A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 4: The Exchange

He shoved the goblet into her hand. Galadriel stared down at it with owlish eyes then back up at him. Whoever it was, he expected her to drink herself away. She spluttered out a sharp: "Who?"

~

The booming of the door opening again sounded like a thundering storm on the horizon. Galadriel's head snapped towards it, platinum hair fanning and Helion's answer cut off. She stumbled—truly stumbled—at the sight of who marched through those white painted doors.

He was tall and dangerously handsome with short, raven hair carefully combed back yet a single strand bent down over his forehead. She was sure he let it, for nothing seemed to be made in mistake with this male. He was wingless, but Galadriel knew of his Illyrian heritage. Across his shoulders and fitted to his torso was an impeccable black coat with lapels and silver buttons. His trousers were of the same shade of black but barely visible as his boots came to just under his knees. The room filled with a warm darkness, even against the radiant light that seemed to emit from Helion himself.

Upon his lips, a devilish smile of crooning thoughts that matched eyes of such a deep blue that they were easy to mistake as the violet that only came from a certain mixture of paints. They would not even be found in the rainbow of the gardens.

Behind him, wings close to his back, was Azriel. He wore his leathers as always, each blue gemstone glistening against his shadows and the radiance of night from his companion. From his High Lord.

Galadriel dropped her head into an impulsive bow, unable to meet the High Lord of the Night Court's eyes as they moved to her. This was the worst situation she could imagine herself in.

"Rhysand," Helion greeted, placing his new goblet back down.

"Please." His voice was butter smooth and like dark velvet. "You know it is just Rhys. This is the girl?" Galadriel's jaw grinded. She wasn't a child. She hadn't been for many years. "Apologies." A chord of fear struck through her as she dared to look back up. The High Lord smiled at her and with that stomach-twisting realisation that he was in her thoughts, she tightened the walls around her mind. She imagined their gates shutting, one by one, reinforced with steel stronger than any sword in existence. Just like Azriel taught her. The High Lord didn't show any sign of surprise when he was pushed out. "Lovely grown female," he corrected.

Cauldron boil her, she hadn't even said a word and she was already making a scene. She knew well that the High Lord knew that she wasn't Sahra. Whether he knew of her before or not, Azriel would have told him who she was. That would be the only reason he would come here, to agree to discuss an agreement to taking her from Helion's hands.

"Rhys," Helion amended, maintaining a light tone. "May I introduce you to Sahra. Sahra, this is Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court and his spymaster, Azriel."

Azriel gave a simple nod of his head in greeting, hands folded behind his back like a soldier. "Pleasure," she managed to mutter.

Rhysand lifted his lips higher. "I'm certain it is. Not many garner a private meeting with a High Lord."

His arrogance, which seeped from him like a bleeding wound, boiled something inside of her. Stifling an abrasive response and ensuring her mental barriers were in place, she said, "I wasn't aware that Lord Helion was arranging this." Sending her message across, if her tone did not alone, she glared at Helion from the corner of her sight. "I do not think the life of a handmaiden should be of any importance to you, High Lord. Please forgive us both for bringing you all the way down here."

Rhysand stared down at her, his height towering. For a single moment, his dark brows squeezed together before shifting back to his even smile. "A handmaiden with a bounty on her head, placed by none other than Beron himself. That is enough to warrant my interest and I'm not eager to have those questioned."

A warning decorated by politeness.

From behind, Azriel was staring her down.

Galadriel swallowed and looked back to Helion. She didn't want them here. She didn't want to go to the Night Court. Azriel should be here to send her elsewhere, not bring her to his home. Because that meant...

"Sit." Helion gestured to the table. "It is always better to eat and drink whilst we talk. Hunger is a fertiliser for frustration and Sahra has been brewing in that for some weeks now." A second warning. A third, if she included Azriel's. Helion led them to the table, retaking his seat at the head but with a considerably more upright position. Galadriel took the one to his left, the members of the Night Court on his right.

Rhysand sat down with ease, closest to the head. Unlike Helion, he fell into a lounge, leaning heavily onto one side. Azriel, however, shifted uncomfortably in the high-spined seat. His wings attempted to manoeuvre around it but the annoyance was plain on his face. Galadriel licked her dry lips, turning her eyes to Helion alone. "Perhaps the spymaster would benefit from a different chair, Lord Helion."

Amber eyes darted to her master. "Of course. It is only right to accommodate for our guests." He gestured for Azriel to stand, who did so silently. With two twitches of his finger, the chair disappeared and was replaced with a cushioned stool. Azriel sat back down with an appreciative nod in Helion's direction, then another in hers. Galadriel only moved her eyes back down to the table where empty plates awaited.

A feast appeared before them. The strong scent wafted across the table; meats, potatoes, steamed vegetables and savouries. Mouth-watering. Only waiting for Helion to take the first reach for food, Galadriel tucked into her dinner, eager to fill her mouth with something to fill its silence.

"So." Rhysand cut into a large slab of roasted pork, glancing between his plate and her. "What did you do to earn a bounty of fifty-five thousand gold marks and why shouldn't I hand you over to Beron?"

"There was a misunderstanding," Galadriel answered. Rhysand clearly knew the truth, but he was playing with her. Like a cat teasing a toy. Her knuckles whitened over her knife, forced to play along for the sake of Helion. "I was caught with a private letter. He believed I had stolen it from him." What she didn't know, was if his mind was already made up on what to do with her or this was truly a test to see if he would take her.

"And what was it actually?"

She glanced at Helion. They all knew the truth. Bastard. How dare he try and do this to them both.

"It was from me." Helion took a short sip from his glass. They shared a quick, subtle look. "Which is why I owe her my help."

"And the contents?" Rhysand pushed, taking a pause from eating to sip on his own red wine.

"If I was willing to keep them from the High Lord I once served under, then I have no interest in informing you, High Lord of the Night Court," Galadriel said, firm in tone to hide the clenching of her knees under the table. If she could piss him off enough, he might just rescind any offer to her. It would irritate Azriel to the same, or higher degree but if he wanted to bring her to his own court then she was already facing his ire.

Rhysand, in all wonder, looked only pleased with her answer. He was—no. He was enjoying his taunting of her. Enjoying seeing her riled. "Understandable. Helion has requested that I offer you sanctuary in my court. In repayment, I may call upon him for a favour of equal size whenever I desire."

It was an effort not to bend the fork under her tensed fingers. It was not sanctuary that they offered. It was punishment. "I've informed Helion that I am awaiting a letter from my family. I have no need for sanctuary elsewhere." What was going through Azirel's mind? Did he want to accept the offer? Had he had a hand in constructing it?

"Sahra."

"I'm sure any response can be forwarded to the Night Court."

Galadriel barely restrained herself from slamming the knife and fork down on the wood, the wine in her goblet ricocheting in perfect circles. "Excuse me." Her chair grated against the stone marble floor. "I need to use the washroom." Her dress skirt made angry movements between her legs, the fabric itching her skin until she shut the great white oak doors behind her.