Page 26

“Are you going away for a month or a year?” Cassian demanded from where he’d perched himself on the edge of Mor’s lavish bed. Azriel, standing at the window overlooking the grand front drive of the river house, didn’t laugh. Standing in here, in her space, so full of her scent . . . His heart lay heavy in his chest.

“Vallahan and Montesere,” Mor simpered behind the armful of dresses she hauled from her armoire over to the bed, “have very different climates, and very different clothing requirements for meals and functions.” She dumped the latest pile of clothes onto the bed and surveyed the mountain she’d created.

“Aren’t you just going to wear variations on that red getup?” Cassian asked, dangling a pale blue gown from his fingertips. “This one seems unnecessary.”

Az couldn’t help his slight smile. “Agreed,” he muttered.

“I like to have options,” Mor said, snatching the dress from Cassian’s hands. “Don’t crinkle it.”

“You’ve already bunched it into a heap,” Cassian shot back.

“Well, don’t make it worse.”

It had always been like this between them. Squabbling like siblings, endlessly teasing each other. It had once provided a steady, comforting background noise for Az—one that even his shadows seemed to enjoy—but so many things had changed lately. Perhaps too many.

Az found himself saying, “I thought you were only going to Vallahan. I’m about to send Nuala to Rask. And Cerridwen to Montesere.”

“I intend to be only in Vallahan,” Mor said, refolding her dress with expert care, “but if a situation arises and I need to go into Montesere, I want to be prepared. And I don’t want to lose time by coming back here for an entirely new wardrobe.”

Fair enough. But for Mor to take all this on her shoulders, even with her considerable power and talents—

“How many fur cloaks do you need?” Cassian demanded, drawing Azriel’s attention back to where his friend now held up an ermine stole like a dead snake.

Mor clicked her tongue. “You can leave, Cassian, if you’re going to question every item that goes into my trunk.”

“Trunks,” Cassian corrected, nodding to the five massive leather boxes sitting open near the door. “Even Rhys doesn’t travel with this much.”

“Oh, he does,” Mor trilled, primly folding the mountain of clothing. “He hides it all in one of those little pocket realms so you two can’t make fun of him.”

Cassian snorted, but Az gazed out the window. He was in no mood to talk about Rhys—to laugh about him. Not with Mor packing for this trip. She shouldn’t have been going. She’d done more than her fair share of diplomatic work already.

Az should be the one leaving. With one word, Rhys could have made it possible.

He’d already debated venturing to Vallahan himself, but ignoring orders wasn’t something he was entirely ready to do. Even if it grated on him to not know what was happening, like talons running down his spine.

“I’ll be fine, Az,” Mor said, and he realized she was watching him. Reading him perfectly whether he wanted her to or not. She’d always been able to do that.

Az cleared his throat. “I could go with you. Stay hidden.”

His shadows, idling by the doorway, stirred in response. Yes, the pack of them seemed to say, let us do our work.

“If you were discovered, any goodwill I’ve created would vanish,” Mor said firmly, setting another folded dress onto her growing pile. “Stay here, Az. Help everyone come up with an alternate strategy in case I fail.” A snarky glance at Cassian. “They’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Az didn’t smile. Not even as Cassian flipped her off and asked, “Remind me why I’m going to miss you again?”

Mor began stacking her folded clothes into the first of the trunks. She moved with sinuous grace—with a warrior’s surety, yes, but with an ethereal sort of beauty and elegance that still made Az pause to admire her.

He hadn’t been what she wanted. He never had been. It was her choice, her heart—he knew that, and he accepted it. But he had spent so long waiting for the day when she would confirm that all those centuries together, all the things they’d been through, hadn’t been for nothing. He’d tended that secret fire for five hundred years.

Now it was ash in his scarred hands.

Even his shadows knew better than to provide a read on what Mor was feeling right now. They’d already done enough when it came to her.

Mor began bickering with Cassian again, so Az broke in, “Cass, we’ll be late for the meeting with Devlon.” He wouldn’t normally have given a shit about that, would have been glad to keep Devlon waiting for hours, but he had to get out of here.

Cassian groaned with distaste. “Right.”

Mor frowned. “You’re heading to Windhaven now?”