Narben’s powers had not been the holy, savior’s light of Gwydion, but ones far darker. “I can’t believe that witch threw it into the sea,” Cassian said.
“Again, it was a rumor, heard from someone who heard it from someone. Who knows if she actually found Narben? Even if it would not obey her, she’d have been a fool to throw it away.”
“Amarantha could be shortsighted,” Rhys said. Cassian hated the sound of her name on his brother’s tongue. From the flare of rage on Azriel’s face, so did the shadowsinger.
“But you, Rhysand, are not.” Amren nodded to the still-rotating weapons. “With these three blades, you could make yourself High King.”
The words clanged through the room. Cassian slowly blinked.
Rhys said tightly, “I don’t wish to be High King. I only wish to be here, with my mate and my people.”
Amren countered, “All seven courts united under one ruler would give us far better odds of survival in any upcoming conflict. No bickering and politicking required to dispatch our armies. Malcontents like Beron would have no ability to threaten our plans by allying with our enemies.”
“We would have to fight an internal war first. I would be branded a traitor by my friends in other courts—I’d be forced to make them kneel.”
Azriel stepped forward, shadows trailing from his shoulders. “Kallias, Tarquin, and Helion might be willing to kneel. Thesan will kneel if the others do.”
Cassian nodded. Rhys as High King: he could think of no other male he’d trust more. No other male who would be a fairer ruler than Rhys. And with Feyre as High Queen … Prythian would be blessed to have such leaders. So Cassian said, “Tamlin would probably fight, and lose. Beron would be the only one standing in your way.”
Rhys’s teeth flashed. “Beron is already standing in my way, and doing a damn good job of it. I have no interest in justifying his behavior.” He gave Cassian a withering look. “Don’t we have to leave soon to winnow you and Nesta down to the Spring Court to meet with Eris?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Cassian drawled.
Rhys’s power rumbled in the room. “I do not want to be High King. There is no need to discuss it.”
“Yours is a terrible and beautiful power, Rhysand,” Amren said, sighing. “You have three magic blades before you, each a kingmaker in its own right, and yet you would rather share that power. Keep to your borders. Why?”
Rhys demanded, “Why do you want me to turn conqueror?”
Amren shot back, “Why do you shy from the power that is your birthright?”
“I did nothing to earn that power,” Rhys said. “I was born with it. It is a tool to defend my people, not to attack others.” He surveyed them. “Where is this talk coming from?”
Azriel said quietly, “We are weakened—all seven courts. Even more at odds with each other and with the rest of the world since the war. If Montesere and Vallahan march on us, if Rask joins with them, we will not withstand it. Not with Beron already turned against us and allied with Briallyn. Not if Tamlin cannot master his guilt and grief and become what he once was.”
Cassian picked up the thread, tucking in his wings. “But a land united under one king and queen, armed with such power and objects … Our enemies would hesitate.”
Rhys snarled, “If you think for one moment that Feyre would be remotely interested in being High Queen, you’re delusional.”
Amren said, “Feyre would see it as a necessary evil. To protect your child from being born into war, she would do what is necessary.”
“And I won’t?” Rhys demanded, standing. “I will not be High King. I will not consider it, not today and not in a century.”
Amren looked to the great sword, still slowly rotating above them. “Then explain to me why, after thousands of years, objects that once crowned and aided the old Fae have returned. The last time a High King ruled Prythian, it was with a magic sword in his hand. Look at that great sword before you, Rhysand, and tell me that it is not a sign from the Cauldron itself.”
Cassian’s breath caught in his throat. “It was a fluke, Amren. Nesta didn’t make it on purpose.”
Amren shook her head, hair swaying. “Nothing is a fluke. The Cauldron’s power flows through Nesta, and could use her as a puppet without her knowledge. It wanted those weapons Made, and thus they were Made. It wanted Rhysand to have them and thus the blacksmith brought them to you. To you, Rhysand, not to Nesta. And do not forget that Nesta herself—and Elain, with whatever powers she has—is here. Feyre is here. All three sisters blessed by fate and gifted with powers to match your own. Feyre alone doubles your strength. Nesta makes you unstoppable. Especially if she were to march into battle wearing the Mask. No enemy could stand against her. She’d slay Beron’s soldiers, then raise them from the dead and turn them on him.”