A Court of Mist and Fury

Chapter 2

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A hundred years.

I had that—I had centuries ahead of me. Centuries with Tamlin, centuries in this beautiful, quiet

place. Perhaps I’d sort myself out sometime along the way. Perhaps not.

I paused before the stairs leading up into the rose-and-ivy-covered house, and peeked toward the

right—toward the formal rose garden and the windows just beyond it.

I’d only set foot in that room—my old painting studio—once, when I’d first returned.

And all those paintings, all the supplies, all that blank canvas waiting for me to pour out stories and

feelings and dreams … I’d hated it.

I’d walked out moments later and hadn’t returned since.

I’d stopped cataloging color and feeling and texture, stopped noticing it. I could barely look at the

paintings hanging inside the manor.

A sweet, female voice trilled my name from inside the open doors of the manor, and the tightness in

my shoulders eased a bit.

Ianthe. The High Priestess, as well as a High Fae noble and childhood friend of Tamlin’s, who had

taken it upon herself to help plan the wedding festivities.

And who had taken it upon herself to worship me and Tamlin as if we were newly minted gods,

blessed and chosen by the Cauldron itself.

But I didn’t complain—not when Ianthe knew everyone in the court and outside of it. She’d linger by

my side at events and dinners, feeding me details about those in attendance, and was the main

reason why I’d survived the merry whirlwind of Winter Solstice. She’d been the one presiding over

the various ceremonies, after all—and I’d been more than happy to let her choose what manner of

wreaths and garlands should adorn the manor and grounds, what silverware complemented each

meal.

Beyond that … while Tamlin was the one who paid for my everyday clothes, it was Ianthe’s eye that

selected them. She was the heart of her people, ordained by the Hand of the Goddess to lead them

from despair and darkness.

I was in no position to doubt. She hadn’t led me astray yet—and I’d learned to dread the days when

she was busy at her own temple on the grounds, overseeing pilgrims and her acolytes. Today,

though—yes, spending time with Ianthe was better than the alternative.

I bunched the gauzy skirts of my dawn-pink gown in a hand and ascended the marble steps into the

house.

Next time, I promised myself. Next time, I’d convince Tamlin to let me go to the village.

“Oh, we can’t let her sit next to him. They’d rip each other to shreds, and then we’d have blood

ruining the table linens.” Beneath her pale, blue-gray hood, Ianthe furrowed her brow, crinkling the

tattoo of the various stages of a moon’s cycle stamped across it. She scribbled out the name she’d

dashed onto one of the seating charts moments before.

The day had turned warm, the room a bit stuffy even with the breeze through the open windows.

And yet the heavy hooded robe remained on.

All the High Priestesses wore the billowing, artfully twisted and layered robes—though they certainly

were far from matronly. Ianthe’s slim waist was on display with a fine belt of sky-blue, limpid stones,

each perfectly oval and held in shining silver. And atop her hood sat a matching circlet—a delicate

band of silver, with a large stone at its center. A panel of cloth had been folded up beneath the

circlet, a built-in swath meant to be pulled over the brow and eyes when she needed to pray,

beseech the Cauldron and Mother, or just think.

Ianthe had shown me once what the panel looked like when down: only her nose and full, sensuous

mouth visible. The Voice of the Cauldron. I’d found the image unsettling—that merely covering the

upper part of her face had somehow turned the bright, cunning female into an effigy, into something

Other. Mercifully, she kept it folded back most of the time. Occasionally, she even took the hood off

entirely to let the sun play in her long, gently curling golden hair.

Ianthe’s silver rings gleamed atop her manicured fingers as she wrote another name down. “It’s like

a game,” she said, sighing through her pert nose. “All these pieces, vying for power or dominance,

willing to shed blood, if need be. It must be a strange adjustment for you.”

Such elegance and wealth—yet the savagery remained. The High Fae weren’t the tittering nobility

of the mortal world. No, if they feuded, it would end with someone being ripped to bloody ribbons.

Literally.

Once, I’d trembled to share breathing space with them.

I flexed my fingers, stretching and contorting the tattoos etched into my skin.

Now I could fight alongside them, against them. Not that I’d tried.

I was too watched—too monitored and judged. Why should the bride of the High Lord learn to fight

if peace had returned? That had been Ianthe’s reasoning when I’d made the mistake of mentioning

it at dinner. Tamlin, to his credit, had seen both sides: I’d learn to protect myself … but the rumors

would spread.

“Humans aren’t much better,” I told her at last. And because Ianthe was about the only one of my

new companions who didn’t look particularly stunned or frightened by me, I tried to make

conversation and said, “My sister Nesta would likely fit right in.”

Ianthe cocked her head, the sunlight setting the blue stone atop her hood glimmering. “Will your

mortal kin be joining us?”

“No.” I hadn’t thought to invite them—hadn’t wanted to expose them to Prythian. Or to what I’d

become.

She tapped a long, slender finger on the table. “But they live so close to the wall, don’t they? If it

was important for you to have them here, Tamlin and I could ensure their safe journey.” In the hours

we’d spent together, I’d told her about the village, and the house my sisters now lived in, about

Isaac Hale and Tomas Mandray. I hadn’t been able to mention Clare Beddor—or what had

happened to her family.

“For all that she’d hold her own,” I said, fighting past the memory of that human girl, and what had

been done to her, “my sister Nesta detests your kind.”

“Our kind,” Ianthe corrected quietly. “We’ve discussed this.”

I just nodded.

But she went on, “We are old, and cunning, and enjoy using words like blades and claws. Every

word from your mouth, every turn of phrase, will be judged—and possibly used against you.” As if to

soften the warning, she added, “Be on your guard, Lady.”

Lady. A nonsense name. No one knew what to call me. I wasn’t born High Fae.

I’d been Made—resurrected and given this new body by the seven High Lords of Prythian. I wasn’t

Tamlin’s mate, as far as I knew. There was no mating bond between us—yet.

Honestly … Honestly, Ianthe, with her bright gold hair, those teal eyes, elegant features, and supple

body, looked more like Tamlin’s mate. His equal. A union with Tamlin—a High Lord and a High

Priestess—would send a clear message of strength to any possible threats to our lands. And secure

the power Ianthe was no doubt keen on building for herself.

Among the High Fae, the priestesses oversaw their ceremonies and rituals, recorded their histories

and legends, and advised their lords and ladies in matters great and trivial. I hadn’t witnessed any

magic from her, but when I’d asked Lucien, he’d frowned and said their magic was drawn from their

ceremonies, and could be utterly lethal should they choose it. I’d watched her on the Winter Solstice

for any signs of it, marking the way she’d positioned herself so that the rising sun filled her uplifted

arms, but there had been no ripple or thrum of power. From her, or the earth beneath us.

I didn’t know what I’d really expected from Ianthe—one of the twelve High Priestesses who together

governed their sisters across every territory in Prythian. Ancient, celibate, and quiet had been the

extent of my expectations, thanks to those whispered mortal legends, when Tamlin had announced

that an old friend was soon to occupy and renovate the crumbling temple complex on our lands. But

Ianthe had breezed into our house the next morning and those expectations had immediately been

trampled. Especially the celibate part.

Priestesses could marry, bear children, and dally as they would. It would dishonor the Cauldron’s

gift of fertility to lock up their instincts, their inherent female magic in bearing life, Ianthe had once

told me.

So while the seven High Lords ruled Prythian from thrones, the twelve High Priestesses reigned

from the altars, their children as powerful and respected as any lord’s offspring. And Ianthe, the

youngest High Priestess in three centuries, remained unmarried, childless, and keen to enjoy the

finest males the land has to offer.

I often wondered what it was like to be that free and so settled within yourself. This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

When I didn’t respond to her gentle reprimand, she said, “Have you given any thought to what color

roses? White? Pink? Yellow? Red—”

“Not red.”

I hated that color. More than anything. Amarantha’s hair, all that blood, the welts on Clare Beddor’s

broken body, spiked to the walls of Under the Mountain—

“Russet could be pretty, with all the green … But maybe that’s too Autumn Court.” Again, that finger

tapped on the table.

“Whatever color you want.” If I were being blunt with myself, I’d admit that Ianthe had become a

crutch. But she seemed willing to do it—caring when I couldn’t bring myself to.

Yet Ianthe’s brows lifted slightly.

Despite being a High Priestess, she and her family had escaped the horrors of Under the Mountain

by running. Her father, one of Tamlin’s strongest allies amongst the Spring Court and a captain in

his forces, had sensed trouble coming and packed off Ianthe, her mother, and two younger sisters

to Vallahan, one of the countless faerie territories across the ocean. For fifty years, they’d lived in

the foreign court, biding their time while their people were butchered and enslaved.

She hadn’t once mentioned it. I knew better than to ask.

“Every element of this wedding sends a message to not only Prythian, but the world beyond,” she

said. I stifled a sigh. I knew—she’d told me this before. “I know you are not fond of the dress—”

Understatement. I hated the monstrosity of tulle she’d selected. Tamlin had, too—though he’d

laughed himself hoarse when I showed him in the privacy of my room. But he’d promised me that

though the dress was absurd, the priestess knew what she was doing. I’d wanted to push back

about it, hating that though he agreed with me, he had sided with her, but … it took more energy

than it was worth.

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