Aelin made contact with Feyre, revealing that the wyrdkeys hold great power and that Maeve is a powerful enemy. Now, Feyre must figure out what to do with the information. 

After her encounter with the fae woman--Aelin, Feyre spent the rest of the day walking about the manor. She was too shaken, and her mind too preoccupied to sit still. She would have asked Tamlin to assign her a few escorts so she could travel outside of the manor, but he had yet to return. Feyre figured if he wasn't still in negotiations with the foreign delegation, that he was probably attending to more business with Hybern.

A light breeze stirred the air as Feyre strolled along a stone walkway around the perimeter of the manor. Five more minutes down the path, and the squat, rectangular shape of the soldier's barracks came into view.

Just two men conversed outside of the building; Feyre guessed they were probably trying to convince one another to trade shifts, but their conversation was lost behind the hectic cacophony of the training area further down the path.

She stopped walking when the training grounds came into full view. The open lands totaled about four acres, and were hardly ever not in use. The space was divided into separate training areas for a variety of weapons. Feyre's eyes were drawn to the center most area: the sparring rings, where a handful of males fought.

It was not uncommon for Feyre to make the walk and watch the soldiers train when she found herself with nothing to do. Initially, she thought that she might be able to garner useful information from watching the soldiers: a new battle tactic or fighting technique that might hint at Hybern's plans. Even absent-minded gossip had the potential to yield important information.

However, after her third or fourth time attending, Feyre came to the conclusion that nothing was to be discovered by watching them. Either Tamlin guarded his secrets too closely or his officers were not very forthcoming with their soldiers. Feyre suspected it was probably both.

If Tamlin knew of her little excursions to the training grounds, he hadn't said anything.

It wasn't until the third time she'd made the walk that whoever was in charge stopped asking her if she needed anything. And it wasn't until her fourth or fifth visit that most of the soldiers had finally relaxed enough to train properly. She imagined that it was probably very intimidating to have someone close to their high lord watching them.

She also suspected that if she had been anyone other than the "soon-to-be-lady of the Spring Court" or "Savior of Prythian" then she would have been asked not to come, for the sake of the soldiers' focus. Fortunately, the males got used to her presence and no one said anything negative about her visiting.

Despite the low turnout of information, Feyre liked coming to watch the training. She found peace in the metallic drone of clanking weapons, and the absence of servants and nobility. The atmosphere reminded her of the training routine she'd endured with Cassian, and she longed not just for the presence of her friend, but surprisingly, for the training itself.

Feyre let her lips turn into a wry smile. She could imagine the talking-to Cassian might give her after not training or conditioning for months in a row. "No excuse..." he might say. "...you let yourself regress; now we have to rebuild your endurance before we can continue working on combat..."

Feyre forced her mind back to the training grounds, and walked towards one of large trees that she liked to lean against. One of the males at the weapons rack noticed her, and offered her a quick smile before returning to the rack. She gave him a small wave and laughed to herself.

Her attendance to their training sessions was perceived in a variety of ways: many found it flattering, while others met it with indifference. Though they would never voice it, some of the males thought her a nuisance, one or two of them even questioning her presence with suspicion.

No matter the opinion, all of the males had grown accustomed to her periodic attendance, and a quick skim of their minds revealed that many of them even used the presence of Tamlin's future bride as motivation to work harder.

Feyre watched the males spar in the center for a few minutes before she realized that something was wrong. Their fighting stances were unusually taut; the conversations unusually quiet. A quick glance to the other training areas showed the same. The entire training grounds were tense, and all of the males especially guarded.

Throughout the ranks, males' gazes continued to flit to the back of the grounds. Feyre followed their looks to a small clustering of trees at the edge of the archery range.

Also leaning against a tree, intently watching the soldiers as they trained, was a tall fae male. One of Queen Maeve's warriors.

Feyre eyed him across the grounds. And then, probably against her better judgement, pushed off her tree and started towards him. As she made the long walk, she called a tight breeze between the not-so-curiously empty archery range and the rest of the training grounds, invisibly separating her and the queen's warrior from the rest of the soldiers.

The walk was more than three acres long, but Feyre would have bet gold that he'd sensed her approach before she even came into view of the training grounds at all. Yet he didn't acknowledge her until she was less than ten feet away.

Feyre walked to where the male stood and joined him in leaning against the nearest tree, without saying a word. Their trees had intercepted each other's growth, and the trunks stood less than a foot apart; rendering her and the male close enough to touch.

As soon as she settled, he turned back to the training grounds and resumed watching. She tried to resume her watching as well, but she found it hard to concentrate, and her gaze repeatedly drew back to the male on her left.

Like all the males in the Queen's command, he was tall and formidable. He emanated sheer power, and his muscular build rivaled the Illyrian warriors.

However, unlike the other warriors, her immediate impression of this male was that he looked warm. He had tanned bronze skin and a mane of long golden hair; though his dark onyx eyes spoke of rugged handsomeness, it was difficult to describe this male as anything other than incredibly beautiful.

She tore her gaze away and continued watching two of the soldiers spar. A handful of the soldiers continued glancing in their direction, either worried for her safety, or suspicious of their seeming interaction.

She found herself looking back at the male. His arms remained folded comfortably across his chest, and his legs crossed in a picture of nonchalance. Every once in awhile, his nostrils flared, and, again, Feyre found herself curious about their compulsion to sniff things.

She looked away once more, brushing up against his mind as she did so. Just as his physical appearance suggested, the male possessed a cache of raw power, and a library of battle skills and experience. She skidded mentally against his fairly weak shields and glimpsed some of his most recent memories. A flash of the currently imprisoned fae woman gave her pause. 

She willed herself not to look at him before probing further. A series of thoughts and memories regarding the woman flitted through his head. She started to delve deeper into his thoughts, but the male's voice startled her into immediately pulling out of his mind.

"I see you have a thing for blondes" he remarked somewhat humorously.

It took her a moment to process his words; then she had to suppress a laugh. Without turning to face him, she replied "I confess: they are a weakness of mine."

She wasn't looking at him, but she sensed him smile. Neither of them looked away from the sparring ring, where a few soldiers were now unabashedly staring. Some of them stood facing away with their heads turned, subtly trying to eavesdrop. Unfortunately for them, the breeze that Feyre held between the two groups was carrying her and the male warrior's words in the other direction; they would hear no sound from where they stood.

"That's a neat trick--" he spoke again, gesturing in front of them, to her invisible breeze "...wind magic?" he asked.

Feyre considered dropping the breeze, but decided that it would be equivalent to a concession. Instead, she turned to him. "You are familiar with wind magic?"

He smiled to himself, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of sorts," he replied, still without looking at her.

She, however, could not stop looking at him. There was a sort of familiarity that she could not place; she remembered where he stood at the back of the delegation during the queen's arrival, but something else nagged at the back of her brain.

"May I ask you a question?" she asked abruptly. He finally turned his head away from the training grounds to look down at her. They spent a long moment of time silently contemplating each other.

He twisted his body so that he was facing her head on, and resumed leaning against the tree with his shoulder. He recrossed his arms, and continued peering down at her, now the picture of male arrogance.

"A question for a question," he replied.

Feyre's chest clenched, the entire encounter feeling uncomfortably similar to the thought-exchange she'd shared with Rhysand on numerous occasions.

She was about to refuse, but then his face clicked into place. She recognized him from the time she had spent inside Aelin's mind-- it was just a couple of fleeting moments, but he had definitely been there, fighting beside the fae woman.

If she understood what she had seen, he may have even been fighting against Queen Maeve-- the woman he currently guarded and served. Perhaps his memories of the fae woman were more than just that of a guard who kept her prisoner. 

Countless questions popped into her mind, and before she could think better of it, she accepted.  "You first."

The male considered her for a moment, running his eyes down the length of her body; apparently contemplating more than his question. Feyre tried not to scowl.

Finally, he met her eyes and asked: "What's up with the redhead's left eye?"

Feyre felt herself blink in un-suppressed surprise, and once again, had to force herself not to laugh. It was not the type of question she had expected. She paused another moment, developing a response. "Lucien is an emissary to the Autumn Court, but he delivers messages to other courts as well," she began.

The male looked at her expectantly.

"Have you ever heard the saying: 'Don't shoot the messenger'?"

He gave a brief nod.

"Well," she continued. "--the woman who cut his eye out hadn't." She would have stopped there, but he continued to watch her; waiting for more information.

Feyre shrugged, while suppressing an involuntary shudder-- Amarantha's memory was still fresh in everyone's minds. "She didn't take rejection very well." Then she turned back to the training grounds, signifying that her answer was complete.

The shake of his head would have been rueful, were it not for the darkness that clouded his brow. "Women," he said. "--it seems like they always go for the eye."

He expelled a deep breath, and whatever he had been thinking about with it. "Alright," he prompted. "--what's your question, Lady Feyre?"

For once, Feyre didn't mentally recoil at the title; she was already too preoccupied trying to decide her question. There was so much she wanted--needed-- to know about their world, about the queen, and about the fae woman named Aelin.

She desperately wanted to ask about his relationship with Aelin, but she didn't think it would go over well. Instead, she thought of something that might have equal weight as his question.

"Why does your Queen employ only males?" she asked.

He grinned deviously, his slightly elongated canines glinting in the afternoon sun. "Lady Feyre, you ask the obvious." She opened her mouth to object, but he stopped her. "My Queen wouldn't dare risk sharing the attention of her males by employing another woman."

Feyre did not miss the hint of venom behind his voice.

She considered him from head to toe, and couldn't help but think that he might despise his Queen. But if that were so, she wondered why he did not just leave.

Perhaps, he  was a spy feigning allegiance to an enemy crown. But then again, a spy would not make his distaste for the enemy so easily known.

Feyre found herself growing more and more puzzled by these foreigners.

"... then, why bring along the female prisoner?" she risked asking.

Shadows crossed the male's face, and his easy demeanor closed off. He narrowed his eyes, the onyx irises darkening. For a moment, she thought he might ask her to leave, but then he replied "The prisoner is off limits;... besides, it's my turn to ask a question."

This time, she gave the expectant look.

"We both know why I'm here, watching your soldiers train," he asked. "--but why are you?"

Feyre didn't hesitate. "Am I not allowed to inspect the progress of my ranks?" she replied casually

He shrugged; the natural breeze shifting the tree branches above, but refusing to touch his golden hair. Feyre knew that if she were to paint him, she would have great trouble getting the hues of his hair to her satisfaction.

"No. That's a perfectly reasonable explanation, except they're not your soldiers-- you're just a consort; a soon-to-be one at that."

Feyre started, tensing her body and mustering offense.

His devious smile returned. "Regardless," he continued. "--that's not why you're here."

She crossed her arms and huffed a breath, hopefully the picture of an indignant noble. "Alright, queen's guard..." He frowned slightly at the title. "I like to come out here and watch Tamlin's soldiers train, because I find it peaceful."

He raised his eyebrows, ready to call her on a lie, but she pressed on."--It's time away from servants and courtesans and politics and court intrigue."

He looked at her again, as if considering her in a new light. He leaned closer, so that he was practically hovering above her. "Spoken like someone unaccustomed to life as a noble." His voice turned silkily smooth, and he met her gaze with intensity. His nostrils flared, obviously taking in her scent.

Feyre imagined him using the same movements in the past to seduce dozens of women.

She slowly tore her gaze away and shrugged. "There are far fewer pretenses in the sparring ring."

The male laughed wholeheartedly, straightening back to his initial position and returning the space between them. "I know many who would say quite the opposite."

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she cut him off. "What is it with all of you fae males and your noses?"

He raised his eyebrows in slight confusion. Feyre tapped the side of her nose. "You're constantly smelling things" she elaborated.

He broke into another smile, and looked pointedly at the training grounds, where several males continued to try to eavesdrop on their conversation. He then gestured to her slightly pointed ears. "As members of the fae, we both have a keen sense of hearing," he mirrored her movement of tapping the side of his nose. "--but I take it that your sense of smell is not as refined as ours."

Feyre recalled the day she and Rhysand had spent in the cave together-- when he had been shot out of the sky with poisoned ash arrows, and she had used her sense of smell to track him.

"Our sense of smell is much stronger than the average human's," she countered.

He laughed almost condescendingly. And as if he had read her mind, replied "yes, but we use or noses for much more than tracking. Where I come from, our sense of smell is practically an entire form of communication."

Feyre was not feigning her interest as she cocked her head, prompting him to continue.

"Emotions," he began. "--when someone is experiencing happiness, anger, sadness, lust..." He spoke slowly and deliberately, once again leaning closer to where she stood, like it was a private conversation meant for her ears only. She wondered if it was an involuntary reaction of his.

"If someone is wounded or bleeding... we can smell a paper cut from a mile away. If someone is dying, or if a female is with child." He continued to list the possibilities, while appearing lost in thought. "Mating bonds--though both partners typically have to be in close proximity for it to be initially recognizable." Feyre expelled a small breath and forced herself to appear unaffected.

"It's more of a physical sense than a scent, but we can also smell power... magic." He gave her what may have been a knowing look, and she fought the urge to take a step backward.

He broke the eye contact he had been holding and turned back to watch the training grounds. "Of course, the closer you are to a person, both physically and emotionally, the easier it is to detect things about them.

"And the male's sense of smell is much stronger than the female's." His eyes lit up mischievously. "You do not want to get between a male and his mate-- they get very particular about whose scents are allowed on their mate."

She expected him to stop, having provided much more information than she, but he made a big show of smelling the air, causing her to tense.

"There are so many flowers in this court," he mused. "It took me a solid four hours to adapt to the smell, and even now, sometimes it gets too overwhelming, and all I can smell are those damned roses."

Feyre continued to watch the male warrior, while swallowing the lump that had formed in the back of her throat. She should have laughed at his playful remark, but she was suddenly terrified that all of the Queen's males could smell her secrets.

If this conversation had any reliability, then she could probably assume that the queen and her males were aware of her powers-- but whether or not they knew the extent of her magic remained a question.

She didn't think that they could smell her and Rhysand's mating bond. It'd been months since they'd been in close proximity, and none of the males had been exposed to the scent for them to recognize it from a distance.

She wondered whether this male would stand so close to her, if he knew of her mating bond. Or whether she would be treated differently if they believed she and Tamlin were mates.

Feyre was jarred out of her reverie by the clash of metal. She turned to the training grounds, and realized that in her preoccupation, she had allowed the breeze to dissipate.

She loosed a breath and was about to excuse herself, when something made her stop. "What is your name?" she asked.

He didn't face her before answering, but she saw his lips tilt upwards. "Fenrys. Now you owe me a question."

Feyre glowered at him, but it was halfhearted. She began the walk back to the manor.

A couple feet away, he called out to her. "Lady Feyre--" she turned to face him, and their eyes met with intensity.

Even from the distance, she could see the emotional fervor that shadowed his face."--be careful what you reveal to whom," he said softly. "...not everyone's thoughts are their own."

Feyre gave a brief nod and turned her back on him once more, continuing up the path.

She discerned his warning to be sincere, but it left her feeling slightly confused and with even more questions.

With daemati like her and Rhysand running about, she understood someone's thoughts not being their own; however, she couldn't shake the feeling that Fenrys was referring to something entirely different.

...

Feyre spent the rest of the afternoon hyper-aware of everyone she saw. Every time she passed one of the Queen's males walking about the manor, she felt the sudden urge to hold her breath, as if not expelling air would prevent the warriors from being able to smell her.

Fenrys had implied that they could sense her powers, but not whether they knew of her being daemati. She didn't know if they even had daemati in their world, though her few interactions with the Queen made her suspect otherwise.

Feyre was just beginning to make her way towards her rooms to start preparation for dinner, when a commotion drew her attention to the other end of the hall. She took a few steps toward the noise, but stopped in her place, when a fuming Tamlin came crashing through the doors, with Lucien trailing at his heels.

She widened her eyes and turned her intrigue into a look of loving concern. "Tamlin, what--?" she began to ask. But he didn't even acknowledge her presence as he stormed down the hall and whipped around the corner.

She didn't hesitate to join Lucien in his pursuit and began following the raging High Lord at a light jog. Soon, she realized that he was headed toward the war room, and she ran to catch up with him. "...audacious, arrogant, bitch..." His seething echoed down the hall. "...practically threatened me in my own home--"

"Tamlin, wait," Feyre pleaded, reaching for his forearm. "--just calm down for a second. Tell me what--"

Suddenly, his magic flared in a blinding surge of golden light. Windows and benches and tables shattered, sending glass and wood flying down the corridor. If anyone in the hall had been human, they would have been cut and impaled into tiny pieces. Fortunately, that was no longer the case.

When the dust cleared, Feyre, Lucien, and Tamlin stood in wide-eyed silence, each with their own little circle of cleanliness, where their shields had prevented the debris from hitting them.

Tamlin took a deep breath, some of the tension leaving his soldiers. He looked at the both of them apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said.

Feyre ignored his apology. "What's going on?" she asked. "Did something happen in negotiations with the Queen?"

Tamlin turned to Lucien and shared a knowing look. Feyre's chest constricted, and her anger flared. She knew what was coming before the words even formed on his mouth.

"Yes," he said softly, only looking at her briefly before returning his gaze to Lucien's. "-- but now is not the time nor place to discuss it." Tamlin gave a small nod to Lucien, and the emissary took off down the hall to get things started in the war room.

Feyre looked after Lucien somewhat longingly. "Tamlin," she said, willing him to look at her. "Let me come-- I can help." She hated the pleading tone to her voice-- hated having to ask him for anything; but, she needed to know what was going on with the foreign Queen. "--Let me be apart of this."

For a moment, she thought that Tamlin might simply turn his back on her and continue on his way, but something made him pause. He bridged the gap between them and grasped her hand in own. "You're right." he said. "You're so right, and I love you for wanting to help." His eyes filled with sincerity, as he looked down at her tenderly, while rubbing his thumb against the inside of her wrist.

Despite her internal recoil at his touch, Feyre felt excitement rise in her chest. She was finally going to sit in on a meeting and get some real information. The smile she offered him was only half-forced.

He pulled her in close and nuzzled her hair. She kept her smile plastered on her face, while thinking, that if it meant she would be able to help her family and friends--her mate, then this small amount of physical touch might be worth it.

"I love you so much." He placed a kiss on her forehead and tightened his grip on her hand before pulling away. "I'll tell you everything you need to know tonight," he said. "--wait for me."

Feyre's hope dissipated, and hot, angry, frustration seeped into her veins. All she could do was stand there looking dumbfounded as Tamlin strode down the hall and around the corner, to meet Lucien and whichever advisers he called upon in the war room. To discuss negotiations with the foreign Queen. To organize his people and resources into whatever deal he had made with Hybern. To develop the battle strategy and tactics that he planned on using against the rest of Prythian--against the Night Court.

Tamlin's initial anger seemed to have transferred over to Feyre, as she seethed under her breath.

She wanted nothing more than to march into that war room and unleash her powers on all of them. To crash into their minds, rifle around all of their thoughts, and take whatever information they had, so that she could finally leave, and return to her family. 

Feyre reigned in her temper just enough to begin the walk to her rooms. She spared only a single moment to appreciate the composition of her standing among one of three clear circles in a room that was covered in dust and debris.

Her departure was intrusively loud as glass cracked beneath her heels.

Feyre reminded herself often that she could return to the Night Court whenever she pleased. She just didn't want the last three months to be a total waste; she needed to at least find something to help her court in the upcoming war before she left.

Then she could set the gardens on fire, give Tamlin and all his advisers a vulgar gesture, and winnow away without a single word. Assuming she would be able to leave without killing them all first.

Fortunately for the rest of the Spring Court, no one crossed her path as she made her way to her rooms. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was surprised by the absence of the Queen's males. If their senses were as refined as Fenrys seemed to think, then she would have expected a couple of them to be there investigating Tamlin's outburst.

She tried to school her features into general disappointment, but she must not have done a very good job, because when she walked, or rather--charged--, into her rooms, Alis took one look at her before excusing herself with the promise to bring dinner.

Feyre knew that it would be at least another hour before dinner was ready. She was too riled up to sit down, so she paced the room for a few minutes, before coming to a decision.

She didn't know how closely she was being watched by the Queen, or how much her males had already discerned, but one thing was for certain: Feyre's secrets were in more danger than ever.

She crossed the room to her hidden compartment and dropped the glamour hiding the door. She then dragged out all of her paintings from the last three months, and threw them into an organized pile on the floor. She walked about all of the rooms in her suite and opened the windows.

With just a moment's hesitation for her to grieve the paintings of her friends and Velaris, she called upon Beron's flame, and set the canvases on fire.

As the wood, fabric, and paint turned to ash, she worked to contain the smoke in a small area hovering above the flames, while intermittently allowing some of it to disperse through her rooms and out the windows.

Using her magic, the paintings burned completely in under ten minutes, but it took her another thirty to drive out the smoke and ash without being conspicuous.

As the last few ashes were carried out on her breeze, her eyes were drawn to the still open compartment, and the lone obsidian stone that sat inside. While walking throughout her rooms and re-closing the windows, she contemplated what to do with it.

If Aelin's visions were to be trusted, then that stone was one of the so-called wyrdkeys. 

She considered hiding it within the folds of her dress, but she feared that the Queen or one of her males would be able to sense it, and Feyre could not allow Queen Maeve to get her hands on it.

She thought about it some more, but eventually; at a loss, she decided just to leave it where it was, with the intention of brainstorming other possibilities later.

Feyre leaned against the edge of her bed and pulled in some of the air from the rose gardens to cover whatever burning smell that may have been lingering.

Alis came a little while later, a tray of food in hand. Feyre thanked her, and ate quickly.

Normally, she took her time enjoying the many spices and flavors of the luxurious food, but after the day's events, she had little taste for it.

Feeling slightly guilty for her earlier arrival, she allowed Alis to braid her hair while preparing for bed. They spent a few minutes re-hashing some well-known drama among the servants and courtesans, while Alis made several remarks about the attractiveness of the males in the Queen's delegation. They laughed like old friends, and for just a single, fleeting moment, Feyre felt somewhat at peace.

Alis seemed more tense than usual, and Feyre knew that the faery had something to say, but the words never came. She was about to press her on the matter, but the clock chimed, and Alis excused herself, leaving Feyre alone to wait for Tamlin's arrival.

Feyre grabbed one of her books and curled up in a chair. Her mind was so preoccupied, that it took a real effort to concentrate on the pages. She hoped that Tamlin's explanations would answer at least one or two of the questions rattling inside her brain.

Unfortunately, and to Feyre's utter aggravation, the High Lord never came.