2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

CHAPTER
40
The mortal queens were a mixture of age, coloring, height, and temperament. The eldest
of them, clad in an embroidered wool dress of deepest blue, was brown-skinned, her eyes
sharp and cold, and unbent despite the heavy wrinkles carved into her face.
The two who appeared middle-aged were opposites: one dark, one light; one sweetfaced,
one hewn from granite; one smiling and one frowning. They even wore gowns of
black and white—and seemed to move in question and answer to each other. I wondered
what their kingdoms were like, what relations they had. If the matching silver rings they
each wore bound them in other ways.
And the youngest two queens … One was perhaps a few years older than me, blackhaired
and black-eyed, careful cunning oozing from every pore as she surveyed us.
And the final queen, the one who spoke first, was the most beautiful—the only beautiful
one of them. These were women who, despite their finery, did not care if they were young
or old, fat or thin, short or tall. Those things were secondary; those things were a sleight of
hand.
But this one, this beautiful queen, perhaps no older than thirty …
Her riotously curly hair was as golden as Mor’s, her eyes of purest amber. Even her
brown, freckled skin seemed dusted with gold. Her body was supple where she’d probably
learned men found it distracting, lithe where it showed grace. A lion in human flesh.
“Well met,” Rhysand said, remaining still as their stone-faced guards scanned us, the
room. As the queens now took our measure.
The sitting room was enormous enough that one nod from the golden queen had the
guards peeling off to hold positions by the walls, the doors. My sisters, silent before the
bay window, shuffled aside to make room.
Rhys stepped forward. The queens all sucked in a little breath, as if bracing themselves.
Their guards casually, perhaps foolishly, rested a hand on the hilt of their broadswords—
so large and clunky compared to Illyrian blades. As if they stood a chance—against any of
us. Myself included, I realized with a bit of a start.
But it was Cassian and Azriel who would play the role of mere guards today—
distractions.
But Rhys bowed his head slightly and said to the assembled queens, “We are grateful
you accepted our invitation.” He lifted a brow. “Where is the sixth?”
The ancient queen, her blue gown heavy and rich, merely said, “She is unwell, and
could not make the journey.” She surveyed me. “You are the emissary.”