2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

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.