Chapter Text
r h y s a n d
Rhysand waited patiently in his office in the House of Wind for the next witness to arrive.
He’d been hearing testimonies from the priestesses of Sangravah all day.
Well, a few of them. Only the ones who had volunteered to relive the nightmares that had transpired, all in exchange for the chance they may get a morsel of justice.
The heavy oak door opened, and Clotho came striding into the warmly lit office, another unfamiliar acolyte behind her. With a gnarled hand, she gestured to the high-backed sitting chair in front of Rhysand’s mahogany desk.
The acolyte gave Clotho a hollow smile, nodding in confirmation that she could leave her alone with the High Lord.
With a bow of her head, Clotho retreated, the door clicking shut behind her.
Rhys took a moment to perceive the female before him. She had pin straight coppery hair, tucked behind her pointed ears. Her face was smattered with caramel colored freckles that contrasted starkly against her sallow complexion.
No doubt Sangravah had taken its toll on her.
She gave Rhys that same empty smile she’d given Clotho. The expression did not meet her large, teal eyes, the skin beneath them bearing bruise-like smudges. He recognized the expression. He’d worn it plenty of times after he’d returned from Under the Mountain. It was the smile he donned when he could feel the phantom scratch of Amarantha’s nails, the echo of her gluttonous moans.
Rhys returned the priestess’s polite smile, shoving his ghosts to the back of his mind. He leaned his elbows on his desk, trying to appear at ease. “Let’s get introductions out of the way. My name is Rhysand, I am High Lord of the Night Court.”
“Acolyte Gwyneth Berdara, formerly of the Temple of Sangravah,” she replied primly although her voice was slightly hoarse.
Rhys arched a brow attempting to keep things conversational. “Gwyneth Berdara? You’re one of the priestesses who have accepted postage at The House of Wind.”
He’d given all the acolytes from Sangravah two options upon their relocating. A post: serving in the House of Wind with a private room in the library dormitories, including access to regular counseling sessions; or passage: an escort to their family or friends after assessment by healers.
The choice was theirs.
Most of this particular lot accepted passage, with only ten requesting a post.
One of those ten, being Gwyneth Berdara.
“I look forward to beginning my service,” Gwyneth said with a slight bow of her head. There was a faint glimmer in her eyes, one that hadn’t been there before. “If there has been one bit of hope in the past week, it’s that I may do some good in the High Lord’s name.”
The way she spoke wasn’t as though she wished to appease him, but not insincere. It was almost admiring, yet bashful. Like speaking to your greatest hero, or happening upon your most respected artist. He would gladly receive her praise if it alleviated the weight of the ghosts bearing down on her.
As though sensing his assessment, Gwyn’s cheeks pinkened. “I’m just very familiar with your policies in Velaris and the work you’ve done for the females of Illyria. Not to mention the orphans of the Capital cities.”
Rhys smiled, heat blooming in his own cheeks at the enthusiasm in her reply. “I wasn’t aware anyone was monitoring my policies.”
“I have been,” Gwyn said. A beat passed, then, “I specialized in the care of the orphans at Sangravah. And my twin and I are— were nymphs.”
He heard the unspoken words in the latter-half of the sentence.
‘I’m a halfbreed too.’
He shrugged his shoulders. “Genetic status is irrelevant in the Velaris—“
“Thanks to you,” Gwyneth finished, then ducked her head, seemingly embarrassed. “My lord.”
Right, well, perhaps she’d be comfortable enough to discuss her thoughts on his policies with him in a few years. Once she’d acclimated. If she had positive opinions, she’d certainly have negative ones, and it had been a long time since someone who didn’t know Rhys intimately had critiqued him.
“Well, I appreciate you volunteering for both the library and this interview, Priestess,” Rhysand said. “May I explain how you will be giving your testimony?”
Gwyneth bobbed her head, that broken smile resurfacing on her lips.
Rhysand explained how he intended to utilize his daemati magic to view the events of her memories from the attack on Sangravah. He’d then use the information he found to look for any familiar faces or weak points in their enemy’s defenses.
“If the use of my gift gives you pause, I’ll happily take a verbal account,” Rhys finished.
Gwyneth’s mouth was pressed in a flat line, all color drained from her face. “Which is more helpful?”
Rhys felt his stomach sink. What she had lived through had to be too traumatic to recount verbally, especially with so little time to process whatever had occurred.
At least using his daemati magic, Rhysand would be sifting through her mind alone, with her no wiser as to the contents he was making note of.
“Strictly speaking, mental accounts are more reliable and while most invasive, require you to remember less details. Those who choose verbal typically take issue with the intimate nature of my gifts. It’s a matter of comfortability.”
Gwyneth Berdara nodded, chewing her lower lip, then finally said, “I’d rather you get as much detail as possible to apprehend the responsible parties. I trust you to use your abilities honorably.”
Rhys dipped his head. “While your trust is not misplaced, Priestess, I appreciate it all the same. If you could just–”
“On one condition, please, my lord.”
His brows rose at the distressed creases lining her forehead, indicating it had taken great courage for her to speak up. He nodded for her to continue.
“I would ask,” Gwyneth began, “that whatever you see does not alter the way you have regarded me since I entered this office. I’ve… I’ve had enough pity.”
Rhys felt a frown tug at the corners of his lips. He knew all about pity. To his knowledge, many priestesses and children had seen immeasurable horrors during the attacks. Morrigan and Azriel had plenty of accounts they’d relayed with somber eyes while nursing their respective glasses of alcohol.
“On my word as High Lord of the Night Court, you will have no pity from me, Gwyneth Berdara.”
On my word as someone who has had his fill of pity as well…
Gwyneth’s answering smile was feeble and forced, but true. “Then we may proceed. Tell me what is needed of me.”
Rhys instructed the priestess to relax as best she could and close her eyes. She may feel a slight probing within her skull, and if at any point she did not wish to continue, she need only say so. Verbally or mentally, he would pick up on her request and withdraw immediately.
She had no questions, only took a steeling breath and leaned back in her seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her eyes slid shut, lips pressed in a tight line once more. “I’m ready,” she said softly.
Rhysand concentrated on her, carefully setting aside his sympathies. Only when her shoulders relaxed did he close his own eyes, and dive in.
“We can get the children out through the servant’s exit,” Gwyneth said in a quiet but hurried voice.
She walked down a shadowed corridor, at her side, a female with pale skin as flawless as the moon, her hair long and inky black. Her fraternal twin. “Do you think you can get them there quietly? The soldiers are everywhere, Gwyn. They’ve already claimed the chapel.”
“We can make it one of my games,” Gwyn replied. “The younglings will believe it, and the ones old enough to understand will help.”
“You really think that will work?”
“I know it will,” she said resolutely. “Listen, if it were a matter of texts or tomes, I’d defer to you. But you know I’m best with the children. Trust me, Catrin.”
“Fair enough,” Catrin replied.
Rhysand picked up the pace through the memory, following the two priestesses through the halls of the temple. The sound of soldiers was growing louder but the twins maintained their composure until they reached a set of dormitories on the other side of the grounds. Rhysand dialed back into the scene stored in the recesses of Gwyneth’s mind.
“What kind of game?” asked Byron, rubbing his sleepy eyes with chubby fists.
Around him, the other children blearily echoed the question. Gwyn could feel Catrin tense beside her.
A loud crash sounded from the other side of the courtyard. The soldiers were closing in.
Putting on her best expression of mischief, Gwyn started down the aisle of cots, carefully maneuvering around the children as she made her way to the window at the very end. “Like hide and seek,” she began. “Do you hear those noises? We have to stay hidden from who is making them. So you’ll need to be very quiet and follow me.”
The children murmured to each other and Gwyn held her breath. Sure enough, some of the older ones caught on, looking from Catrin to Gwyn urgently. She did her best to silently convey what was at stake with only a glance, and they seemed to understand.
Catrin, Gwyneth, and three of the older children began to usher the younglings towards the window. One by one, they all slipped out into the garden.
Gwyn’s heart beat in a frantic rhythm as she helped each child down and instructed them to head for the kitchens, just down the walkway of rose bushes. She couldn’t see her twin. She knew she was in the rear, hurrying the children along but she was much too far for comfort. Much too close to the ever approaching danger.
Rhysand withdrew briefly, his eyes snapping open and focusing on Gwyn who sat still as stone, her own eyes closed.
He knew exactly who this priestess was. She was the one that Mor had told him about. The one whose sister had sacrificed herself so that the children of the temple could get to safety. The one whose sister had been decapitated.
Rhysand’s stomach lurched at the memory lurking in the back of his mind. The one of his own sister, cut down in cold blood. He suppressed the horrific images, setting again to the task at hand.
Azriel had arrived at Sangravah after the sister’s death, but in time to find Hybern’s men in the process of assaulting Gwyn. He’d cut them all down where they stood, not leaving a soul for interrogation, then wrapped the priestess in his cloak. Afterwards, he’d handed Gwyn off to Mor who had gotten her to safety. The priestess had been in a state of shock reportedly.
Focusing once more, Rhysand slipped back into her waiting mind, sifting through what he already knew and trying to avoid the memory draped in a black shroud of sorrow and fear. It was no doubt the memory of her sister’s death. Skirting around it Rhysand could hear a blood-curdling plea followed by a sickeningly fleshy smack.
Instead, he selected the next memory, careful of where he directed his attention. He would not violate Gwyneth Berdara after all she had been through. Not when he knew how such a violation felt. Instead, he kept his focus pinned on her attackers, particularly the brute who had all but flung her onto the table before undoing his belt. The only time he glanced in Gwyn’s direction was to catch a glimpse of the two soldiers who were pinning her to the table, waiting their turns with leering smiles that made the High Lord nauseous. That sent a familiar bolt of panic down his spine.
For a moment, Rhysand thought he may have to withdraw, his own experiences and ghosts catching up to him. Amarantha’s laugh began to invade his mind, there was a phantom sensation of her blood-crusted nails dragging down his back…
But then a black blade sliced through one of the soldier’s necks, a waterfall of crimson liquid pouring down his front before he slumped to the floor.
A blur of black and the next soldier had the same blade thrust through his chest from behind.
Before the soldier unbuckling his belt could pause to reach for his sword, he froze, Truth-Teller plunging through his eye socket, then his throat.
Rhys immersed himself in the memory, eager to turn over any stones Azriel may have missed…
The body of the commander slumped to the floor, fumbling fingers clutching at his face and throat before he sank into a heap, revealing a male, cloaked in shadow.
Gwyn trembled as he stepped forward, hazel eyes simmering with rage, the siphons adorning his scaled armor gleaming cobalt in the darkness. Was he her hero? Or was he her next attacker?
Before she could form an opinion through the haze of terror and adrenaline, the world around her seemed to slow to a crawl.
A tether anchored in the center of her chest seemed to snap taut between her and the shadow-swathed rescuer.
This male was neither friend nor foe.
This male was her mate.
He sheathed his blood-slick blade, the sound of metal singing bringing Gwyn back to herself. Aware of her exposed body, her robes having been ripped and cut away, she fumbled to cover herself.
The male pulled the black cloak from his shoulders, the fabric slipping over his massive wings like liquid night.
He moved closer to her, and though she knew he only meant to help, Gwyn couldn’t help the whimper that peeled from her lips as he drew near. She skittered back on the table like a frightened foal.
“You’re safe now…” the male said, his voice a rumbling baritone that made her racing heart slow.
She stilled, allowing him to wrap the cloak around her shoulders. The heavy weight of the fabric settled around her as he drew the fabric closed at the front.
My mate… she thought. This is my mate?
Catrin’s body was not yet cold, the slain priestesses not yet given burial rites, and the Mother had seen fit to tell her now that she had a mate? And that it was… this male? This stranger.
Gwyn eyed him speculatively, her heaving breaths beginning to even out, even as her body continued to shake. Even as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Tendrils of shadow coiled around her mate, peering down at her with curiosity as though they had a mind of their own. For a moment, she saw the same expression in her mate’s eyes as he looked down at her, but it was quickly replaced with the assessing glance of an experienced tactician.
Do you know? Gwyn thought at him.
He bowed his head, meeting her eyes and speaking in a soft voice. “You’re safe now. I swear it in the High Lord of the Night Court’s name.”
A distant part of Gwyn who knew of the High Lord of the Night Court and his policies was comforted by this notion, so she bobbed her head in understanding.
My sister is dead…
My home is destroyed…
You are my mate…
My sister is dead…
My home is destroyed…
You are my mate…
Again and again the thoughts echoed as though trying to help her comprehend everything that had taken place in the span of an hour. Just how much her world had altered.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” the male said, his voice easy and calming, a no doubt practiced tone, “and then we’re going to take you somewhere where you can rest.”
A frantic part of her bucked at the idea of being taken away from Sangravah. From her sister.
But her sister was dead. And Sangravah had been invaded. And Gwyn was too numb to argue.
My sister is dead…
My home is destroyed…
This male is my mate…
“Can you tell me where the children are? Their dorms were empty.”
Gwyn’s eyes narrowed instinctively. Catrin’s last command had been to keep the children safe. True enough this male had rescued her, true enough he was her mate, but how did she know he didn’t intend to hurt the children?
Reading her suspicion, the male nodded. “You do not trust me, and for that I don’t blame you.” His expression softened. “I will make you a Night Court bargain that the children will not be harmed in any way if you tell me where they are. Not by myself or any of those in my party at any point. If they are, I’ll be struck dead where I stand.”
Gwyn turned the phrase over, sifting through the words for any loopholes or tricks. Once satisfied, she nodded her ascent.
“Good,” the male said. “I will need your name.”
My sister is dead…
My home is destroyed…
This male does not know he’s my mate…
“Gwyneth Berdara…” she said, her voice still hoarse from screaming.
“Gwyneth Berdara,” the male said, “I swear that no harm will come to the children of Sangravah by the hands of myself or my men at any point. Only when they are safely relocated from the temple shall my vow be complete.”
He held out a hand and Gwyn watched as a whirl inked its way across the back of his knuckles, peeking out from beneath his bracers. She also noticed the mottled skin of his hand in the warm light of the torches mounted on the walls. Had he been burned?
She snaked a hand from beneath the cloak and gripped his fingers tentatively. As though worried about the roughness of his touch, the male withdrew swiftly.
Only then did Gwyn nod towards the hidden panel on the wall to her left. The shadows on his shoulders coiled around his rounded ears as though elaborating on her behalf. He gave Gwyn a grateful nod and crossed…
Rhys withdrew from her mind, knowing full well what happened next.
Azriel uncovered the children’s hiding spot.
Mor winnowed Gwyneth Berdara away.
And his spymaster remained blissfully unaware he had a mate…
For a moment, Rhys could only stare at the priestess in the chair before him, her eyes still shut as she patiently waited for the High Lord to conclude his investigation.
He’d certainly not learned what he had hoped for, but he’d come away from this with something…
Did she know who Azriel was to Rhys? Did she know who Azriel was at all?
The priestess opened her eyes slowly. When she found Rhys studying her openly, she sat up straighter.
The High Lord waited for her to speak, too afraid of overstepping his bounds. He always admonished Feyre for her proclivity to insert herself in others’ business, but in this specific scenario, he may be obligated to intercede. All based on whatever Gwyn said next.
She raised her brows expectantly. “Did you find anything useful, my lord?”
She has no idea who he is.
Rhys rubbed a hand against his jaw, hiding the muscle ticking there, then nodded his head thoughtfully. He needed to buy himself a few seconds. Just a little bit of time to think of how to handle this delicately.
What would Feyre do? he asked himself.
No question there. With an equal measure of compassion and earnestness, Feyre would break the news and then offer up her aid in some way. Yes, simple.
“I did,” he finally replied, then steepled his hands atop his desk. He gave her what he hoped was a gentle smile, but judging by the pinkening of her cheeks, he’d made her feel bashful. “An Illyrian male rescued you that night. One of the men in my service.”
Gwyn smiled wryly. “You saw that too? The… the… you know?”
Rhys returned her rueful grin. “I did. I apologize for the circumstances under which you received the news. The bond has a way of making itself known with little regard for convenience.”
She snorted, a hint of life creeping into her eyes. “One thing at a time I suppose.”
Rhysand’s stomach turned at that. ‘One thing at a time’ and he may have to tie Azriel to a tree to keep him from making a mistake he couldn’t take back with Elain. Like having her break her bond with Lucien to be with him. Maybe even doing something as foolish as wedding her.
But Gwyneth Berdara certainly needed time to heal.
Rhys cleared his throat. “You said you were familiar with my work… Are you also familiar with the company I keep?”
“Oh,” Gwyn said, her voice surprised but also light, as though she appreciated this particular line of questioning. “I know your lordship has an Inner Circle that helps oversee the running of the Night Court, but the only identities broadly known in that circle are High Lady Feyre Archeron and the Morrigan.” She lifted her shoulders noncommittally. “Supposedly you have the aid of an ancient fae as your first, and the Illyrian they call the Lord of Bloodshed as your general. There’s also the Illyrian Spymaster who is notoriously good at obtaining compromising information. But that’s all public knowledge of course.”
“Right,” Rhys said. “My Spymaster is indeed adept at his job. Those who have seen him in Velaris and the High Lords of other courts know what gives my Spymaster his… edge, so to speak. Have you not heard, yourself?”
“Well, there are plenty of rumors,” Gwyn said with a soft laugh. “Some say he has the ability to turn his spies into inanimate objects, cursing them to be teacups until they learn something worth his time. There are other rumors suggesting he’s made of night and shadow itself, so no one has seen him when he appears.” This time, the smile fully met her eyes. “I think it’s more likely he’s got an impressive network of spies at his disposal and a fearsome reputation that makes people behave foolishly in an attempt to avoid him.”
Rhys smirked. “Well, there’s more to that night and shadow theory than you give credit for, Lady Berdara. He’ll be around the library, as he frequents the House of Wind, so you’ll see for yourself soon enough, but he’s… he’s a shadowsinger.”
Her teal eyes rounded, and for a moment she seemed utterly delighted. “A shadowsinger? That’s incredible. They are so rare and there is so little known of their gifts, except that they…” Then she trailed off. Her gaze grew distant. Rhys watched as she no doubt played the memory of ‘her mate’ in her mind.
The mate who had dispatched her attackers with ruthless efficiency.
The mate who had been swathed in shadow.
The mate that Rhysand said was in his service.
“Oh…” Gwyn said.
“I won’t say a word to him,” affirmed Rhys in a calming voice.
“Oh no…”
“Gwyn,” Rhysand began, “I swear to you he won’t know on my account.”
“No, no, no,” she muttered, her face draining of color. Her gaze snapped back to Rhys, desperate. “Had I known he was a close acquaintance I would’ve never put you in this position, my lord!”
Rhys shook his head. “It’s no trouble.”
“You’re going to tell him,” Gwyn said. “I… I’m the Spymaster of the Night Court’s mate. That’s… I could be a weakness for him.”
“Gwyneth,” Rhys said firmly, then raised both his hands in a placating gesture, “Not if he doesn’t find out.”
“He has to find out!” Gwyn said, leaning forward in her chair, teal eyes frenzied. “I can’t keep it from him forever, that would be cruel!”
“No one knows better than I the risks of keeping the bond a secret, trust me,” Rhys said, raising two placating hands. “But am I being overbold in assuming you are not ready for that sort of… commitment?”
Her chest was heaving, her fingers gripping the arms of her chair as she stared at Rhys desperately. Then her desperation began to fade, resembling something like wariness.
He went on, “I’ll tell you this about Azriel, Gwyn, he has been hunting for his mate for five centuries and when he finds them, he will be hard-pressed to keep away.” Rhys lowered his voice a fraction, hoping to lessen the impact of his next words, “So your instinct to refrain from telling him of the bond until you are ready is not misplaced.”
Gwyn’s eyes scanned him, a beat passed, then she bobbed her head.
“He is currently of the mind that the Cauldron has deemed him unworthy of a mate, and he… he seeks company elsewhere.”
The priestess’s thick brows lowered and she responded a little too quickly, “I don’t care.”
Rhysand did not miss the way her nails had begun to bite into the wood of her chair, her mating instincts sitting up despite her conscious efforts to keep them at bay.
He gave her a small smile. “We have a lot in common, Lady Berdara.”
Gwyn lifted her chin a fraction, her gaze still wary.
Rhys continued, “Not in just the way of our breeding, but… I too lost a sister. One who was dear to me. I too had the mating bond revealed at a most inconvenient time.” He swallowed, the words difficult to say, “And I too had a… had a piece of myself taken without permission. A piece that I still struggle to replace.”
Her expression softened slightly.
The High Lord slumped in his chair. “A missing piece that for so long threatened to ruin everything I had built.”
Gwyn’s posture relaxed in her chair.
Rhysand cleared his throat. “It took some time and while I could never get that piece back, I managed to remake myself. Eventually I was ready for someone to come along and… and test the integrity of what I’d built. There were moments of uncertainty but I– I made it, Gwyn.”
The priestess’s eyes gleamed, her lips pressing together.
“You’ll make it too,” Rhysand said quietly. “You must. For your sister, for the future, but most importantly, for yourself.” Pressure built behind his eyes, and he averted his stare, trying to blink the tears away. “And when you come out on the other end, I’ll make sure he’s waiting for you.”
Gwyn’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Why?”
“Because you deserve a happy ending,” Rhysand said. “Because I know you better than you think. I’ve been where you’ve been and felt what you’ve felt and I wish someone had been there to help me through it all.”
Gwyn sniffed then, and when Rhys finally returned his gaze to hers, it was like looking in a mirror. Like seeing himself when he’d arrived at the House of Wind after defeating Amarantha and collapsed into Mor’s arms.
His mind was made up. He’d see that Gwyneth Berdara got the time she needed to heal and was able to have closure with her mate. Even if it meant meddling. Even if all that ever came of it was Azriel learning he had a mate, leaving Gwyneth Berdara here to live out her days in peaceful solitude.
Gwyn’s throat bobbed and Rhys inclined his head in a silent gesture of comfort. “I don’t know that I will be ready any time soon, High Lord.”
“Call me Rhys,” he replied. “And fear not, Priestess, if you wish him never to learn of the bond, I will take this secret to my grave.”
“Gwyn, please,” she corrected. “Keep your efforts to deter him to a minimum for my sake. I don’t think I could handle the pressure of knowing you were keeping him from happiness because I’m too broken to accept it.”
Someone else may have insisted she wasn’t broken. Someone else may have told her that to admit such a thing was to give her attackers power. Someone else may have instructed her to make her peace with the memory of Sangravah and move on with her life.
But Rhys knew better. He knew that there was no power in denial. There was no agency in pretending that what was stolen from you had no effect on your health. So instead, he replied, “You may be broken, but once you put yourself back together,” he locked his eyes with hers, “no one will ever break you again.”
Those warm teal eyes hardened and Gwyn replied, “No. They won’t.”