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That’s exactly what he is, Rhys said into my mind, the mating bond always keeping the line of communication open unless we willed it shut. You’re right to be on guard around him.

I don’t like him or his mother. I sent a mental sigh down the bond. Even though Mor prepared us, some small part of me still hoped that we’d arrive here and find them to be nice, reasonable people.

Rhys’s star-kissed laugh danced through my mind. Haven’t your years with the Fae taught you anything? Nice and reasonable are words seldom used to describe us.

I sent back a flicker of amusement before I announced to the group, “The fruit and drink are here for your enjoyment, regardless of—”

The last member of the group held up a hand.

Like the Grand Vizier of Montesere, the Mistress of the Unseen was pale, middle-aged, and reedy. Her long brown hair, in twin braids plaited with strands of gold, gleamed amongst the folds of her green velvet robe. For someone whose title suggested subtlety, her garb was anything but. In fact, it might have been of finer make than even that of the duke and the grand vizier.

I inclined my head slightly. Enough for respect, but not deference. “Yes?”

The Mistress of the Unseen folded her hands in her lap, graceful as two nesting doves, her narrow face serene. But her chestnut-colored eyes were shrewd and humorless as she said, “I would have the Unseen Gods bless us before we begin. As is customary in my lands.”

I fought to keep from tensing. It wasn’t the words, but rather the tone that took me back to another place and time, when another female adorned in the trappings of spiritual finery had spoken of gods and blessings with similar entitlement.

Ianthe was long dead, torn to shreds by the Weaver. I’d seen to that. And I relished her death still. But the damage she’d done—to me, to Rhys and Lucien—remained.

In the years since her death, I’d learned that Ianthe was nothing more than a false priestess, her title and elevated station merely bought and not Cauldron-blessed. That betrayal of faith and truth went deep. Once, in long-past millennia, the Cauldron itself had appointed twelve High Priestesses to its holy governing council, in turn guided by the High Priestess of all Prythian. Each of the twelve on the Sacred Council had been marked on their brow with a sigil of a full moon flanked by two crescent moons. A symbol only the Cauldron could bestow on the dozen Mother-chosen females. But on the High Priestess of Prythian herself, that tattoo had been spread across her collarbones.

In the thousands of years since there had last been a Sacred Council, it had become customary for all priestesses to bear tattoos on their brows, bestowed in an annual ceremony. But Ianthe’s tattoos had not been bestowed during the ritual, and had not been in accordance with the holy symbolism of the priestesses’ marks. They’d been a flight of fancy on Ianthe’s part, an elaborate component of what was ultimately a costume. Rhys had told me that she’d bragged to him about them once—that she felt they were better than the true priestesses’ tattoos by virtue of being specifically chosen.

No one had bothered to explain that to me, though. I had been so naïve then, so new to this Fae world, that I had not recognized the tattoos as a marker of what a fraud and liar Ianthe was.

I knew now, though. And this Mistress of the Unseen was no better than her former Prythian counterpart.

“A blessing would be appreciated,” Rhysand said graciously to the Mistress. “We are happy to honor all gods here.”

The Prince of Vallahan rolled his eyes, either at my mate’s diplomacy or the Mistress’s request, but he followed his mother’s lead as she bowed her head.

The Mistress of the Unseen stood, emerald robes shimmering in the firelight, and lifted her hands. The heavy sleeves of her robe fell back to reveal forearms tattooed with arcs and lines, akin to the slashings of a feral animal. Pain seemed to limn each one.

The Mistress closed her eyes, revealing more tattoos on the lids, which suddenly glowed pale blue. Unlike the slashings on her arms, these lines swirled to become another set of eyes. And as they flared, more lines leaked from them, spilling onto her cheeks and up to her forehead. A growing, living thing.

It was otherworldly. Unsettling. Especially as those tattooed eyes surveyed the room with their own sort of sentience.

Ancient spell work, Rhys said into my mind. Mostly a fancy show.

Hush, I sent back, bowing my head. I’m trying to be respectful.

Is that what that pinched expression on your face is? I would never have guessed.

Beneath the table, I dug my foot into the side of his leg. Rhys playfully squeezed my knee back.

The Mistress’s words hissed across the chamber. “All hail the Unseen, whose whispers guide us toward a pure world of harmony.” Those tattooed eyes darted back and forth, as if the Mistress—or whatever being peered out of those eyes—was measuring our reactions for any hint of disrespect. “All who bow before you are the Chosen, blessed children. Only those who honor you shall be granted true, everlasting life beyond the icy grip of death. To worship you is to spread love, to worship you is a privilege we thank you for daily.”

Blessed. Children. I’d heard those words before.

It had been a long while since I’d thought of the Children of the Blessed, the misguided humans who’d worshipped the Fae, going so far as to try to cross the wall to serve Fae masters. Those who had managed had never been seen again in the human world.

What had become of them now that the wall was gone? Had the war between Hybern and Prythian awakened them to the true dangers? Or had they run northward as soon as they could, right into the arms of Fae who’d use and then discard them? I’d encountered one who’d done exactly that during the Hybern War—a young woman who’d somehow wound up in our enemy’s war camp. Az and I had freed her, and Mor had made sure she was safe with Viviane and the Winter Court army. I never saw her again. I’d prayed she’d found her way, but I had my doubts.

And as for the other Children of the Blessed in the human realm, with the wall now gone . . . If they reached Night Court lands, we’d have helped them. But they’d be lucky to even clear the northern border of the Spring Court. And these days, no one was watching out for anyone in the Spring Court, let alone foolish young humans.

I willed myself to turn back to the Mistress. To meet those tattooed eyes.

They were already staring at me, blazing near-white. A chill skittered down my spine.