20. Clouds Promising Rain
Clouds Promising Rain
Calendar Hall has been rearranged. The presiding chair now sits on a small dais, and the chair’s legs have been shortened. Seren’s feet touch the dais when he sits, instead of dangling over the flagstones.
The throne room still refuses to open. Elladar Palace does not acknowledge a new ruler.
Nevander stands at Seren’s side, a step down but still distractingly tall. He wears the gray leather armor again, with the roaring bear emblem. The gauntlets fit his hands perfectly. They would rattle around Seren’s wrists, still warm with the summer heat of Nevander’s skin.
Despite the modifications, the seat is less comfortable today.
Seren could get used to the fine silk clothes, the blue of his hair, even the faint glimmer of his fingernails.
But the more he learns, the less he knows.
The surrounding murals aren’t just beautiful landscapes. They’re portraits of lost realms.
And Seren doesn’t want to hide from that discomfort. He wants to chase it.
“Send him in,” Seren says.
Idalia opens the door without looking to Nevander for confirmation. Seren takes that as a victory.
Lord Gevain doesn’t glitter as much today, and his hair is neatly braided instead of flowing loose. He’s flanked by a woman in simple trousers and a falcon-emblazoned tunic. Her nut-brown hair wouldn’t look out of place in Wymond, though her green eyes have that fae brightness.
Both fae stop to bow halfway down the hall.
Seren loosens his empathy, just a bit. Nothing from Gevain. Nervous resentment from the woman. Not towards Seren, but towards Gevain and herself.
Gevain and the woman remain bowing. Right. Seren is supposed to speak. “Welcome, Lord Gevain. And who is this?”
Gevain straightens first, then the woman. “Allow me to introduce my attendant, Daffodil. Unfortunately, she cannot speak.”
Daffodil’s resentment flares.
“Can you hear us?” Seren asks to confirm.
Gevain pats her shoulder, smiling. “I can fix that, if you prefer a private audience.”
He says it like a joke, but Seren can’t bring himself to laugh. Something is missing, lost in Daffodil’s silence.
“Nevander said you asked for an audience,” Seren says, reining in his empathy. “Conveniently, I wanted to speak with you as well.”
Gevain places a hand over his heart. “I am grateful, considering how well-guarded you are.” His gaze drifts deliberately to Nevander. “How may I be of service?”
Seren doesn’t miss the insinuation that Nevander is too controlling—but he doesn’t care. “Your father’s domain borders the nightlands. Tell me about Lord Midnight, from your perspective.”
“I’ve only met him once, two centuries ago.” Gevain waves a casual hand, as if speaking of a mere two weeks. “My hunting party strayed near the border. Some might say past the border. Some might say I had done so before, in the arrogance of youth.”
Seren, at twenty-one years old, can’t imagine being so reckless. “What happened?”
“I expected augrays or night fae to chase us off. Instead, Lord Midnight himself appeared from the shadows.” Gevain’s voice lowers with a bard’s storytelling intonation. “He promised to cut my head off if I took another step forward.”
“How merciful,” Nevander comments, which Seren would take as sarcasm, except for Gevain’s serious nod.
“I was grateful for the chance to step backward.” Gevain’s hands drop. “His power… I have only felt such a presence from Queen Haelwen herself.”
The statement hangs like clouds promising rain. The comparison highlights not only Midnight’s power, but Seren’s fledgeling weakness.
Gevain breaks the silence with a theatrical sigh. “Lord Midnight was also incredibly handsome. Those pitch-black wings… like wrought iron. Beautiful and deadly.”
Seren hadn’t found Midnight—vision or reality—that attractive. He’s more drawn to security. Attention. Sunlight. Nevander’s eyebrows lift, and Seren yanks away from his inadvertent staring.
“I’ve heard Elladar fae are forbidden from entering the nightlands, and the reverse,” Seren says. “How strict is this?”
He isn’t satisfied with his latest reading.
Official information is one thing. The forbidden nightlands shift between twilight and darkness, never morning.
The region is home to monsters, murderers, and mad remnants of other realms. But where Seren comes from, borders are always more permeable than nobility would like.
Plenty of villagers hunt in the local lord’s forest.
“Dread Lord Midnight made an exception in threatening me,” Gevain says.
“Either due to my station, my dashing good looks, or his own inscrutable purposes. The decree against entering the nightlands came from Queen Haelwen. Lord Midnight is happy for Elladar fae to enter his domain. He just doesn’t let them leave. ”
Seren tenses, despite a lifetime knowing that vulnerability is weakness. “Is he in the habit of keeping prisoners?”
Gevain softens with painful sympathy. “I’ve heard no word of Prince Zavriel or Prince Briar since their abductions.”
Seren focuses on Gevain’s pointed ear, the one not obscured by hanging braids. Gevain knew Seren’s brothers—as did Nevander. Possibly Daffodil too, standing as mute witness.
“What about more recent relations?” Seren says, gathering himself.
Gevain remains serious. “They grow bold. My sister killed a scouting party on our territory last week. The farthest trees of Summer’s Edge grow less friendly—as if their allegiance wavers.”
“You haven’t reported that,” Nevander says sternly, even though Gevain has been surprisingly helpful.
Gevain shrugs. “My house is up to the challenge.”
Seren doesn’t need empathy magic to sense the rising tension. Time to change the subject. “What did you wish to speak of, Lord Gevain?”
“It’s connected, in the way of things.” Gevain’s wave encompasses the murals flowing between seasons. “I have heard rumors of unrest. Whispers of doubt that a human-raised prince can sit securely on the Summer throne.”
Seren strives not to shift on his raised chair. It's hard to sit securely on a seat he isn’t sure he wants.
“Who has been whispering?” Nevander asks.
Gevain nudges Daffodil forward. Her eyes widen, lips tight, but she doesn’t resist. “Unfortunately, the culprit is my dear attendant,” Gevain says. “She had the temerity to suggest someone else might make a stronger king.”
He leaves the identity of ‘someone else’ unsaid. Daffodil averts her gaze, clenched fists trembling.
“Is that why she cannot speak?” Nevander asks sharply. “She spoke quite clearly the other night.”
Gevain pats Daffodil’s shoulder, as one might pat a horse. “I’ve silenced her for a year and a day as consequence for her recklessness.”
Seren’s stomach turns at the casual statement. Yet Nevander doesn’t flinch at all.
Last time Seren was in this room, Lady Morana used a man as a chair. Nobody thanked Seren for interfering, least of all the man he tried to help.
No wonder people whisper doubts about Seren. Seren wouldn’t know how to silence someone for a minute, let alone a year. And everyone in this palace—in this realm—knows how helpless he is. They might pretend to respect his authority, but Nevander’s support is all that protects Seren.
Nevander doesn’t meet Seren’s gaze, still intent on Gevain. Perhaps his slight shift nearer is meant as reassurance. Perhaps Seren’s imagination has grown even more pathetic.
“I handled the matter gently, in recognition of her faithful service,” Gevain continues. “If you wish to be stricter, I can give her to you.”
Fear lashes Seren’s heart, so sharp his breath hitches. He’s slow to ward off the emotion, even as Daffodil bows her head.
Seren isn’t used to people besides Edith and Alard fearing him.
“That won’t be necessary,” Seren says, uncaring if that’s a bad idea. Maybe Nevander would want her interrogated. Maybe Haelwen would execute her on the spot. Seren isn’t yet prepared to punish his subjects.
“I’m relieved, Your Highness,” Gevain says as if discussing the weather, while Daffodil sags at his side. “With your permission, I’ll send Daffodil out.”
Daffodil’s pleading needs no words.
“Go ahead,” Seren says.
She bows deeply, then flees. When the door closes, Gevain continues. “Of course, I would not request an audience merely as an ominous tidingbird. I have two suggestions for a show of strength.”
Make no promises, Nevander warned.
“I’m willing to listen,” Seren says.
“Host a grand banquet.” Gevain lifts a hand, and illusions of tiny tankards, feathers, and dancers spin above his palm. “Impress us with pageantry. Prove you’re truly one of us.”
Nevander had prepared Seren for this topic. The suggestion makes sense. Wymond’s festivals brought the village together. Seren wouldn’t know the first thing about throwing a fae banquet, but ignorance has solutions. “Who typically organizes royal banquets?”
“The seneschal,” Nevander answers.
“Are any holidays upcoming?”
Nevander pauses. “The next threshold is about two weeks away.”
That sounds fitting, as Seren sways on the threshold of a new life with new expectations. “Then I will host a grand banquet for the threshold,” Seren declares. “Since this was your idea, Lord Gevain, I expect you to assist the seneschal as they require.”
“I am delighted to prove myself useful.” Gevain closes his hand on the illusory tankards. “I hope my second suggestion proves useful as well. As the nightlands encroach on Elladar, you may consider the benefits of alliance.”
“You’re out of line,” Nevander snaps.
“I said I’d listen,” Seren says, and Nevander clenches his jaw. Seren doesn’t understand the problem. Alliances sound sensible.
Gevain’s smile is polished in the face of rebuke.
“There are few suitable fae lords available. There’s the Lord of the Pyran, but he’s untrustworthy—and even worse, boring.
Lady Morana would be worth considering, despite my personal dislike, but she isn’t even heir to Brightwood.
Her sister outranks her and is already entangled. ”
That’s when Seren realizes what Gevain means by alliances.
Gevain twists a red braid of hair. “Morana must envy me, as the unencumbered heir to Summer’s Edge.”
“What is your suggestion?” Seren asks, his head spinning. “Speak plainly.”
“Nothing so permanent as a lifebond,” Gevain says. “Simply marriage.”
Familiar gold glimmers to Seren’s left. Nevander is about to draw his blade. But the glimmer subsides, and Nevander’s sword remains sheathed. His expression is stony.
Seren turns back to Gevain. His next question sounds stupidly direct, but he’s too shocked to sound kingly. “Are you proposing that we marry?”
Gevain bows, unfazed. “That would be presumptuous, Your Highness.”
Of course. Everyone speaks the truth here, but nobody speaks plainly. Seren struggles for a response. Making no promises sounds much better now. “I’ve listened to your suggestions. You may leave.”
“I look forward to our next meeting, Prince Seren,” Gevain says, with all his glittering fae attention. Then he strides from the hall, his head held high.
Seren doesn’t have time to feel relieved. Nevander gestures, and Idalia exits as well. The door thuds shut, leaving Seren alone with his fuming guardian.