36. Silence and Song
Silence and Song
The air cools, suddenly laden with salt and incense. Morning light deepens into a ruby-orange sunset. Seren staggers with the change, choking in Gevain’s grasp.
Gevain lets go, and momentum drives Seren to the floor. His knees bruise against hard wood instead of soil. He barely feels it past the crash of fear.
Emotion storms beneath fragile skin. An agonizing flicker of relief, followed by despair.
Heart pounding, Seren scrabbles to his feet. He and Gevain stand on a gold-draped dais. White silk tents and floral bowers fill the courtyard below. Golden lanterns dance between the trellised arches. Mirrored chimes and glass furnishings scatter light into dazzling confusion.
Endless, rippling water surrounds the courtyard, reflecting the low-burning sunset. No shore in sight, and no escape.
“Where is this?” Seren demands, jerking away. “Take me back at once.”
Gevain allows the retreat. “Welcome to my haven, Prince Seren.” Smirk deepening, he pulls a white satin cloak from nowhere. It billows without a breeze. As he slings it around his shoulders, his glance darts past Seren. “No greeting for our new guest?”
Annoyance breaks through the storming fear, punctuated with a weak cough. Seren whirls without thinking. He shouldn’t turn his back on Gevain, but he can’t help it.
Tansy slumps against a trellis, framed by climbing white flowers. His festival paint is smeared across his bruised torso. Silver chains bind his wrists to the trellis. Blood runs bright down his arms.
The overwhelming fear is his. Not Seren’s.
Despite the fear, Tansy glares up. His lips twist, then spit blood.
“Fuck you,” Tansy rasps, defiant.
His voice breaks Seren’s shock. “Tansy!” he shouts, rushing forward—only to reel back as Gevain appears in his path.
Satisfaction curls like incense smoke. “So, you do care about him,” Gevain says pleasantly.
Seren’s stomach drops. That satisfaction is a bad sign, too strong for Gevain’s practiced control to contain. Seren’s given Gevain too much leverage before the negotiation even starts.
Because of course there’ll be a negotiation. They’re fae. And Gevain hasn’t harmed Seren yet, besides bringing him here, which means he wants something else.
Sure enough. “I considered inviting Lord Nevander to this conversation,” Gevain continues. “But little Tansy was a more enjoyable guest.”
Tansy laughs weakly. “You’d never invite Nevander to a party. He’s hotter than you.”
His defiant attitude is clearly a defense mechanism. Probably unhelpful, given the number of bruises, but it’s kept him from collapsing so far.
Seren wishes Nevander was here. Nevander could fix everything: heal Tansy, eviscerate Gevain, hold Seren until the panic shakes from his bones. Seren’s only going to make things worse.
But he can’t give up. Squaring his shoulders, Seren reels in his empathy. His shields tighten until he’s locked out Gevain’s satisfaction and Tansy’s all-consuming fear. What remains isn’t fear like Seren expects, but determination. Outrage.
How dare Gevain defy him.
“I won’t discuss anything until I’ve checked on Tansy,” Seren says coldly. “If he’s dying, your leverage dies too.”
“Don’t worry, Your Highness, his injuries aren’t fatal,” Gevain assures, as if he hadn’t inflicted those injuries. When Seren doesn’t budge, Gevain reaches out a palm. “You may go to him if you give me your carryhold.”
The decision should be easy, yet refusal claws Seren’s heart.
There’s nothing useful in his carryhold, not that Gevain would know that.
Seren doesn’t trust his skill with a dagger, and he keeps forgetting to replace the healing elixir he used in Spiritwood.
But Nevander placed this ring on Seren’s finger, and he’s reluctant to part with it.
“Fine,” Seren spits, yanking his glove off, then the ring. He flings both to the ground and rushes down the steps.
Gevain’s low chuckle rolls along with the ring. It follows like an unwelcome touch as Seren drops to Tansy’s side.
Tansy tries to straighten, wincing. A bruise blooms over his right cheekbone. “I said you were too smart to listen to an ugly snake. Guess I was wrong.”
His bravado is a poor disguise for fear. Seren isn’t cruel enough to rip that mask aside.
“Look who’s talking,” Seren retorts instead. “What did he do to you?”
Tansy takes a shaky breath. “Just beat me up a little. I guess treason is stressful, and he needed to let off steam.”
There’s so much blood, mostly on Tansy’s arms, caked dry and fresh and that sticky in-between. Mortal blood, reeking of iron. Nauseous, Seren searches for knife marks.
But the blood comes from Tansy’s wrists, the skin torn beneath the silver cuffs. He must have been here for hours to wrench his wrists so raw. Hours of hurt, trying to escape, while Seren strolled through the gardens.
Seren was careless. He could blame it on his argument with Nevander—gods, he can’t think about Nevander now. The truth is, Seren was so relieved when Gevain’s attention wandered elsewhere. He hadn’t wondered what a high fae lord might see in a vulnerable changeling human.
Not a lover. An opportunity.
The bruises mottling Tansy’s ribs look bad. Gevain says the injuries aren’t fatal, but internal wounds are unpredictable.
“He needs treatment,” Seren says, trying to sound stern, not scared. “He’s only human.”
“Wow, rude,” Tansy gasps.
Unconcerned, Gevain ascends the dais. “Then we should converse with haste.”
Seren takes a deep breath, remembering everything Nevander and Primrose taught him about centering himself. He pats an unbruised part of Tansy’s shoulder and stands. His own shoulder twinges with the echo of fangs.
Gevain settles on a chaise longue. He completes the portrait of the courtyard, the white flowers and bright mirrors like an elaborate crown.
Everything seems designed to highlight Gevain’s bronzed cheekbones, the red fall of his hair.
What Seren thought were lanterns above are actually fish, their scales shining as they swim through the sky.
Seren hates Gevain all the more for twisting such beauty into cruelty. Except the haven is part of Gevain. This is his nature.
“I’m listening,” Seren bites out.
Gevain drapes one arm over the chair back, deliberately comfortable. “I held great admiration for Queen Haelwen. She ruled with such strength of conviction, nary a crack in her armor.”
Old grief surges into new suspicion. Seren never knew that Haelwen. He only met her in the cold serenity of death. She was sick, Nevander said. But she died by magic.
“Yet she had one weakness,” Gevain muses. “She was always so alone.”
“Did you kill her?” Seren demands, anger cooling into a blade.
But Gevain scoffs. “Obviously not. I wanted to marry her. But you’ll do in her stead.”
The absurdity shocks a laugh from Seren. “You think I’d marry you after this?”
Gevain shrugs. “Asking nicely didn’t work.”
This must be a joke. Seren isn’t worth so much effort to court. Except Gevain isn’t smiling, and he doesn’t want Seren. He wants the Prince of Summer, born Calithel. Morana called Seren a puppet, and Gevain wants to hold the strings.
“You’re deranged,” Seren says.
“And you care about that little human.” A filigreed knife appears in Gevain’s hand. “Arranging this meeting has required a great deal of effort, and I want more than just a marriage now. I want a lifebond. The three of us will wait here until you consent.”
A lifebond. That would protect Gevain from Nevander’s revenge, because Nevander couldn’t kill him without harming Seren too. At least if Seren remembers the logistics correctly. He feels unmoored, cut off from Summer’s embrace, lost beneath shining fish and changeless sunset.
“You can’t hold this haven forever,” Seren says, hoping he’s right. Havens are powerful magic. Power has limits.
“I can’t,” Gevain admits, twirling the knife. “But I can cut off Tansy’s fingers, one by one.”
Seren’s stomach churns, caught between Gevain’s threat and the small whimper behind him.
Tansy’s breath is shallow, unable to hide his fear. “It’s fine. I’ll get new fingers.”
Seren wants to comfort him, but he isn’t human like Tansy. The lies stick in his throat. He can’t even comfort himself in his own head. He just keeps wishing for Nevander, because Nevander knows how to protect people. Nevander doesn’t freeze in a crisis.
Gevain’s voice softens. “Everything I’ve ever told you is true. An alliance would help us both. You’ve seen my power. Imagine how we could protect our thrones together.”
His words flow in a seductive song.
“Born to Summer, but a stranger still,” Gevain continues. “Morana won’t be the last challenger, as long as you show weakness. How many times must your dear Nevander risk his life as your champion?”
Seren flinches.
He hated watching Nevander dive below Morana’s blade. Crashing into the ritual barrier, scattering feathers. He hated the sight of Nevander facing Lord Midnight and his augrays beneath fog and tree. Dark steel piercing Nevander through.
The first time they met, Nevander stood between Seren and an augray. Seren was too scared to worry about anyone besides himself that day. He hadn’t known that image would define his life—a golden warrior between him and danger.
But that’s for Seren and Nevander to argue over. Nobody else gets to intrude. Seren stands alone now, defending not only Tansy but Nevander, too. Even if he isn’t here.
“He’ll fight for me as many times as he must,” Seren says, fists clenched. “That’s why you went to all this trouble. Because you could never defeat him.”
Gevain’s frown sharpens to a smile. “I don’t want to take your throne, simply share it. You can keep Lord Nevander in your bed, too.”
He rises in a waterfall of white silk and descends the dais. His bearing is regal, his words intimate.
“This is a matter of alliances,” Gevain says, drawing closer. “Secure your throne and play with your guardian all you like. Doesn’t that sound nice?”