They’d been working these weeks, through whatever sources Azriel had, to get this encounter down to an exact schedule. If I needed more time than they’d allotted, if the Cauldron couldn’t be moved … it might all be for nothing. But not these deaths. No, those I did not mind at all.
These people—these people had hurt Rhys. They’d brought tools with them to incapacitate him. They had sent that legion to wreck and butcher my city.
I descended through an ancient dungeon, the stones dark and stained. Mor kept at my side, constantly monitoring. The last line of defense.
If Cassian and Azriel were hurt, I realized, she was to make sure I got out by whatever means. Then return.
But there was no one in the dungeon—not that I encountered, once the Illyrians were done with them. They had executed this masterfully. We found another stairwell, leading down, down, down—
I pointed, nausea roiling. “There. It’s down there.”
Cassian took the stairs, Illyrian blade stained with dark blood.
Neither Mor nor Azriel seemed to breathe until Cassian’s low whistle bounced off the stairwell stones from below.
Mor put a hand on my back, and we descended into the dark.
Home, the Book of Breathings sighed. Home.
Cassian was standing in a round chamber beneath the castle—a ball of faelight floating above his shoulder.
And in the center of the room, atop a small dais, sat the Cauldron.
CHAPTER
62
The Cauldron was absence and presence. Darkness and … whatever the darkness had come from.
But not life. Not joy or light or hope.
It was perhaps the size of a bathtub, forged of dark iron, its three legs—those three legs the king had ransacked those temples to find—crafted like creeping branches covered in thorns.
I had never seen something so hideous—and alluring.
Mor’s face had drained of color. “Hurry,” she said to me. “We’ve got a few minutes.”
Azriel scanned the room, the stairs we’d strode down, the Cauldron, its legs. I made to approach the dais, but he extended an arm into my path. “Listen.”
So we did.
Not words. But a throbbing.
Like blood pulsed through the room. Like the Cauldron had a heartbeat.
Like calls to like. I moved toward it. Mor was at my back, but didn’t stop me as I stepped up onto the dais.
Inside the Cauldron was nothing but inky, swirling black.
Perhaps the entire universe had come from it.
Azriel and Cassian tensed as I laid a hand on the lip. Pain—pain and ecstasy and power and weakness flowed into me. Everything that was and wasn’t, fire and ice, light and dark, deluge and drought.
The map for creation.
Reeling back into myself, I readied to read that spell.
The paper trembled as I pulled it from my pocket. As my fingers brushed the half of the Book inside.
Sweet-tongued liar, lady of many faces—
One hand on half of the Book of Breathings, the other on the Cauldron, I took a step outside myself, a jolt passing through my blood as if I were no more than a lightning rod.
Yes, you see now, princess of carrion—you see what you must do …
“Feyre,” Mor murmured in warning.
But my mouth was foreign, my lips might as well have been as far away as Velaris while the Cauldron and the Book flowed through me, communing.
The other one, the Book hissed. Bring the other one … let us be joined, let us be free.
I slid the Book from my pocket, tucking it into the crook of my arm as I tugged the second half free. Lovely girl, beautiful bird—so sweet, so generous …
Together together together
“Feyre.” Mor’s voice cut through the song of both halves.
Amren had been wrong. Separate, their power was cleaved—not enough to take on the abyss of the Cauldron’s might. But together … Yes, together, the spell would work when I spoke it.
