2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

CHAPTER
29
Despite the chill night, every shop was open as we walked through the city. Musicians
played in the little squares, and the Palace of Thread and Jewels was packed with shoppers
and performers, High Fae and lesser faeries alike. But we continued past, down to the
river itself, the water so smooth that the stars and lights blended on its dark surface like a
living ribbon of eternity.
The five of them were unhurried as we strolled across one of the wide marble bridges
spanning the Sidra, often moving forward or dropping back to chat with one another. From
the ornate lanterns that lined either side of the bridge, faelight cast golden shadows on the
wings of the three males, gilding the talons at the apex of each.
The conversation ranged from the people they knew, matches and teams for sports I’d
never heard of (apparently, Amren was a vicious, obsessive supporter of one), new shops,
music they’d heard, clubs they favored … Not a mention of Hybern or the threats we
faced—no doubt from secrecy, but I had a feeling it was also because tonight, this time
together … they did not want that terrible, hideous presence intruding. As if they were all
just ordinary citizens—even Rhys. As if they weren’t the most powerful people in this
court, maybe in all of Prythian. And no one, absolutely no one, on the street balked or
paled or ran.
Awed, perhaps a little intimidated, but … no fear. It was so unusual that I kept silent,
merely observing them—their world. The normalcy that they each fought so hard to
preserve. That I had once raged against, resented.
But there was no place like this in the world. Not so serene. So loved by its people and
its rulers.
The other side of the city was even more crowded, with patrons in finery out to attend
the many theaters we passed. I’d never seen a theater before—never seen a play, or a
concert, or a symphony. In our ramshackle village, we’d gotten mummers and minstrels at
best—herds of beggars yowling on makeshift instruments at worst.
We strolled along the riverside walkway, past shops and cafés, music spilling from
them. And I thought—even as I hung back from the others, my gloved hands stuffed into
the pockets of my heavy blue overcoat—that the sounds of it all might have been the most
beautiful thing I’d ever heard: the people, and the river, and the music; the clank of
silverware on plates; the scrape of chairs being pulled out and pushed in; the shouts of
vendors selling their wares as they ambled past.
How much had I missed in these months of despair and numbness?
But no longer. The lifeblood of Velaris thrummed through me, and in rare moments of