I dropped it onto the table.
It thudded, and they all recoiled, swearing.
Rhys crooked a finger at me. “One last task, Feyre. Unlock it, please.”
My knees were buckling—my head spinning and mouth bone-dry and full of salt and grit, but … I wanted to be rid of it.
So I slid into a chair, tugging that hateful box to me, and placed a hand on top.
Hello, liar, it purred.
“Hello,” I said softly.
Will you read me?
“No.”
The others didn’t say a word—though I felt their confusion shimmering in the room. Only Rhys and Amren watched me closely.
Open, I said silently.
Say please.
“Please,” I said.
The box—the Book—was silent. Then it said, Like calls to like.
“Open,” I gritted out.
Unmade and Made; Made and Unmade—that is the cycle. Like calls to like.
I pushed my hand harder, so tired I didn’t care about the thoughts tumbling out, the bits and pieces that were a part of and not part of me: heat and water and ice and light and shadow.
Cursebreaker, it called to me, and the box clicked open.
I sagged back in my chair, grateful for the roaring fire in the nearby fireplace.
Cassian’s hazel eyes were dark. “I never want to hear that voice again.”
“Well, you will,” Rhysand said blandly, lifting the lid. “Because you’re coming with us to see those mortal queens as soon as they deign to visit.”
I was too tired to think about that—about what we had left to do. I peered into the box.
It was not a book—not with paper and leather.
It had been formed of dark metal plates bound on three rings of gold, silver, and bronze, each word carved with painstaking precision, in an alphabet I could not recognize. Yes, it indeed turned out my reading lessons were unnecessary.
Rhys left it inside the box as we all peered in—then recoiled.
Only Amren remained staring at it. The blood drained from her face entirely.
“What language is that?” Mor asked.
I thought Amren’s hands might have been shaking, but she shoved them into her pockets. “It is no language of this world.”
Only Rhys was unfazed by the shock on her face. As if he’d suspected what the language might be. Why he had picked her to be a part of this hunt.
“What is it, then?” Azriel asked.
She stared and stared at the Book—as if it were a ghost, as if it were a miracle—and said, “It is the Leshon Hakodesh. The Holy Tongue.” Those quicksilver eyes shifted to Rhysand, and I realized she’d understood, too, why she’d gone.
Rhysand said, “I heard a legend that it was written in a tongue of mighty beings who feared the Cauldron’s power and made the Book to combat it. Mighty beings who were here … and then vanished. You are the only one who can uncode it.”
It was Mor who warned, “Don’t play those sorts of games, Rhysand.”
But he shook his head. “Not a game. It was a gamble that Amren would be able to read it—and a lucky one.”
Amren’s nostrils flared delicately, and for a moment, I wondered if she might throttle him for not telling her his suspicions, that the Book might indeed be more than the key to our own salvation.
Rhys smiled at her in a way that said he’d be willing to let her try.
Even Cassian slid a hand toward his fighting knife.
But then Rhysand said, “I thought, too, that the Book might also contain the spell to free you—and send you home. If they were the ones who wrote it in the first place.”
Amren’s throat bobbed—slightly.
Cassian said, “Shit.”
