A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 48: The Rings

She blinked. "The Weaver?" If Rhys's mother intended for safekeeping, then she certainly accomplished that mission. But she probably made it near impossible to retrieve as well. "None of you should see that thing." She sighed. "I mean, for his mother's ring maybe, but not to give it to me."

Azriel raised a dark brow at her. "Giving it to you is the sole purpose of its existence."

Taken aback, Galadriel shifted on the seat, drawing the hot cocoa in closer to her chest. After what happened at Autumn, even though it wasn't his fault, she had a feeling he would volunteer to venture into the Weaver's home to redeem himself. Decades of experience told her she had no chance of ever changing Azriel's mind on that, so that meant changing Rhysand's. "Is it strange for you—that I'm your High Lord's mate?"

He smiled at her; that trained movement. "Very. You'll start getting comfortable with it soon. Start giving me orders."

Blanching slightly, she chuckled into the mug. "I don't think that's going to happen. Even if I got that haughty, I'm not interested in bossing anybody around."

"Haughty?" he echoed in that low drawl. "Is that what you think I am?"

Tucking her lips between her teeth, she tilted her head to her shoulder. "A little?" There it was again, though softer this time—that laugh. "Don't hold that against me," she pleaded. "I swear I think Rhys is far haughtier than anybody else I know. Except perhaps Helion. He's close. And Cassian sometimes—"

"What's this about me being haughty?"

Galadriel whipped around, nearly spilling her drink on her lap. Cassian stood just outside of the doorway, a questioning look imposing down on her. "Sometimes thinks so too," she drew out. "Forgive me for assuming you'd agree."

Azriel sniggered behind his fist. Cassian's beady eyes narrowed at her, but humour took over. "That's what I thought. I didn't expect you up so early."

Her instinctive response was to question why, but she was smart enough to shut her mouth before the question and the subsequent answer came to light. "I had a good sleep." And wanted to speak to Azriel. "I certainly didn't expect you up before lunch."

Cassian shrugged, his wings shuddering like they were releasing tension. "Can't break the habit." Striding across the terrace, he took the third seat on the other side of the small table. "What were we talking about before I interrupted?"

Galadriel went to answer with something about the book in Azriel's lap, but the shadowsinger beat her to it. "I told her about the ring Rhys's mother gave him."

"That was supposed to be kept quiet," Cassian replied slowly, as though a hundred more warnings were fitted between the words. His hazel eyes flickered over her, softening slightly. "Rhys is going to be pissed that she knows he hasn't been able to get it yet."

"I don't care," Galadriel murmured, frowning at her sweet drink. "Not that he's trying—but that it's hard. The fucking Weaver."

"I thought you knew that our High Lord is an arrogant bastard by now, Spring Flower." Cassian folded his arms across the table, a hint of that usual shit-eating grin appearing. Each one felt unique as if the precise curve was specifically made only for her.

"Spring flower?" Kicking her feet up on the clawed leg, she tipped her head pointedly at the general. "Is that what you're sticking with?"

Azriel grumbled something unintelligible before adding, "I said the same thing yesterday."

"It suits you," Cassian defended. "Az just doesn't like nicknames. Neither does Amren. Or Mor. At least my favourite brother does."

"Rhys likes giving other people nicknames," Azriel corrected. "He doesn't enjoy being given them."

They went on bickering like that for a while, Galadriel prodding here and there for more information. Cassian was convinced that Rhys didn't mind being called things other than his name, but Azriel was just as adamant on the fact that he only tolerated it for the sake of peace. Galadriel believed Azriel, but she wondered if it had to do with the type of names bestowed—if Spring Flower was anything to speak of Cassian's creativity.

"How are the camps going?" she asked him, now down to the dregs of her drink. "Rhys told me about Amarantha."

With a low sigh and a brief glare to side the mountains beyond the city, he said, "Getting rougher. Camps are starting to turn on each other. Which isn't anything new, but now they've got fresh motivation. Some think this bitch is offering them a king's wealth, others don't forget that we fought against her in the War. Az and I are going out there in a few days for a week or two."

Azriel leant forward, dragging her gaze to the side. "Meaning you'll get to warm up your fists," he drawled to his brother. Cassian flexed his large hand, admiring the calloused skin. The ruby siphon was unimaginably bright in the early morning. Galadriel stared at it for a while, and as if realising that her attention was on it, he laid his hand flat on the table between them for her to continue examining it.

"Illyria," she began. "That's on the other side of the court, isn't it?"

"Majority of Illyrians live to the east," Cassian confirmed.

"Can I come?" Shock flashed across both their faces. Galadriel pulled her hands between her knees. "I barely know anything about this court other than Velaris. I figure they won't know who I am so there's no danger in that arena. I want to see where you've come from, where you grew up. Where Rhys did."

Azriel looked at Cassian. Cassian looked at her. "It's not a good idea," Azriel muttered. "At least not right now."

"Winter is the worst time for us," he concurred. "The weather is harsh, food gets low, nomadic camps can't move. They start getting restless." Licking his lips, Cassian dragged his eyes down to the table before turning them on Azriel. "But it's not the worst idea."

"Cassian—"

Cassian cut him off. "We'll be at Windhaven for a few days and as much as Devlon tests boundaries, he wouldn't dare touch Rhys's mate. And he'll make sure the rest of his camp know that rule too. We'll be there with her the entire time."

Azriel kept his face the image of cool. "Fine. But you're proposing it to him." Satisfied, Cassian leant back in his seat, shooting a wink in her direction. Cassian—the one she could always count on to be on her team. Azriel eyed the gesture. "You just want a pretty face to see there."

Galadriel barked a laugh, hoping the sting of the fresh morning had already turned her cheeks red to hide the blush. "If he wanted that, he'd just bring a mirror."

Knocking her arm, Cassian said, "I can borrow the one you gave Rhys. Would fit right in this pocket." Indeed, he tapped a small pocket on the chest piece of his leathers.

"Do you ever wear anything else other than those?" Waving her arms about, she went on, "Scratch that. Do you own anything that isn't made of leather?"

Feigning confusion, the general frowned at her. "Why would I ever need something that wasn't leather?"

"Comfort," she offered, beginning a count on her fingers. "Fashion. Dress-coded events. Oh, but you probably aren't invited to those after your little clash at the Summer Court." He smacked her erected fingers down with a laugh.

Azriel slid from his chair. "I've got some things to do," he excused. Galadriel sent a smile in his direction, but it was cut off by a pair of hot lips on her cheek. "Don't stay out too long in the cold." She didn't know whether he was saying that to her, Cassian, or them both.