Chapter Text
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
—William Wordsworth, “Ode: Intimations of Immortality” (1807)
Nothing came of the activity on the western sea border. Just a fracas between some Lesser Fae peasants. The real activity started when they received a message while out at the border calling for their immediate return.
They raced back. Lucien arrived first, rushing through the unconscious guards and into the foyer. Tamlin was only a moment behind on the marble stairs and through the front doors. There in the foyer, kneeling at Lucien’s feet, was Alis. When she saw them, she began to cry.
Feyre was nowhere to be found.
Tamlin swallowed thickly against the acid shooting up his throat. He lurched forward, grabbed Alis by the arm, and shook her roughly. She sprawled out across the floor. “Feyre— Where is she? Where is Feyre? Answer me, damn you!”
“Tamlin, stop! For Cauldron’s sake,” Lucien hissed. He knelt down at Alis’ side. “Everything’s okay, you’re not in any danger. You’re not in any trouble. We just need to know if Rhysand was here. Did Rhysand cross the border?”
Alis opened her mouth and then closed it. Then she did it again, and again. Finally, she whispered, “Feyre… She’s gone… She went with Lady Morrigan.”
“Was Rhysand here?” Tamlin snarled impatiently. He ignored the venomous look Lucien shot him.
Alis silently shook her head.
A growl ripped through Tamlin’s chest. He could feel the beast just under the surface of his skin and his claws darted out of his knuckles unbidden.
He ran through the foyer as fast as he could, boots skidding on the marble tiles, and up the staircase towards Feyre’s room. He slammed through her bedroom door, almost taking it off its hinges.
Tamlin snatched the covers off her bed, slicing them into ribbons in the process, to find a cold and bare mattress. He pivoted towards the armoire. It was still full. She had been stolen away with only the clothes on her back. He yanked her clothes out with his claws, leaving a pile of fabric confetti in his wake. Once the armoire was empty, he turned towards her dresser. When that was empty too, he realised what he had been looking for. Her wedding dress. It wasn’t there.
His chest heaved as he fought the beast down. He staggered to Feyre’s vanity, still untouched from this morning, and swept everything onto the floor.
He felt his grip on himself depart as his magic surged out like vines, as if it had a mind of its own. It radiated out of him, turning the furniture into pulp and smashing the windows out of their frames.
He turned, catching his reflection in the newly cracked vanity mirror. He didn’t recognise the animal who looked back at him with wide eyes. With that, the beast bubbled over and he roared as the transformation ripped through his body.
Everything after that was bedlam.
When Lucien found Tamlin again, he was sitting on the grassy bank of the starlight pool, his trousers rolled up to his knees and his feet dangling into the water. The chill of the spring night soothed his wine-flushed face. He felt deflated. Small, or as small as a High Lord could feel.
Lucien sat down beside him, pulling off his boots and stockings so he could soak his feet. He placed his boots next to a pile of empty wine bottles, some smashed, but said nothing.
They sat in silence for a long time, accompanied only by the rustle of the breeze through the grove. Finally, Tamlin said, voice hoarse, “This is where I first saw her happy.”
“I know,” murmured Lucien.
“She was happy here.” Feyre was happy here. Not just at the starlight pool, but here in the Spring Court. With Tamlin. She was happy when she was painting, when she was dancing, when she was walking in the rose garden. She was happy lying naked in her bed, illuminated gold by the rays of the setting sun. “I need to save her from Rhysand. I need to protect her from him… From that bastard. I can’t even bear to think what he’s doing to her right now.”
Lucien’s mouth twisted. “Tam… Rhysand wasn’t here. She went with Morrigan. She’s gone.”
“Do you think she’s coming back?”
Lucien looked down into the starlight pool. This tiny, shining fragment of the night in the Spring Court. This place where Feyre had been happy for the first time in a long time. "I don't know."
“You know how it feels to have love ripped away from you. Wouldn't you do anything— anything —to have another chance?”
He would do anything. He would kneel down and kiss Feyre’s feet. He would give up his court. He would kill himself. He would kill every Faerie and every mortal just to set eyes upon her face once more. The thought terrified Tamlin.
“I don’t know,” Lucien repeated, voice careful. The look he gave Tamlin was pitying, and it made the wine in Tamlin’s stomach feel like acid. “Not anything. Not anymore. I truly loved Jesminda, but it was a long time ago. Time is a great healer.”
He had told Feyre the tale of Lucien’s lost love here, before they’d swum in the pool of liquid starlight together.
“I will never heal from this.” Tamlin squeezed his hands into fists, his fingernails biting into his palms and his claws glinting at his knuckles. “These past months… My love for her is more true than any love that has come before. No love, neither Fae nor mortal, has ever—or will ever—compare.”
“I know you feel that way,” Lucien said. He rubbed one of his broad hands down Tamlin’s back, leaving a comforting trail of warmth.
“Rhysand is nothing to her.”
“Rhysand wasn’t here, Tamlin.”
“He didn’t need to be. He had his little lackey to do his dirty work.”
“Feyre made her choice,” Lucien insisted. “The consequences are hers to bear alone now.”
“Weren’t you her friend?” Tamlin snarled, jerking back so Lucien’s hand fell from his back. He felt heady with the wine sloshing around inside of him. “How could you leave her to the Night Court? She only made those choices because Rhysand has been poisoning and manipulating her. I should never have let her go with him in the first place. If she was in her right mind, she’d be here, with me!”
Lucien’s hands shot up in a placating gesture. “I was her friend. I am her friend. I’m your friend too and I’m behind you, whatever you decide to do.”
Tamlin looked down at his hands, crimson blood blooming on his palms like rose petals. The fight left his body, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. “I love her. I just want what’s best for her.”
“I know, Tam, but you can’t keep her here against her will. Even if that’s what’s best for her,” Lucien whispered. This time, Tamlin let his fall on Lucien’s shoulder, felt Lucien’s warm hands on his back, and allowed the soporific effect of the wine to wash over him.
The following days collapsed into each other in a drunken haze. Tamlin sat in his sitting room, installed in his favourite armchair, and rotted.
The only liberation from the prison of his own thoughts was Lucien’s occasional visits. Lucien would force him to drink water and sip on light broth. Then they would sit together in front of the hearth in companionable silence.
That night—or day, he didn’t know anymore—he was sitting alone with only his wine for company. When he heard the door to the sitting room open, he assumed it was Lucien until he heard the telltale tinkle of silver bracelets. He looked up to find Ianthe standing in the doorway.
She stepped forward, but took a moment to pause in front of the candlelight, angled artfully so the light sparkled off the limpid blue stone of her headpiece. She was breathtakingly exquisite, glittering away like the stars in the night sky, but her beauty was nothing compared to Feyre’s.
“Have you missed me?” Ianthe asked, her expression perfectly serene. When Tamlin said nothing, she continued, “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?”
Tamlin hadn’t noticed Ianthe had been missing, and found that he cared very little. Grudgingly, he asked, “Where?”
“You see, when I heard what happened, I rushed to Hybern to talk to the King...”
Tamlin’s head felt foggy from the wine. Hybern was a monster, but Ianthe sounded so perfectly sincere. “The King? Whatever for?”
“He seems very sympathetic to your plight, High Lord. He said that Rhysand has overstepped by stealing Feyre away, and that he needs to pay for what he has done. That Feyre should pay for her betrayal. He has offered an allegiance, and he would be a powerful ally to have. I have consulted the Cauldron—”
“I don’t care what the Cauldron has to say,” Tamlin interrupted tersely. “I love Feyre, I don’t want her punished. I want her to come back and be Lady of the Spring Court.”
“That’s why what she did was such a betrayal,” Ianthe insisted, her voice soft and low. She stepped close to stroke his hair out of his face, and then, in one fluid movement, she hitched up her blue robes, which rippled across her body like water, and climbed into his lap. Her exposed legs were an expanse of snowdrop white flesh, so unlike Feyre’s tanned skin.
Tamlin looked up, away from her legs, and found them face to face, their noses just a breath apart.
“What are you doing?” he croaked out.
“Comforting you,” Ianthe replied. She rested her palms on Tamlin’s chest in what seemed like a comforting gesture, but when she rubbed his chest, it was more forceful than he would have liked. He could feel the metal of her rings digging into his flesh through his tunic.
He was pinned.
“I don’t want to be comforted—not like this. I love Feyre,” Tamlin said, as much for himself as for Ianthe. Her cloying perfume was overwhelming and, combined with the wine, it made the world feel like it was spinning. He clung to the armrests of his chair. His claws slid out, digging into the already scarred wood of the armrest. “I love Feyre. I love her.”
“Everyone knows that. You love her and she has betrayed you, abandoning you for the Fae who is responsible for the murder of your beloved mother.”
“No,” Tamlin insisted. “Feyre would never do that to me. That’s all him .”
Tamlin thought the corners of Ianthe’s lip pinched tightly, but they smoothed back out just as quickly. He must have imagined it, as wine-addled as he was.
“You’re right, High Lord. I am sorry, I was mistaken. My thoughts became clouded. When you hurt, I hurt. Through my connection to the Cauldron, I feel the pain of my home, the subjects, and the land as if it were my own. I always have, although I know it must be impossible for you to fathom such a transcendental bond. It is both a blessing and a curse to feel so deeply.”
“Of course,” Tamlin said slowly. That sounded like the Ianthe he knew.
“Do not worry. This is not Feyre’s fault and we will save her. With the King of Hybern as our ally, we will invade the Night Court and save her from Rhysand.”
The cogs in Tamlin’s mind felt like they were stuck, unable to turn. It all felt too much, both the weight of the decision and the weight of Ianthe in his lap, pawing at him. “Are you suggesting war? I don’t…”
He tried to dislodge her, but her hands slid to his shoulders and held tight. “Don’t you want Rhysand to suffer? All of them, the whole Night Court, don’t you want to see them punished? Or punish them yourself?”
Tamlin looked into her face. Ianthe’s piercing blue eyes, her ethereal beauty, and the piety she wore across her forehead in navy blue ink. This was the Ianthe he had known since childhood. He could trust her.
Still, to go to war with the Night Court… Even with an allegiance with the King of Hybern, there would be huge losses for the Spring Court. Rhysand alone was no feeble threat, let alone the Illyrian army he had at his disposal.
When it came to saving Feyre, how much loss was worth it? Was any loss too much?
“Tamlin? My friend, shall I write to Hybern and tell him that you accept his generous offer?”
Before Tamlin could conjure up a coherent thought, the door to his sitting room opened again. This time, it actually was Lucien, carrying a tray. When he saw Ianthe, sitting as she was, he stormed over and slammed the tray down on the side table, sending soup slopping down the side.
“What is going on here?” Lucien demanded.
“The adults are talking, Little Lucien,” Ianthe snided. “Maybe you should go and play.”
Tamlin startled at her tone, so unlike the Ianthe he knew, and tried to unseat her again. She squeezed her thighs tightly around his to stabilise herself. He knew he could throw her off easily if he so desired, but he would hate to hurt his dear friend.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lucien looked to Tamlin. “Is something happening here?”
“Lucien—” Tamlin started, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. He wished he hadn’t drunk quite so much wine because he couldn’t think.
Lucien took that as answer enough. He grabbed Ianthe by the shoulder and dragged her up and out of Tamlin’s lap. As she stumbled backwards, clothes rumpled, Tamlin thought that it was the least graceful he had ever seen her.
Ianthe wrenched herself out of Lucien’s grasp and smoothed out her robes. She would have looked composed, if it weren’t for the sour expression on her face. “We were discussing the future of the Spring Court. It does not concern you.”
If it were possible, Lucien’s anger only seemed to grow, his red hair falling around his face like a halo of fire. “Everything that happens in the Spring Court concerns me. I am the Spring Court Emissary and I advise Tamlin directly. You are the interloper here.”
“I was born here, it is my home. You ended up here because you betrayed your family. It is typical of you, Lucien, you are never appreciative.”
“ Appreciative —” Lucien hissed. “Tell me this, Ianthe. If this is your home, then where were you the last fifty years while I was here defending the Spring Court?”
Ianthe looked ready to spit a mouthful of acid at Lucien, so Tamlin cut them both off with a loud, “Enough!”
They both turned to him.
Tamlin had always been able to read Lucien’s face, even when he had only one eye and most of his expression was hidden behind a mask. He had always known that Lucien did not like Ianthe, and that he resented her for escaping to Vallahan while Prythian was butchered and enslaved by… Well. However, only now, looking into Lucien’s face, did Tamlin realise quite how deep that loathing ran.
He realised that he could never keep them both happy. If the Spring Court was to be stable, they could not exist here together.
Ianthe, his childhood friend and a powerful ally, or Lucien, his most dedicated follower. Lucien, who had laid down his life for him time after time, and who would do so again in a heartbeat. Lucien, who would probably die for the Spring Court if a war with the Night Court did transpire.
“Ianthe...” Tamlin said, wetting his lips. “I’m tired, perhaps you should go now. We can discuss the situation at a more appropriate time. ”
Her pleasant mask, perfect as a picture, snapped back onto her face. “Of course, High Lord. We will speak again,” she replied, before gliding out of the room without a glance back.
“That went well,” Lucien said, sounding more bemused than anything else. He looked at Tamlin, who was still gripping the arms of his chair like a lifeline, and sighed. “Tamlin. I liked that chair. Could you consider finding a new form of self-expression that doesn’t end up with all the furniture being ruined? Again, like, oh, the last dozen times. Perhaps the flute?”
Tamlin released the armrests, flexing his stiff fingers, and shot Lucien what he hoped was a withering glare, but was perhaps a slightly dopey, drunken stare. Maybe he had destroyed quite a lot of furniture, but it was his furniture after all.
Lucien ran his fingers along the new scars in the wood. “I suppose you’ve given it character. You’re quite the carpenter, and who else in Prythian has an armchair forged by a High Lord’s fit of pique?”
“Lucien, your High Lord is commanding you to shut up,” he said imperiously, but he couldn’t hide a small, reluctant smile.
The next morning, Tamlin lay in bed with a pounding headache. It was the first time he had been sober in… Only the Cauldron knew how long. Several days at least. He felt awful, like all the moisture had been sucked out of his body by a demon, and then that demon had curled up inside his mouth and died.
There was a knock at his bedroom door that felt like it was happening on the inside of his skull. “Stop that! For Cauldron’s sake, stop that racket and just come in.”
One of his Lesser Fae guards came in, eyes trained on the floor. “Sorry to disturb you, High Lord, but it is urgent. There have been reports of naga near the wall. Should I alert the rest of the guard?”
“No, I’ll deal with it myself. Go and tell one of my servants to draw me a bath and bring up a breakfast tray. Tell the stables to ready my horse.”
Perhaps slaughtering some beasts would clear the clouds from his mind. He needed to organise his thoughts before he spoke to Ianthe again.
He took his time bathing in the hot, fragrant, petal-laden water, washing away his sour stench. He ate his breakfast in the tub, snacking on honeyed fruits until the water was cold and his skin had pruned.
By the time he finally reached the stables it was mid-morning. His headache had abated a little. A small tipple would have eased the way, but it was probably better not to drink and ride.
Lucien was already at the stables, atop his horse, a dapple-grey mare.
“I don’t remember sending you an invitation,” Tamlin told him.
The corner of Lucien’s lip twitched up into a wry smile. “Did you think I’d let you go alone? You’d probably fall sideways off your horse and straight into a ditch.”
“I don’t need a minder,” Tamlin snapped, albeit half-heartedly. “I’m sober. For now.”
Tamlin’s black stallion had been prepared, and he mounted his horse easily, a lifetime’s muscle memory overriding the unsteadiness in his legs. Even though he could run faster than any horse, he loved riding. He stroked his hand along the stallion’s dark neck. He was glad that Feyre had never taken to riding or claimed one of the horses as her own. He would have hated to be unable to look at any one of them.
“Glad to hear it,” Lucien told him, “but I’m still coming.”
Tamlin wanted time to think, but he decided against arguing. He couldn’t explain why he wanted to be alone because he wasn’t ready to confess Ianthe’s plan. So together, they set off for the wall in search of the reported naga.
They rode in silence, a blessing for Tamlin’s sore head, with only the sound of horse hooves crunching on foliage to accompany them. Occasionally their feet knocked together as they pushed through the dense vegetation. Tamlin stared at a pink blossom that had become caught in Lucien’s hair. The Spring Court hadn’t always been this untamed. When did it become like this? Tamlin couldn’t remember, as though his gardens had become feral behind his back.
The sunlight managed to squeeze through the thick thatch of forest canopy overhead, illuminating them in dappled light.
He felt the urge to tell Lucien that he and Feyre had fought the naga once, side by side, even though he knew that Lucien knew this. In fact, Lucien was the one responsible for it even happening. It was a compulsion. His resting mental state was Feyre. For so long, the only thing in his thoughts was fear and then it had been Feyre. Then it had been fear and Feyre.
But they’d only known each other for a short time. He only had so many points of reference, so many stories about her he could tell. She bounded into and out of his life in a single turn of the seasons. Did he know her favourite food? Her least favourite colour? Did he even know her surname? Wait, did he know her father’s name? He had met her father, given him more wealth than any mortal could comprehend, but did he know his name?
“Vanserra,” Tamlin said out loud, breaking the companionable silence. “That’s your surname.”
Lucien quirked an eyebrow. “Why thank you, Tamlin. I had almost forgotten.”
Tamlin ignored him. “Your father is Beron.”
“Unfortunately,” Lucien scoffed. “Do you have any other great insights to bestow upon me or is that it?”
“Your favourite colour is green and your favourite food is mushrooms. I know all these things about you—in fact I know everything there is to know about you.”
Lucien threw his head back with a laugh. “Well, of course you do, we’ve been friends for hundreds of years. My own mother doesn’t know me better.”
Of course, wasn’t that the natural progression of a relationship?
Feyre had stormed into his life and then stormed right out again, a breath of lilac and pear scented air dispersing on the breeze. It was a year of chaos and fear and they had spent a quarter of it at Aramー her mercy. He had barely seen Feyre during those three months, his only comfort had been Lucien’s reassurance. When they did see each other, he could barely look at her, unable to speak.
Feyre had been brave and he had been weak. He had not been worthy of her, and now she was gone, but he would be. He would get her back from Rhysand. One way or another.
Just thinking about his time Under the Mountain left him nauseous, anger and disgust and helplessness roiling in the pit of his stomach.
Lucien was oblivious to this as they rode side by side. He couldn’t burden Lucien who had suffered just as much. More, even.
He had whipped Lucien with his own hands. “I’m sorry,” Tamlin said, surprising himself. The words tasted strange on his tongue. How many times had he apologised in his life? Not many. Not as often as he probably should have.
Lucien gave Tamlin a considering look, as though Tamlin was a particularly challenging puzzle, before shrugging.
“For knowing me so well? I know everything there is to know about you too and I won’t be apologising for it. Actually, I’m saving it for blackmail. Next time you try to make me go with you when you’re dealing with a bogge or some such creature, I’m telling everyone that the High Lord of the Spring Court is scared of the dark and he has absolutely no idea how to seduce women.”
“That is not true,” Tamlin replied hotly, pulling the reins tighter and urging his horse into a canter so he could race away from Lucien. He needed to get to the wall soon, as only chopping down some beastly creatures could soothe him.
Lucien called after him, a note of laughter in his voice, “The Fae can’t lie, Tamlin!”
He knew seduction. He had seduced Feyre, hadn’t he? They had been in love and lain together.
He hadn’t exactly grown her a rose garden like his father had done for his mother, but his father hadn’t actually dirtied his hands with soil by doing it himself. He’d had slaves do it. He’d delegated. That just didn’t make such a romantic story.
He could seduce Feyre again. Tamlin had held Feyre’s dying— dead —body in his arms and given it life. Short of them being mates, there was no greater intimacy than that.
He just needed to slice through the veil Rhysand had cast over her. He would become the antidote to the poison Rhysand was whispering in her ear every day that she was away from the Spring Court. Even if leaving had truly been her choice, then she could choose to come home too.
The previous day’s excursion to the wall with Lucien had done him some good. The fresh air and adrenaline had cleared the cobwebs from his mind. He had a plan. If he could just get Feyre to want to come back, then there would be no need for a fruitless war with the Night Court.
He sat down at the breakfast table in the hall, surrounded by the chattering of his court. He loaded his plate with thick cut bread and fruits. Alis appeared at his elbow to pour fragrant tea into his teacup.
“Alis,” Tamlin said, slathering his bread in butter, “what do women like?”
Alis startled. “ Like ?”
Tamlin forked a strawberry into his mouth and shrugged. “You know… Seduction. How would you want to be seduced?”
“Me?" Alis asked, looking confused.
“More generally,” Tamlin clarified.
“Everyone is different, High Lord.”
Tamlin bit back a sigh. “Feyre. What would Feyre want? You know her better than anyone else.” He paused for a second. “Except me.” Probably. Hopefully.
“I don't know if I can provide you with an answer, but I will think on it,” Alis told him before leaving.
As Alis left, Ianthe breezed in. Her flaxen hair was loose around her face and lit gold by the morning sun.
Ianthe descended into the seat next to him like liquid. She leaned close, her chest pressed against his bicep, to steal a blackberry from his plate. Tamlin wrinkled his nose as he was caught in a cloud of her cloying perfume.
“Where is that servant girl going?” Ianthe asked, licking blackberry juice off her fingers. “She hasn’t poured my tea.”
Tamlin batted her hand away with his fork when she went back for a slice of pear. “Pour your own tea.”
“Forget the tea. I’m here to finish our conversation now Lucien is away. The King of Hy—” Tamlin shushed her. Ianthe continued, “— He won’t wait forever.”
Tamlin quickly dismissed his court with a wave of his hand. He didn’t need all of Prythian finding out about this. As his courtiers filed out, Tamlin asked Ianthe, “Why must this be a conversation we have without Lucien? He is my emissary after all, and I thought you liked Lucien.”
“Better options have become apparent,” Ianthe told him.
“What does that mean?” Tamlin asked.
The double doors to the hall banged shut as the last straggling servant left, leaving them completely alone.
“Lucien is not important here. Lucien is weak, his mother raised him soft-hearted. He doesn’t understand what it means to sacrifice for the sake of progress,” Ianthe said, reaching out to squeeze Tamlin’s hand in her own. “Not like we do, my friend.”
“I have spent the last fifty years sacrificing, as has Lucien.” He thought of Andras, who Lucien had never truly forgiven Feyre for killing. Everyone they had lost in the Blight, from courtiers to villagers. High Fae and Lesser Fae alike. “I cannot, in good conscience, plunge my court into a war with the Night Court that we cannot win.”
“The Spring Court is my court and my home. I would never suggest a war with the Night Court if I did not believe we could win. The King of Hybern is very cunning and he has countless armies he will put at your disposal. Don’t you see? We could defeat the Night Court in a single afternoon. Don’t you want Feyre back? Isn’t that important to you anymore?”
“Of course it’s important to me,” Tamlin snapped, yanking his hand out from under Ianthe’s. “There is literally nothing in this world that is more important to me. It’s just… What does Hybern get out of this alliance? I’ve never known him to have any particular quarrel with Rhysand or the Night Court.”
“We would support his bid to reclaim the mortal territories,” Ianthe replied simply, and then she popped a berry into her mouth.
Tamlin felt adrenaline surge through him, and his claws glinted at his knuckled unbidden. Ianthe wanted him to break the treaty. Ianthe hadn’t been born when it was signed. Though Tamlin had been too young to fight, he remembered the bloodshed. He remembered the relief when the human-Fae alliance was finally secured.
This was all starting to sound nauseatingly familiar. His breakfast turned to ash in his mouth and he pushed his plate away. “No— no way. That’s what Ara—that’s what she—”
“Aramantha waged war—”
“Don’t say her name,” Tamlin snarled.
Ianthe jolted in alarm but quickly recovered, bowing her head in a portrait of contrition. “ She waged war against Prythian and hurt your citizens. She humiliated you. The King of Hybern wants to help you. There is no comparison.”
“Conquering the mortal territories goes against everything I believe in and everything I have ever fought for.”
“My friend, can’t you see? Hybern will come for the mortal territories regardless of your support and he will have to go through the Spring Court to get to the wall. He is a powerful force and we will be defeated. His invasion is inevitable, so being on his side can only benefit us. There will be sacrifices now, yes, but think of the death toll if he attacks the Spring Court.”
“I understand that, but I cannot turn my back on the mortal territories so easily.”
“This is not the Tamlin I remember. I returned to the Spring Court to serve you as High Priestess, but you are not the Fae I knew. The Tamlin I knew would never prioritise the lives of mortals over those of his own court.”
“Have you forgotten that Feyre was once mortal? If I wage war on her home, she will never forgive me.”
Ianthe, ordinarily so divine and above the toils of normal Fae, had become frustrated. It made her look…. Unremarkable. “This is Feyre’s home,” she bit out. “Have you forgotten that I was Feyre’s closest confidant? She is High Fae now and no longer sees the mortal world as her home. Let’s stop this nonsense, Tamlin. Are we going to ally with Hybern or are we going to sit here and wait to be slaughtered?”
“I need time, Ianthe. I cannot make a decision like this lightly.”
“What if you wait and Rhysand kills her?”
Tamlin’s claws stabbed into the wood of the table. What if Rhysand killed her? He had been working on the assumption that Rhysand wanted Feyre for himself, but how did he know? Once his friend, Rhysand was now a stranger to him. Still, Rhysand hadn’t harmed her Under the Mountain. He had coveted her. Kissed her.
Ianthe pressed on. “If we are not Hybern’s allies, we are his foes. Whatever you choose, there will be human losses, but only you can prevent losses in the Spring Court.”
Tamlin steadied himself with a deep breath and unhooked his claws from the table. There were deep grooves scarring the wood. “Then I need you to return to Hybern and be my eyes and ears. Wait for my word.”
There could be other options. He could play both sides. He would never move against the mortal territories, but what if he could convince Hybern that he would?
“Unless you send me to him with a missive saying you agree to the alliance, I won’t return. This is my home, but, by the Cauldron, I won’t stay here to be slaughtered,” Ianthe urged. “I’m going to pray on this, you’ll need the Cauldron’s guidance, but you know where to find me.”
Tamlin had tried to push the threat of Hybern to the back of his mind for several days, but he knew it could wait no longer. He established himself in his study with a pot of fragrant berry tea.
He sent missives to his subjects, advising them to relocate to the eastern side of his territory. That would limit casualties if and when Hybern invaded. Then he penned careful letters to some of the other High Lords, trying to ascertain their position on Hybern and Rhysand without alarming them.
Suddenly, the door to his study swung open and hit the wall with a loud bang. He knew there was only one person in the Spring Court who would be so disrespectful, so didn’t bother to look up.
“Have I done something to offend you, my High Lord ?” Lucien asked, collapsing in the chair on the other side of the study desk. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in several days. His crimson hair was a tousled mess and his fawn-brown jacket was crumpled and stained. He lent across the desk to steal Tamlin’s teacup and down the tea in one gulp, wrinkling his nose when he realised it was cold.
Tamlin looked back down at his parchment where his pen was dripping black blots onto his work. “Have I done something to make you think that you did something to offend me?”
“Why no, Tamlin! I’m sure you sent me on a three day wild goose chase as a favour to me, because you’re so deliriously happy with me.”
“I know you mean that, because the Fae don’t lie, and because I know that my most faithful underling would not be so sarcastic to me, his High Lord and superior.”
Lucien rolled his eyes. “You’re not denying it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t send you anywhere,” Tamlin replied. He turned back to his parchment and scratched something down. “You’ve been gone for three days?”
Lucien kicked the leg of the desk, causing Tamlin to smear ink across the page. “You are an ass, Tamlin. Yes, I have been gone for three days. The guards said… Well, if you didn’t send me, who did?”
“I have no idea. Do you want to read my limerick? It’ll make you feel better.”
Lucien snatched the paper out from under Tamlin’s hand and peered through the ink smudges.
There was a fae named Lucien Vanserra,
Who came to me acting like a terror,
Saying I sent him on a wild goose chase,
Running about all over the place,
But I hope he can see his error.
Lucien threw his head back in a laugh and then folded the limerick into quarters and tucked it away into his doublet. “Okay, you are forgiven. Now why are you hiding in here and not out there sparring with me?”
In Lucien’s absence, Tamlin had spent his time worrying over Hybern. If he sided with Hybern, he could retrieve Feyre, but she would hate him and there would be losses. He would also be at odds with the other courts, and his own morals, due to the human-Fae alliance. If he dismissed Hybern, the Spring Court would become a target and there would likely be even bigger losses.
When he explained the whole situation to Lucien, it went about as well as expected. The muscle in Lucien’s jaw had started twitching before Tamlin had even finished explaining.
“You cannot be serious,” Lucien said. “Tell me you are not considering this. This is insane.”
“Ianthe says—”
“Ianthe!” Lucien hissed. “Why am I not surprised that Ianthe is behind this? For Cauldron’s sake, she spins stories like she’s spinning gold. This is so typical of her. The minute things go to shit, she leaves Prythian. Except this time she went to negotiate war without your permission!”
“She just wants what’s best for the Spring Court. This is her home too.”
“I’m sure she said that. It’s just interesting to me that she’s spent most of the last half century not here, supporting her home, but in Vallahan. Hiding.”
“I know you don’t get on with—”
Lucien’s face was turning as red as his hair. “Don’t get on? Don’t get on? She is awful, Tamlin. You are the only one who can’t see that. She is disloyal and it’s beside the point, but she’d be at Rhysand’s side right now if he’d have her. Ianthe is going to destabilise our court. If we stand with Hybern, we stand alone in Prythian. Against the other courts. Against the mortal territories. Against Feyre. Against my mother.”
“What if… What if I just pretended to be on his side? To infiltrate his army and undermine his power.”
“Tell me. How far would you be willing to go to prove your loyalty to him? What sacrifices are you willing to make? How many bodies are too many bodies? Would you go as far as Rhysand went Under the Mountain, warming Hybern’s bed?”
“And without his help, how do we get Feyre back?”
Lucien looked as though there were a great many things he wanted to say. He bit his tongue and simply said, “Hybern’s help is worthless. Feyre made her choice. She won’t be kept like a caged bird.”
Tamlin ignored that and scrubbed a hand over his face. “What do we do when Hybern comes for the wall—for us?”
“Then the courts will stand together, Rhysand included, like we did Under the Mountain. We succeeded then and we’ll succeed again.”
“Can we trust them to support us?”
“Can we trust Hybern not to double cross us?” Lucien shot back. Hybern was a brutal strategist. He’d happily sacrifice his own men in a war with the Night Court, just to get Tamlin onside. They had no reason to trust that he wouldn’t one day sacrifice Tamlin just as readily.
“If you’d sided with Aramantha, we’d have lost less in the short term, but we would have been completely destroyed by the other courts eventually,” Lucien said. Tamlin flinched at her name. “Your wound is festering, Tamlin. You can’t even bear to hear her name.”
“There is no wound,” Tamlin retorted.
“Not all wounds are physical.”
Tamlin averted his eyes, unable to look at Lucien’s face and the scar running from his brow to his jaw. “Others have it worse.”
“You didn’t used to be so angry, and you’ve only gotten worse since Aramantha died. The Tamlin I know would never do what you did to Feyre,” Lucien said, so gently, although each word felt like a lash of a whip.
“Everyone keeps telling me about the Tamlin they used to know, but I’m still me. I’m here and I’m fine.”
The muscle in Lucien’s jaw fluttered. “If you say so. Aramantha hurt me too, Tam, but I’m not taking it out on others.”
“Then you’re a better Fae than me.” Tamlin looked down at his paperwork and tapped his pen against it. “I have some things to finish here. I'll catch up with you later.”
“Tam…” Lucien sighed, but he didn’t push. He knew when he was dismissed.
Eventually, Tamlin accepted that he needed to face Ianthe.
He allowed himself to put it off a little longer by heading to her temple on foot. As always, the estate was in full bloom with pink blossoms fluttering about on the breeze. The gardens were growing a little wilder day by day. His manor, too, was affected. Vines had started to climb up the alabaster walls. He would have to give his estate some much needed attention before Feyre returned.
As the altar crested over the top of the hill, he was relieved to see that her acolytes were not there.
Like Ianthe, the temple was elegant but not ostentatious. There were offerings of fresh fruit and bread and ceremonial wine on the altar. The air was heavy with incense, and he recognised it as the heady perfume smell that followed Ianthe around.
Tamlin turned when he heard the telltale tinkling of silver bracelets. Ianthe was standing behind him with a smile. She pulled her hood back to let her golden curls tumble loosely around her face. “I have been waiting for you, my friend. I knew you would make the right choice.”
She stepped forward and Tamlin took a step back. “I’m not— That is, we’re not… There isn’t going to be a war with the Night Court. I’m not allying with Hybern. I will get Feyre back another way.”
Ianthe’s eyes rounded in surprise and she lay a hand against her heart. “My friend… Tamlin. With all due respect, you are making a grave mistake.”
“It is my mistake to make. It wouldn’t be the first and I’m sure it wouldn’t be the last.”
“You will not be the only one who shoulders the consequence of this particular mistake,” Ianthe pressed. The tattoo on her forehead wrinkled when she furrowed her brow. “What will Feyre think?”
“I hope she will agree with me, but it does not matter. My mind is made up and you can not change it.”
“With the hardships of the last fifty years, you cannot possibly be prepared to fight Hybern when he comes, and he will come.”
“Hardships you were not around for,” Tamlin snapped. “During that time, Prythian worked together. You would know that if you have been here. Prythian will unite once again, if need be.”
“Who has put this in your head? I am not your enemy, Tamlin, and I won’t be treated like one. I just want what’s best for you and for our court. Our home. ”
“I am not treating you like an enemy. I have been writing to the other courts and they want the treaty broken as little as I do. They want war with Rhysand even less. I spoke with my advisors—”
“It was Lucien then,” Ianthe countered hotly. Then she seemed to pause and make a decision. Suddenly, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “Lucien is poisoning you. Manipulating you. Can’t you see that?”
She was an excellent actress, Tamlin thought uncharitably.
“Just because things aren’t going your way doesn’t mean I’m being manipu—” Tamlin choked on his words. Cauldron boil him. It doesn’t mean Feyre’s being manipulated. He cleared his throat. “None of this matters, anyway. I am the High Lord of the Spring Court. Not you or Lucien or Feyre or anyone else. Me. This decision is mine and mine alone.”
She let a tear cascade artfully down her perfect, porcelain cheek. “I wish I knew how to free you from Lucien.”
“I don’t need—” Tamlin stopped. He knew he could never win an argument against her. Instead, he said, “You have made your position clear. If you want to go to Hybern, I will not stop you.”
Ianthe stopped crying and changed her expression to one of deep worry. It seemed Ianthe was the only Fae left in the Spring Court who was unable to escape her mask. “High Lord, there is a matter of great importance that I have been meaning to share with you.”
“What is it now?” Tamlin asked tersely.
“Please forgive me, but I waited because I did not wish to add to your worries. The land is dying. There is a blight. Everything is affected by the sickness, from the newest bud to the oldest root. From the tallest tree to the smallest blade of grass.”
“A blight?” For Cauldron’s sake. He was losing his patience. “Don’t you think I would have noticed a blight? Don’t you think I would have felt it through my magic? This is my court.”
“You know that I cannot, and would not, lie to you. I have seen death in the woods. The earth has been poisoned—”
“Poisoned by who—”
“Not who, but what ,” implored Ianthe. “It is indicative of a naga attack. I have seen such things before and I believe I can fix it.”
“I thought you did not want to remain here to be slaughtered?” Tamlin accused.
“I won’t be slaughtered, because I believe you will see sense. This court is so very vulnerable. For your magic to succumb to a measly naga attack… You stand no chance against Hybern,” said Ianthe, but it came out sharper than she had intended. Her silver tongue was failing her.
“Stop it!” Tamlin said, a snarl beginning to rumble in the back of his throat. “I have had enough of this. You need to stop!”
It was as if Ianthe was a puca. She was a beautiful illusion, designed to lure him in, but underneath, she was just a beast. “You are a fool, Tamlin,” she scorned, her lovely face twisted. “I bring you power beyond your wildest dreams, and you tell me no? To think that I wanted you!”
“I don’t want more power and I don’t want you!”
“It is no wonder. You are the most worthless, witless Fae that ever had the fortune to be born to a powerful father! No wonder Feyre left you for Rhysand. Rhysand is a Fae who knows what to do with power.”
Ianthe let out a burst of magic, blowing the offerings off the altar and spraying them both with wine. Tamlin staggered back with the strength of it.
Tamlin knew anger. His father had been tempestuous. Aramantha had been explosive. He knew that he was also prone to such fits. He had done this very same thing to Feyre in the study. It was as if he was looking in a mirror, and he didn’t like what was reflected back at him.
By nightfall that very same day, Ianthe and her acolytes were gone.