4. Such Small Illusions
Such Small Illusions
The royal dais glows with a sourceless light, like a haven of morning overlooking the gala. Evening drapes the rest of the courtyard in blue shadows, and the reveling fae are the dancing stars. Music ebbs and flows with the musicians’ whims. A trapeze artist flies across the far end.
Nevander mounts the dais at Haelwen’s gesture. Calm and composed. He’s spent the day resisting the urge to rush in and demand that Haelwen bring the prince home. Almost as strong as the urge to return to Wymond and abduct Calithel now. Ask forgiveness later.
But recklessness won’t help. Bringing Calithel back to a court in chaos would be even riskier than leaving him in Wymond. Nevander must persuade Haelwen first. He’s already secured testimony from the Lord of Elsewhere. One of Yarrow’s wild fae has witnessed augray crossing into Prima.
Nevander sent a tidingbird to Valerian, too. Valerian should have more information on the nightlands border, as well as augray behavior. But the wild fae’s words should prove urgent enough, as long as Haelwen is in her right mind.
Elladar Palace hosts parties most nights, but this is the first time Queen Haelwen has attended in months. She presides from a floral swing, surrounded by the lords and ladies most daring in their quest for favor.
Foremost among them are Gevain of Summer’s Edge and Morana of Brightwood, each holding a crystal goblet.
“Lord Guardian,” Haelwen says. “We need a judge for the glamour game.”
Nevander bows. “At your service.”
“Will you accept Nevander’s judgment?” Haelwen asks her courtiers.
“With pleasure,” Gevain says smoothly. He’s accented his shimmering russet complexion with green pixie dust.
“With pleasure.” Morana twirls a strand of lavender hair. She wears her usual white dueling leathers. “Though perhaps not as much pleasure as Gevain.”
Laughter ripples without touching Nevander. Gevain’s reputation precedes him—he flirts with everyone. Thankfully, Nevander has his own cold reputation. Nobody expects him to relax into the revelry.
Nevander should be relieved to see Haelwen so lively, her smile as bright as her crown of diamonds and sapphires. He should be focused on his duty. Not torn asunder, half his attention still lost in the human realm.
Half a day since he saw Calithel last. Half a day since he spoke with him. Haelwen wouldn’t smile so brightly if she knew how badly Nevander had transgressed. Or perhaps she would. The Summer Queen knows how to craft a mask.
Half a day since Nevander washed Calithel’s blood from his hands. The stain of failure lingers in his heart. As if he’d sunk his own fangs into the prince’s shoulder.
“The contest is simple,” Haelwen says. “Are the goblets empty or full?”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Nevander makes a show of studying Gevain and Morana’s goblets. To the naked eye, they both appear full of Elladar’s finest mead. Nevander could cast his judgment in an instant, but the dramatic timing requires a pause.
A simple trick, indeed. Any high fae learns such small illusions as children.
Mimicking physical appearance is the easy part.
Winning the glamour game requires acting—pretending the goblet is heavier or lighter than it is.
Or layers of misdirection. Tiny muscle movements.
Hints of imperfection can imply a faulty glamour, when in fact the only glamour is the imperfection.
Gevain and Morana are both skilled. Judging the truth would be difficult, if Nevander intended to do so.
“I believe they’re both empty,” Nevander says, and it’s true if belief is a choice.
Morana sighs, and Gevain sweeps a bow—full goblet held gracefully aloft. “May I offer you a drink in your defeat, Lady Morana?”
As Gevain preens and Morana pouts charmingly, Nevander steps back.
His part in the charade is over. Picking apart illusion games is a worthless pursuit.
If the goblets appear full, Nevander will guess they’re empty—for the sake of his own reputation as Lord Guardian.
Suspecting an illusion that proves true is fine.
Believing a false image would make him look gullible.
Haelwen knows this about him. Which means she chose the winner in advance by filling Gevain’s goblet. Nevander tucks the information away.
Perhaps Haelwen truly is feeling better, if she’s playing her usual games at court.
“What reward do you ask in victory?” Haelwen asks lightly.
More brash fae would push too far, but Gevain plays it safe. “I humbly beg a single flower from your braided hair, Your Majesty.”
“Shameless,” Morana chides, reveling in the attention regardless of her defeat.
Haelwen’s laugh is a melody. She plucks a blossom from her hair. “Humble or shameless, I can grant this reward.”
Simple tricks. Habits and charades. Tonight is like thousands of other nights in Elladar Palace, and the last Summer Prince is trapped in a human village.
A terrified, untrained boy. Haelwen hid him for his own protection, but the result has hobbled him.
Calithel can’t even glamour a goblet of mead. He’s never learned how.
There’s potential, though, unless Nevander’s eyes deceived him. Calithel should have been too weak to beat the augray away, but Nevander swears he sensed a thread of magic strengthening the fallen branch.
Wielded in instinct, not practice. Fear, not belief.
Potential isn’t enough. Nevander seizes his opportunity when Gevain and Morana dance away into the crowd. “May I speak with you, Your Majesty?”
“Of business or pleasure?” Haelwen asks, in far too good a mood.
“I prefer to conduct either in private.” Nevander casts his gaze out. The trapeze artist is naked now. “Unlike some.”
“Very well.” Haelwen rises from the swing. Her subjects make way, bowing and curtseying, as she crosses the courtyard. Nevander follows a pace behind and to her left.
Music hushes. Marble echoes. Memories drift as wisps of light through the palace’s streams and waterfalls. All the lanterns they pass are lit. All the fountains run clear. The queen’s magic is strong.
The throne room is a forest beneath a starry glass dome. A river winds across the chamber, and Haelwen leads Nevander across the goldwood bridge to reach the throne.
When Haelwen sits again, she seems transformed. The Summer Queen is more than glamour games and laughter. Her crown, with its diamond and sapphire spires, connects her to the power of Summer itself.
“We are alone,” Haelwen says, and the surrounding trees rustle as if in agreement. “You may speak.”
Echoes. Memories. The throne room, instead of the greenhouse or Calendar Hall. Haelwen can’t have chosen this place by accident. Nevander has watched hundreds of fae in this very room, bold or desperate enough to ask Haelwen’s favor. Now Haelwen places Nevander in the role of supplicant.
Pride wrenches Nevander’s heart. It doesn’t stop him from sinking to one knee. Haelwen’s right. This is no longer advice from a guardian to his queen.
This is a plea. For the prince’s sake. For Elladar’s.
“Call Calithel back,” Nevander says. “Please.”
Haelwen plucks an ornate box from her carryhold. It fits comfortably in both hands. “Stand up.”
Nevander lowers his head. “I’ve spoken with Lord Yarrow. One of his wild fae has seen augray traveling to Prima. If they should find—”
“Stand up,” Haelwen repeats. “I didn’t say no.”
Nor did she say yes. Nevander rises, wary.
Haelwen sets the box to hang in midair. She flips open the lid, revealing an empty glass sphere.
“I had three sons,” Haelwen says, her eyes on the sphere but her attention everywhere.
Inward and out. “Zavriel and Briar were stolen. Sometimes I hoped they were dead, so I would not have to wonder about their fates. Was that cruel of me?”
Nevander cannot answer. Even if he could, his judgment doesn’t matter. This isn’t a simple glamour game. He barely knew the eldest princes before Lord Midnight stole them. Dead or alive, there’s been no trace of them for twenty-one years.
Calithel must return to claim his birthright. But Nevander cannot blame Haelwen for hiding him away. If she hadn’t, he would have been taken, too.
Tracing the sphere, Haelwen says, “To be alone is not the fate I wished for.”
“You can steer your fate,” Nevander says.
“Alas that I have.” Haelwen plucks the bauble and returns the case to her carryhold. “How old are you?”
Nevander can’t follow her logical leaps. That’s likely intentional. “One hundred twenty-four.”
Haelwen sighs, attention returning to him. “Then you were barely a century at the time. How your oath must have chafed.”
Nevander doesn’t flinch at the burning reminder. An oath freely given, never abandoned yet unfulfilled. To confess the pain would only hurt more. “I have no regrets, Your Majesty.”
“I chose well.” Haelwen toys with the sphere. “I propose a game, Lord Nevander. You may retrieve Calithel if you answer one question correctly.”
“I accept,” Nevander says, without as much thought as he should give.
“Where is he?” Haelwen asks.
Nevander stills, heart finally shoved off balance. She knows. Even though it shouldn’t be possible. He’s been careful. Haelwen can track movement from Elladar, but not from the realm between.
She knows—and she hasn’t stricken him yet.
“The village of Wymond,” Nevander answers.
Haelwen smiles. “Take your time bringing him back. I imagine you’ll have much to explain—and his counterpart here will require persuasion.”
Stunned, Nevander steps back, then remembers himself. “Yes, Your Majesty. I beg your leave.”
“Go,” Haelwen says, still smiling.
Nevander feels like he’s flying across the bridge. A moment of pure relief, before that relief hardens into purpose.
“Nevander,” Haelwen calls as he nears the door.
Praying she hasn’t changed her mind, Nevander turns. A wisp of light circles the sphere in Haelwen’s hand. It illuminates her steely gaze.
“I have hurt many people,” Haelwen says, unwavering. “But I too have no regrets.”
Nevander bows once more, then departs, driven by a thousand plans and a single oath.