2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

“Is there a way to stop it,” I breathed.
Silence. Expectant, waiting silence.
Rhys’s voice was hoarse as he said, “Don’t offer him one more—”
“When the Cauldron was made,” the carver interrupted, “its dark maker used the last of
the molten ore to forge a book. The Book of Breathings. In it, written between the carved
words, are the spells to negate the Cauldron’s power—or control it wholly. But after the
War, it was split into two pieces. One went to the Fae, one to the six human queens. It was
part of the Treaty, purely symbolic, as the Cauldron had been lost for millennia and
considered mere myth. The Book was believed harmless, because like calls to like—and
only that which was Made can speak those spells and summon its power. No creature born
of the earth may wield it, so the High Lords and humans dismissed it as little more than a
historical heirloom, but if the Book were in the hands of something reforged … You
would have to test such a theory, of course—but … it might be possible.” His eyes
narrowed to amused slits as I realized … realized …
“So now the High Lord of Summer possesses our piece, and the reigning mortal queens
have the other entombed in their shining palace by the sea. Prythian’s half is guarded,
protected with blood-spells keyed to Summer himself. The one belonging to the mortal
queens … They were crafty, when they received their gift. They used our own kind to
spell the Book, to bind it—so that if it were ever stolen, if, let’s say, a High Lord were to
winnow into their castle to steal it … the Book would melt into ore and be lost. It must be
freely given by a mortal queen, with no trickery, no magic involved.” A little laugh. “Such
clever, lovely creatures, humans.”
The carver seemed lost in ancient memory—then shook his head. “Reunite both halves
of the Book of Breathings and you will be able to nullify the powers of the Cauldron.
Hopefully before it returns to full strength and shatters that wall.”
I didn’t bother saying thank you. Not with the information he’d told us. Not when I’d
been forced to say those things—and could still feel Rhys’s lingering attention. As if he’d
suspected, but never believed just how badly I’d broken in that moment with Amarantha.
We turned away, his hand sliding from my back to grip my hand.
The touch was light—gentle. And I suddenly had no strength to even grip it back.
The carver picked up the bone Rhysand had brought him and weighed it in those child’s
hands. “I shall carve your death in here, Feyre.”
Up and up into the darkness we walked, through the sleeping stone and the monsters
who dwelled within it. At last I said to Rhys, “What did you see?”
“You first.”
“A boy—around eight; dark-haired and blue-eyed.”
Rhys shuddered—the most human gesture I’d seen him make.
“What did you see?” I pushed.