Page 116 of The Hidden Fae Prince
He leaps out, wings catching the air in a caress.
Nevander launches after him. His wings snap into place as his feet leave the railing. Between the rush of air and lift of magic, he feels unbound.
What really matters. Valerian’s right, damn him. Nevander isn’t panicking over a missing king. He needs to find and protect his lover. Not for the realm, not for a vow, but for Seren’s own sake—and Nevander’s selfish need. This desperation isn’t sworn to a higher power.
No more manipulation. No more scheming for Seren’s best interests against Seren’s will. Elladar needs a king, but if Nevander has to choose between the man he loves and the entire realm, he chooses Seren.
He’ll find Seren. He’ll slaughter Gevain and take Seren into his bloody arms. And if Seren wants to escape his fate, Nevander will follow and never look back.
After a few minutes that stretch like eternity, Nevander angles downwards. The towering goldwood trees part around an overgrown garden. Fallen leaves swirl as Nevander alights, then Valerian after him. Vines rustle around the array of ancient statues.
“Is this far enough?” Valerian asks.
Nevander inhales the green air. His wings fold close. “This is where I brought Seren to Elladar. It’s far enough.”
Scrying is powerful magic. Using the mirror more than once a day risks a dangerous backlash. Nevander can’t waste it too close to the palace, where the ambient magic obscures the scrying.
Once is all Nevander needs. He pulls the scrying mirror from his carryhold, and Valerian leans over his shoulder. Their wings brush lightly. Nevander centers himself, then flips open the case.
The small mirror reflects the leaf-limned sky, a hint of Nevander’s golden hair. Nevander holds the image of Seren in his heart—one of his favorite moments, Seren’s eyes wide with wonder as the pixies swarm him—and asks, “Where is Seren?”
Magic tugs Nevander’s spirit. The silver glass ripples gold. Then it falls still, reflecting only sky and leaves and morning light.
“What do you see?” Valerian asks.
“Nothing,” Nevander answers, his heart cold.
“Huh.” Valerian peers into the mirror, lips pursed. “Are you sure we’re far enough?”
Nevander is sure. But he snaps the locket closed and tucks it away. “I’ll try again, another mile out.”
The mirror shouldn’t be used twice in one day. It’s used up its own store of magic. A second attempt will take magic from Nevander to make up for the lack. Nevander doesn’t know how much. Enough to weaken him, maybe. Enough to burn him out for a week, or a year, or forever.
But he has to try again. He can’t contemplate the alternatives—that Seren is in another realm, beyond the mirror’s sight, where Nevander can’t reach him.
Or that Seren is dead.
36
Silence and Song
Theaircools,suddenlyladen 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.
