Cassian lifted his stare to Azriel, whose face conveyed everything: hope wouldn’t keep Feyre alive.
Cassian swallowed hard, and shifted his gaze to the three blades on the desk.
Their hilts were ordinary—as might be expected from a blacksmith in a small village. He made fine weapons, yes, but not artistic masterpieces. The great sword’s hilt was a simple cross guard, the pommel a rounded bit of metal.
Gwydion, the last of the magic swords, had been dark as night and as beautiful.
How many games had Cassian played as a child with Rhys and Azriel, where a long stick had been a standin for Gwydion? How many adventures had they imagined, sharing that mythical sword between them as they slew wyrms and rescued damsels?
Never mind that Rhys’s particular damsel had slain a wyrm herself and rescued him instead.
But if Amren was right … Cassian couldn’t think of another place in the world that held three magic blades, let alone one.
These might very well be the only ones in existence.
Cassian drummed his fingers on the desk, curiosity biting deep. “Let’s have a look.”
“Amren said not to,” Azriel warned.
“Amren’s not here,” Cassian said, smirking. “And we don’t need to touch them.” He clapped Rhys on the shoulder. “Use that fancy magic to unsheathe them.”
Rhys lifted his head. “This is a bad idea.”
Cassian winked. “That should be written on the Night Court crest.”
A few stars blinked into existence in Rhys’s eyes. Azriel muttered a prayer.
But Rhys took two steadying breaths and unspooled his power toward the massive sword, letting it lift the blade in star-flecked hands.
“It’s heavy,” Rhys observed, brows bunched in concentration. “In a way it should not be. Like it’s fighting against my magic.” He kept the sword floating above his desk, perpendicular to it, as if it were held in a stand.
Cassian braced himself as Rhys angled his head, his magic probing the hilt, the scabbard. Rhys mused, “The blacksmith never said anything about what had seemed cursed, and he must have touched it several times—to feel the power and to bring it here, at least. So it can’t be a death-sword to slay any careless hand.”
Azriel grunted. “I’d still be careful.”
With a wicked smile toward Az, Rhys used his power to draw away the black scabbard.
It did not go easily, as if the sword did not wish to be revealed—or not by Rhysand.
But inch by inch, the scabbard slid from the blade. And inch by inch, fresh steel glowed—truly glowed, like moonlight lay within the metal.
Even Az didn’t school his features into anything but gaping awe as the scabbard fell away at last.
Cassian stumbled back, gawking.
Iridescent sparks danced along the blade. Pure, crackling magic. The light danced and spurted as if an invisible hammer still struck it.
The hair on Cassian’s body rose.
Rhys inhaled, rallying his magic, then floated and unsheathed the other sword and the dagger.
They did not spark with raw power, but Cassian could feel them. The dagger radiated cold, its blade gleaming so bright it looked like an icicle in the sun. The second sword seemed hot—angry and willful.
But the great sword between the two others … The sparks faded, as if sucked into the blade itself.
None of them dared touch it. Something deep and primal within Cassian warned him not to. That to be impaled or sliced by that blade would be no ordinary wound.
A soft, female laugh rippled from the door, and Cassian didn’t need to turn to know Amren stood there. “I knew you idiots wouldn’t be able to resist.”
Rhys murmured, “I have never seen anything like this.” His magic set the three blades to rotating, allowing them to observe every facet. Az’s face was still slack with awe.
“Amarantha destroyed one,” Amren said.
Cassian started. “I never heard that.”
Amren amended, “Rumor claimed she dumped one into the sea. It would not come to Amarantha’s hand, nor the hands of any of her commanders, and rather than let the King of Hybern attain it, she disposed of it.”
Azriel asked, “Which sword?”
“Narben.” Amren’s red lips quirked downward. “At least that’s what rumor said. You were Under the Mountain then, Rhys. She would have kept it secret. I only heard from a fleeing water-nymph that it had been done.”
“Narben was even older than Gwydion,” Rhys said. “Where the hell was it?”
“I don’t know, but she found it, and when it would not bend to her, she destroyed it. As she did all good things.” It was as much as Amren would say about that terrible time. “It was perhaps in our favor. Had the King of Hybern possessed Narben, I fear we would have lost the war.”