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“We would never expect such a thing,” the grand vizier sputtered, puffing up like a disgruntled owl, “but you will not fault us for bolstering our forces by trying to add to our own considerable arsenals.”

I tamped down every bit of surprise that sparked through me. They’d as good as confirmed what Az had reported. It was beyond anything we’d hoped to achieve in this meeting. And—trying, the vizier had said. They were still looking for this Made object, whatever it was.

At least now we didn’t have to pretend not to know.

And yet the stars in Rhys’s eyes went out. “What do you plan to add?” The wine goblets on the table rattled, though his magic had struck no blow.

The Queen of Vallahan smoothed a tattooed hand down her furs. “Prythian has its toys,” she preened. “We shall have our own.” She lifted her blue eyes to Rhys, lips curving upward. “If you wish to arm yourselves with the Dread Trove, to meddle with the Cauldron, then don’t play surprised when we, too, retrieve our lost birthrights.” Another sneer toward me. “You aren’t stupid enough to think that if we found one, we’d bring an object of power here, are you?”

She’d known what I was doing while they talked.

Again, my crown seemed to press harder into my head. Again, I forced myself to keep my chin aloft, shoulders back.

I felt nothing down the mating bond. Rhys’s face was as blank and empty as I’d ever seen it when he said, “You seek a Made weapon of your own, then.” It would have to be a Made weapon that did not require a Made bearer to wield it, but there were plenty of those. The items of the Dread Trove were the only ones I knew of that had so severe a restriction. “And if we disarm the Trove?” Rhys continued. “Will it discourage you from seeking a Made object to wield against us?”

“It is not possible to disarm these weapons,” said the Mistress of the Unseen, clicking her tongue. “If you claim to have destroyed them, we shall know it for the lie it is. Such Made things cannot be Unmade. Though we hear that your sister”—she grimaced at me—“Unmade a human queen recently.”

Nesta hadn’t just Unmade Briallyn—she’d obliterated her from existence.

I didn’t waste my breath denying it. Instead, I demanded, “And our word counts for nothing with you? If we write into the treaty that we shall not use the Trove, if we swear it on all we hold holy, you will still not believe us?”

The Queen of Vallahan smiled with soft wickedness. “No.”

My mate’s brewing power, the impenetrable darkness around him—they stalled, then faded. And in their wake, Rhys said with raw honesty, “We have no intention of going to war with either of your territories. Our possession of the Trove, of any Made objects, is entirely coincidental. There are no circumstances that would induce us to use them. It would be folly for you to pursue your own.”

I nodded my solemn agreement, Mor following suit.

“Tell me this, then,” the Duke of Bernion asked, exposing his roughened palms, “if we marched south to reclaim our ancient homelands from the humans, if you could not stop us with your armies, would you use the Trove to prevent it?”

Don’t answer that, I cautioned Rhys.

Rhys’s silence was answer enough for our enemies.

The duke smiled grimly, placing his hands palms down once more. “So it seems there are circumstances under which you would feel compelled to use the Trove. In which case, it’s only right that we, too, possess such power.”

“We came here in the name of peace—” I tried.

The Mistress broke in. “People who seek peace do not arm themselves for war.”

“Besides,” the grand vizier added, right on her heels, “not all of Prythian agrees with you. The Autumn Court is very amenable to the idea of reclaiming our rightful lands. They might well send their forces to aid in our holy march.”

Beron, that bastard, had made it clear enough. Even having Eris’s covert support might not be enough to sway his father back to reason.

“I see your rising fury,” the Duke of Bernion said to me. “And—not desiring war myself—I would urge you to remember that Prythian is small enough as it is. Without the support of every single court, you are made even smaller. Consider the odds against you if you bring conflict to the continent. Consider the losses for your people.”

“We are first and foremost considering the innocent human lives endangered by your impending invasion,” Rhys said with enough bite that I looked at him. His power remained harnessed, yet his face showed his disgust and unbridled rage.

“Our goal would be a bloodless conquest,” the duke asserted quickly, as if noticing—and wisely fearing—that slip on Rhys’s usual steely self-control. “Let the humans see the Fae forces gathered against them and lay down their weapons. They might not be as wise or learned as we are, but they are not stupid enough to start a war they can never win.”

My blood simmered. The snobbery of the High Fae was as alive and well today as it had been five hundred years ago.

Yet Rhys said with terrifying quiet, “And what part does Koschei the Deathless play in these plans of yours?”

There it was. The suspicion, the worry we’d had for some time now. Confirmed by the death-lord’s manipulation of Briallyn, and all the little steps he’d been taking subtly, indirectly, to move us around some game board we were only just figuring out. And confirmed again only days ago, when Azriel’s shadow heard the males in the mountain cave speaking of Koschei and the onyx box that rumor claimed possessed his death. A thread, the shadow had claimed. His death had been woven into a life-thread—whatever that meant. We’d never heard of such a thing.

“Who’s that?” the Queen of Vallahan asked my mate, too sweetly to be casual. Her husband’s face was impassive. The prince, however, was glancing between his parents. It was clear that they did, indeed, know who Koschei was.

“I’d think you’d know the name of the creature pulling your strings,” Rhys said mildly.