a small smile. Again, what he said wasn’t a question, but an invitation.
“Six.” Lucien clarified politely. Rhys’ eyes flickered to Lucien’s face, no doubt attempting to read it. “Six high lords. Including Tamlin.”
Across the room, Cassian snorted in his armchair. “That’s likely,” he muttered. Rhys shot him a reproachful look. Cassian just rolled his eyes and sent his voice booming into Rhys’ mind. Feyre’s not here, you know. We can speak openly about the bastard. Rhys just pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.
“I doubt he’ll want to come,” Rhys said simply to Lucien, running his finger along the brush’s soft tip. It wasn’t a dismissal exactly, but it wasn’t said in a way that made it seem like the topic was up for debate, either. Lucien ignored the tone and pushed his luck.
“It’s not about want. It’s about need.”
Rhys’ face sobered. “I’m listening.”
“Relations with all courts are strained,” Lucien began. Rhys just twirled the paintbrush in his hands, the very image of patience.
“The Day and Winter courts are our—your—closest allies. Helion and Kallias even consider most members of this court their friends.”
Something stirred in Rhys at Lucien’s words. It was an old, abandoned feeling, something that Rhys had thought long past impossible after the events Under the Mountain.
Lucien went on.
“I’m not saying we need to be best friends with each court. Certainly, that will not happen with Beron.” Lucien opened his mouth to continue, but Cassian spoke first.
“Then what are you saying?” The question was clipped, hard. Cassian’s eyes were narrowed at him. Lucien gave him an annoyed glance in response, but kept his body facing forward, towards Rhys.
“I’m saying that my father is threatened by this. By you and the mending of relations between two courts with large armies. I’m talking about how the camaraderie between the Night, Day, and Winter Courts intimidates him, and I’m saying that he’s looking for similar company, but in the wrong places.”
“Koschei.” Rhys stated.
“Yes.” Silence filled the room. Lucien felt Azriel’s shadows swirl.
Rhys took a deep breath. “So what, precisely, is your suggestion?”
“Continue to foster relationships with the other courts. Reestablish trade and travel. Revive the lost traditions and shared holidays that died when Amarantha came to power. Host parties and invite the members of other courts . . . .” Lucien trailed off, noticing how intently Rhys was looking at him. He swallowed, then went on.
“I know my father. And I know what Vassa reports on Koschei’s motivations. Beron and Koschei are the same type of breed. They’re only empowered by the seven courts remaining at arm’s length with each other.” Lucien paused, looking squarely at Cassian. “But, if Beron feels that the more advantageous alliance lies in Prythian, that is where he will ally his court.”
Lucien knew that this initial resistance came down to centuries of bad blood and nothing more. But, he also knew that Cassian understood what he was saying; that Cassian, Rhys’ greatest general of war, would appreciate the significance of this politicking.
“Let them be allies, then,” Azriel said simply. He still hadn’t moved from his watch at the window. “We will destroy them as we did Hybern.”
“Every soldier counts, Az,” Rhys said quietly, looking down at the brush in his hands. “We don’t know enough about Koschei and his capabilities yet. Every soldier, every possible ally we can collect, will count.”
Azriel remained silent, returning to his quiet vigil over Elain’s garden. Rhys knew the real reason behind his temperament. He and Az still hadn’t cleared the air since their strained conversation in this very study all those months ago—when Rhys had pulled rank and forbidden Azriel from pursuing Elain.
Azriel didn’t treat Rhys differently despite that hiccup in the Illyrians’ friendship. If anything, he directed his cold rage at Lucien—albeit, undeservedly. For the most part, Rhys thought. He still wasn’t quite past Lucien’s failures at the Spring Court with respect to Feyre. He wasn’t sure he ever would be. Not completely.
Rhys took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. He put the paintbrush on the desk carefully—almost reverently.
“I don’t hate the idea,” Rhys began, and Cassian groaned.
“Cauldron boil me, Rhys. You two can’t be serious. Dinner parties? Festivals? What will all of that achieve?” Cassian asked both of them now, incredulous.
Rhys paused for a moment before turning his chair slowly to look at the massive portrait of Feyre that hung on the wall behind him. He looked up at her eyes as if she were there in the room—as if her face held the answer.
“It would be a step away from where we’ve been for the past fifty years. Isolated and broken apart. It would be an attempt to move forward; to rebuild. To grow. Perhaps through smaller family alliances, or marriages, or simply in appreciation for Velaris’ arts. And it would be an opportunity to foster better relations with the other courts, as Lucien said.”
“But bringing them here to meet?” Cassian barked.
“Velaris is not a secret anymore. By inviting them to this city, you show your good intentions, and your hospitality,” Lucien offered. He looked pointedly at Rhys. “And you give them more reason to doubt that reputation you’ve done such a good job of building over the last fifty years.”
Rhys smiled. “Maybe I miss playing the villain.”
But Lucien didn’t say anything, and Rhys sighed. “When Feyre is finished at the studio, I’ll talk to her about it.”
Cassian huffed out a breath and sat back in his chair. Azriel’s shadows split, half of them scurrying out the door into some unknown reach of the world. Lucien took this as his cue to leave. He stood.
“Let me know if I can help with . . . talking to him about it.” They all knew who he meant. Rhys simply nodded once in a small gesture of appreciation.
Lucien left the room, closing the study door softly behind him. Cassian glared after him, before turning his eyes to Rhys. “I can’t wait to tell Nesta about this brilliant idea. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”
Rhys turned his chair and leaned backwards, placing his legs up on the desk, ankles crossed in a picture of leisure as he tucked his hands behind his head.
“So I should balance my political plans with your need to gossip?” Rhys said as his eyebrows raised.
Cassian just continued to glare. “You should balance it with the number of females you’re about to royally piss off, the least threatening of which will be Nesta.”
Rhys took in a breath and leaned further back, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Cassian was talking about Mor, of course. How completely, utterly not happy she will be about inviting people like Beron, Eris, and Tamlin to Velaris. Tamlin . . . Rhys thought. And Feyre will not be happy about Tamlin.
Cassian gave Rhys a slow, wicked smile, as if he knew exactly what Rhys had been thinking. “I’ll do you a favor and be the one to tell Nesta. Just make sure I’m in the room when you tell Mor,” he said, pushing off of the armchair and rising to his feet. “I can’t wait to see her lay into you for this.”
--
Rhys strode down the long hall, making his way towards Nyx’s nursery.
Feyre had come home just a few moments ago, sweeping towards the study to look for Rhys and Nyx. She’d barely made it to the doorway of the room before Nyx’s wail pierced the air. She’d then spun and fled up the stairs before she and Rhys had even seen each other.
Hands in his pockets, Rhys thought about Lucien's words. It was true that Velaris wasn’t a secret any longer, but they’d never openly invited all of Prythian to its gates, either. It would be a change indeed to suggest that this beloved city might be a welcome place for other High Lords to visit. The question was whether this would ultimately be a good move or a very, very bad one.
Rhys got to the nursery doors and paused, going still as stone. Feyre was singing a lullaby, something he’d heard her sing to Nyx before. He wondered sometimes if it was something left over from her childhood, and if it was, if someone had sung it as sweetly and with as much love as she now sang to Nyx. Unwilling to disturb the moment, Rhys leaned with his back against the wall, listening. He could feel the tension in his body start to ease, a peaceful, content joy spreading across his chest like the first rays of the sun.
He slid down to sit on the floor and leaned his head against the wall, shutting his eyes as he listened. It was a beautiful song—something about the moon being envious of humans, so much that it wanted its own baby. It was more beautiful when Feyre sang it. Rhys let his mind wander as the sweet song wrapped around him like a blanket.
Nesta will undoubtedly disapprove. Mor will be positively furious. Feyre will . . . he wasn’t sure what Feyre would do. She’d likely agree with the idea behind all of this, but dislike the thought of Beron and Eris being openly invited into Velaris. And Tamlin. If he even decided to come.
If Feyre decides that this is a good idea, Rhys corrected himself. He wasn’t stupid enough to consider this plan without speaking to Feyre first. Nevermind the fact that it was such a strained subject for her, Feyre was his High Lady. He did not make decisions affecting this court without her.
In the nursery, Feyre’s serenade turned from sweet singing to a soft humming. Nyx must have fallen asleep. Rhys’ heart swelled in his chest at the image of them cuddled together in the rocking chair, Feyre looking down with such love in her eyes at their son. His own eyes burned at the thought of it.
He heard the chair move slightly against the floor as Feyre stood, and the rustle of her clothes as she gently laid Nyx back in his crib. Rhys allowed himself one more moment of this happiness before taking a breath and hauling himself to his feet. Just like that, his anxiety returned. Let’s get this conversation over with, he thought to himself.