2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

Though no larger than an ordinary book, the lead box seemed to gobble up the faelight
—and inside it, whispering … The seal of Tarquin’s power, and the Book.
And now I heard, clear as if Amren herself whispered it:
Who are you—what are you? Come closer—let me smell you, let me see you …
We paused on opposite sides of the pedestal, the faelight hovering over the lid. “No
wards,” Amren said, her voice barely more than the scrape of her boots on the stone. “No
spells. You have to remove it—carry it out.” The thought of touching that box, getting
close to that thing inside it— “The tide is coming back in,” Amren added, surveying the
ceiling.
“That soon?”
“Perhaps the sea knows. Perhaps the sea is the High Lord’s servant.”
And if we were caught down here when the water came in—
I did not think my little water-animals would help. Panic writhed in my gut, but I
pushed it away and steeled myself, lifting my chin.
The box would be heavy—and cold.
Who are you, who are you, who are you—
I flexed my fingers and cracked my neck. I am summer; I am sea and sun and green
things.
“Come on, come on,” Amren murmured. Above, water trickled over the stones.
Who are you, who are you, who are you—
I am Tarquin; I am High Lord; I am your master.
The box quieted. As if that were answer enough.
I snatched the box off the pedestal, the metal biting into my hands, the power an oily
smear through my blood.
An ancient, cruel voice hissed:
Liar.
And the door slammed shut.