And when I put a hand on his brow, I swore at the heat.
Poison had coated those arrows. And that poison remained in his body.
The Illyrian camp was so distant that my own powers, feeble from the night before, wouldn’t get us far.
But if they had those horrible chains to nullify his powers, had ash arrows to bring him down, then that poison …
An hour passed. He didn’t get better. No, his golden skin was pale—paling. His breaths were shallow. “Rhys,” I said softly.
He didn’t move. I tried shaking him. If he could tell me what the poison was, maybe I could try to find something to help him … He did not awaken.
Around midday, panic gripped me in a tight fist.
I didn’t know anything about poisons or remedies. And out here, so far from anyone … Would Cassian track us down in time? Would Mor winnow in? I tried to rouse Rhys over and over.
The poison had dragged him down deep. I would not risk waiting for help to arrive.
I would not risk him.
So I bundled him in as many layers as I could spare, yet took my cloak, kissed his brow, and left.
We were only a few hundred yards from where I’d been hunting the night before, and as I emerged from the cave, I tried not to look at the tracks of the beasts who had passed through, right above us. Enormous, horrible tracks.
What I was to hunt would be worse.
We were already near running water—so I made my trap close by, building my snare with hands that I refused to let shake.
I placed the cloak—mostly new, rich, lovely—in the center of my snare. And I waited.
An hour. Two.
I was about to start bargaining with the Cauldron, with the Mother, when a creeping, familiar silence fell over the wood.
Rippling toward me, the birds stopped chirping, the wind stopped sighing in the pines.
And when a crack sounded through the forest, followed by a screech that hollowed out my ears, I nocked an arrow into my bow and set off to see the Suriel.
It was as horrific as I remembered:
Tattered robes barely concealing a body made of not skin, but what looked to be solid, worn bone. Its lipless mouth held too-large teeth, and its fingers—long, spindly—clicked against each other while it weighed the fine cloak I’d laid in the center of my snare, as if the cloth had been blown in on a wind.
“Feyre Cursebreaker,” it said, turning toward me, in a voice that was both one and many.
I lowered my bow. “I have need of you.”
Time—I was running out of time. I could feel it, that urgency begging me to hurry through the bond.
“What fascinating changes a year has wrought on you—on the world,” it said.
A year. Yes, it had been over a year now since I’d first crossed the wall.
“I have questions,” I said.
It smiled, each of those stained, too-large brown teeth visible. “You have two questions.”
An answer and an order.
I didn’t waste time; not with Rhys, not when this wood might be full of enemies hunting for us.
“What poison was used on those arrows?”
“Bloodbane,” it said.
I didn’t know that poison—had never heard of it.
“Where do I find the cure?”
The Suriel clicked its bone fingers against each other, as if the answer lay inside the sound. “In the forest.”
I hissed, my brows flattening. “Please—please don’t be cryptic. What is the cure?”
The Suriel cocked its head, the bone gleaming in the light. “Your blood. Give him your blood, Cursebreaker. It is rich with the healing gift of the High Lord of the Dawn. It shall spare him from the bloodbane’s wrath.”
“That’s it?” I pushed. “How much blood?”
“A few mouthfuls will do.” A hollow, dry wind—not at all like the misty, cold veils that usually drifted past—brushed my face. “I helped you before. I have helped you now. And you will free me before I lose my patience, Cursebreaker.”
Some primal, lingering human part of me trembled as I took in the snare around its legs, pinning it to the ground. Perhaps this time, the Suriel had let itself be caught. And knew how to free itself—had learned it the moment I’d spared it from the naga.
A test—of honor. And a favor. For the arrow I’d shot to save it last year.
But I nocked an ash arrow into my bow, cringing at the sheen of poison coating it. “Thank you for your help,” I said, bracing myself for flight should it charge at me.
The Suriel’s stained teeth clacked against each other. “If you wish to speed your mate’s healing, in addition to your blood, a pink-flowered weed sprouts by the river. Make him chew it.”
I fired my arrow at the snare before I finished hearing its words.
The trap sprang free. And the word clicked through me.
Mate.
“What did you say?”
The Suriel rose to its full height, towering over me even from across the clearing. I had not realized that despite the bone, it was muscled— powerful.
“If you wish to … ” The Suriel paused, and grinned, showing nearly all of those brown, thick teeth. “You did not know, then.”
“Say it,” I gritted out.
“The High Lord of the Night Court is your mate.”
I wasn’t entirely sure I was breathing.
“Interesting,” the Suriel said.
Mate.
Mate.
Mate.
Rhysand was my mate.
Not lover, not husband, but more than that. A bond so deep, so permanent that it was honored over all others. Rare, cherished.
Not Tamlin’s mate.
Rhysand’s.
I was jealous, and pissed off …