10. Garden of Rites
Garden of Rites
Part of Seren wishes Nevander would guide him bodily forward, the way he dragged him through Elsewhere yesterday. But Nevander walks in front of him now. Sir Idalia—the guard with green skin and twigs in her hair—walks behind.
Hopefully Seren hasn’t stared too rudely. He’s just never seen someone with patches of skin like bark. Plus, Idalia won’t stop juggling.
Traveling through the palace is a lengthy ritual. Lush greenery accents the maze of marble hallways. Each twist and turn locks Seren’s emotions deeper inside him.
He even grows to savor the surprise, fear, joy of each fae he passes. Better to feel their emotions than his own. By the time they reach the open archway, Seren is calm. Or numb. That’s just as good.
A fae awaits them, wearing a flowing patchwork robe. Thin strips of blues, greens, golds ripple like water with every movement. No wayward emotions. This fae is firmly in control, blue-black features serene.
Nevander falls back and murmurs for Seren’s ears alone. “That’s Second Ritekeeper Jasper. They use neutral pronouns.”
Maybe Seren has been staring rudely at Idalia, if Nevander thinks Seren wouldn’t have picked up on that. But he’s grateful for the preparation anyway, especially when Jasper notices them—
And a wave of nervousness breaks through Seren’s empathy.
Jasper bows, delicate jewelry chiming from their pointed ears. “Welcome to the Garden of Rites. Or perhaps I should say ‘welcome back,’ Prince Calithel.”
“His Highness uses the name Seren,” Nevander interjects before Seren can fully feel the discomfort of the fae name.
“I am glad to see you by any name,” Jasper says. Their demeanor remains refined, ethereal. Only Seren can sense the awkward panic beneath.
“Thank you,” Seren manages. He almost asks permission next, except he’s supposed to be a prince. He didn’t miss Nevander reinforcing his authority in front of Idalia. “I wish to see the queen.”
Ordering people around is beyond him. But he can at least state his desires.
Relief briefly tinges Jasper’s nerves, followed by sorrow. Then everything fades, like Jasper is composing themself. They bow again. “Please follow me, Your Highness. I will clear the garden.”
Nevander makes some signal, and Idalia remains inside. Seren follows Jasper out, Nevander at his heels.
Seren had imagined a garden like those in Wymond. More spectacular, but still an organized collection of flowers, vegetables, and trees. Perhaps comfortable benches or statues. Elladar seems full of statues.
His imagination had not been vast enough.
The Garden of Rites is a grove of trees, resplendent in the midday light.
All different species, oak and pine and birch and trees Seren has never seen before.
A slender pillar of silver bark and wispy gray leaves.
A tree with bark so dark it’s nearly black, laden with a rainbow of flowers.
A towering golden giant with no leaves at all.
White marble paths trace haphazard routes through the dark earth. More ritekeepers in patchwork robes guide other fae towards the edges.
“The garden always suits the rites at hand,” Jasper explains, leading the way. “The paths and trees take different forms for namings, zeniths, lifebondings, or other rituals. It will look different for your coronation than it looks for Queen Haelwen’s farewell.”
Seren can imagine his coronation just fine. A terrifying maelstrom of attention. He strives for a happier topic and fails miserably.
“What will happen with the body?” Seren asks, and barely stops himself from apologizing. “I only know human funeral customs.”
Jasper surprisingly feels relieved at the question. A matter of training and ritual, perhaps. “She will rest for a week before being buried here, like all her ancestors for the last thousand years.”
The beautiful grove gleams in a more sinister light. There must be remains everywhere, perhaps under Seren’s very feet.
“Half a dozen at most,” Nevander says. “Haelwen was only third in her line.”
Right. A thousand years means something very different to the fae. Moments like these, Seren feels very human and very lost.
The trees thin until the winding path leads them to an immense willow. Its gray-green leaves sweep down in a curtain, obscuring what lies within. Jasper pulls the branches aside and bows.
Seren takes the unobserved moment to glance at Nevander—who nods, giving reassurance Seren shouldn’t need. Then Seren steps forward, and his breath hitches.
The towering tree is split, as if chopped through by an enormous ax, then pulled apart.
If any ax were large and sharp enough to cut through such a tree in one clean strike.
No hackmarks mar the deep golden bark. A stretch of trunk is simply missing, starting a few feet above the roots.
Twenty feet above, the cleanly severed trunk resumes.
On the stump, surrounded by flowers, lies a woman with blue hair.
Two other ritekeepers stand over her, strewing more flowers from wicker baskets. At Seren’s approach, they bow, then step away.
Seren barely sees them. He drifts forward, feeling smaller and smaller, until he stands at the woman’s side.
Her hair is brighter than Seren’s, strewn loose across the pale inner rings of the tree. A luminous white blossom rests in her open right hand. Her left hand clasps a wooden dagger.
Seren has seen bodies before. Wakes and funerals bring out the entire village to bid the dead farewell, regardless of which gods the family follows. But no dead villager ever wore such an expression of confidence.
And no villager ever so resembled Seren. He touches his own face because he doesn’t dare touch hers.
Haelwen appears carved from marble, an impossible force of nature like the severed tree she rests on. Peaceful, still. Had Seren arrived two hours earlier, he could have heard her voice. Instead, she will forever be a stranger to him.
Seren swallows down his scream. If anyone forces him to speak, he’ll shatter. But Nevander and the ritekeepers keep a respectful distance, allowing Seren time to lock away sharp emotions.
When Seren turns, calm-faced, he feels all the ritekeepers’ relief. They don’t want their new prince to shatter either. Everyone’s lives will be easier if Seren does what’s expected of him.
Nevander draws very close but doesn’t touch him. “What happened, Ritekeeper? Idalia says you found her.”
Jasper shudders. The force of their emotions ebbs as they pull themself together.
“Sir Mustardseed and I were first, yes. Queen Haelwen spent the morning alone in the throne room. She sent for Sevastia and me at the tenth hour. Mustardseed let us in, and the queen said he could stay for the audience.”
Seren wishes Nevander would grab his shoulder again. He doesn’t.
“What did she want?” Nevander asks.
“It appeared to be a minor matter,” Jasper says.
“She wanted us to review the wards in the ritual wine cellar. I’m unaware of any infractions, but Sevastia says the younger lordlings are prone to pranks.
That human boy eggs them on.” Jasper seems to catch their tangent.
“There was nobody else in the throne room with us. Mustardseed, Sevastia, and myself left together. Sevastia went for breakfast, but I stayed to talk with Mustardseed. We were in the antechamber for twelve minutes before… before we felt the queen die.”
Seren’s palms hurt. He hadn’t noticed his nails digging in.
Jasper continues, grim yet controlled. “The two of us couldn’t open the throne room, but Primrose arrived within moments. The door opened for Primrose, and the three of us entered. Her Majesty lay before the throne.”
They gesture to another ritekeeper.
“Where is Primrose now?” Nevander asks. He adds for Seren’s sake, “Primrose is the First Ritekeeper.”
“She’s questioning the palace,” Jasper says. “Or trying to. The throne room is sealed shut. We barely got the queen’s body out. As well as, well, you should see this.”
Jasper takes a wooden box from the other ritekeeper. They offer it to Nevander, who shakes his head.
“Report to His Highness,” Nevander says. A transparent maneuver. He’s trying to reinforce Seren’s authority—unearned as it is. Everyone so naturally follows Nevander’s lead. This would all be easy if Seren were more like Nevander.
Alas that Seren is only himself.
Jasper’s fear fluctuates past their shields. They open the box. “We found the crown with the queen.”
The shards of gold and gems nestled in blue velvet mean nothing to Seren. He’s alarmed instead by the look of naked shock in Nevander’s face.
“What does this mean?” Seren asks before considering whether the question will sound stupid.
“This crown links the monarch with Summer’s magic,” Jasper says. “I do not know what power could have broken the crown. But when we know, we will know how Haelwen died.”
The words mean little to Seren, but the tension throughout the room is chilling. As is Nevander’s hand, barely there behind Seren’s shoulder. A gesture of comfort that tells Seren to be afraid.
“Was it an accident or assassination?” Nevander asks, cold.
Seren tenses too, as understanding catches him.
Jasper closes the box, the wood clicking loudly. “I dare not speculate. Hopefully Primrose will coax an answer from the palace.” They seem unwilling to match Nevander’s directness. “There is no evidence of malice, but our investigation will continue.”
“Have you sent for the royal artificer?” Nevander asks, which seems like a trivial formality next to the possible assassination.
“Not yet,” Jasper says.
Nevander nods. “You may leave that to me.”
“Excuse me.” Seren wrenches away from Nevander’s touch, trying to keep the rising panic from his voice. “I wish to speak with Nevander alone.”
Jasper bows, their earrings jingling. “Of course, Your Highness.”
The other ritekeepers gather their flower baskets and follow Jasper from the room. Being so readily obeyed is foreign to Seren. He would marvel at it, or worry over it, except for more pressing concerns.
“What’s wrong?” Nevander asks, and the calm in his face isn’t reassuring. It’s infuriating.
“Assassination,” Seren spits. “Why are you so fucking calm? Shouldn’t we be searching the castle? Hiding in a secret room? Doing something—anything—I don’t know what.”
Nevander steps back, calm settling into sternness.
He suits this garden. Beautiful and impossible.
“I did not expect Haelwen to die today, but she was unwell. I planned for her death. Beyond my plans, there are rituals and protocols older than us both. As for hiding.” Nevander gestures, hand glimmering with the suggestion of a sword hilt that never fully materializes.
“You are safe to the best of my ability. That is all I can promise, but at risk of arrogance, my best is greater than most.”
Insane. This is insane. Talk of plans and protocols only leaves Seren more adrift. This realm is too complicated, too many people with all their secrets and ambitions. Seren yearned to escape his tiny village, but this world is too big for him.
“What plans did you have for me?” Seren asks.
Nevander’s stare is inescapable, his answer quiet. “You are the Prince of Summer.”
“That’s not an answer,” Seren retorts, and Nevander simply regards him.
Seren’s helplessness hardens to resistance.
Resentment. Nevander dragged him here, expecting him to slot neatly into the role of fae prince.
Protect Seren from augray and courtiers because he’s the prince.
Teach Seren about magic and carryholds because he’s the prince.
Comfort Seren and reinforce his authority because he’s the prince.
There’s no cold-sharp loathing, but Seren feels like he’s back at his family dinner table. Nothing he said or did ever changed how Edith and Alard treated him, because Seren was never their son. He was the monster forced upon them—by the fae woman who now lies dead within this tree.
Nevander may not hate Seren, but he doesn’t see him either.
Assassination. The word slices through Seren’s pretense of being all right. And Seren refuses to play another impossible role.
“I can’t do this,” Seren says, quiet, certain. “I won’t do this. I just need to take Edith and Alard’s son back to them, and then I’ll… I’ll figure something out. But I can’t do this.”
Nevander regards him like Alard would a damaged book. “What would you do instead?”
“I don’t know!” Seren throws up his hands. “You said it yourself. My brothers were kidnapped, probably dead. Now my mother lies here, assassinated this morning!” Seren has to catch his breath, his insides shaky and cold. “I’m not stupid, and I refuse to be next.”
“You cannot return to the human realm without the changeling binding,” Nevander points out, far too reasonably. “Where in Summer would you flee?”
Seren can’t answer that. He doesn’t even know what other cities or villages exist outside the palace.
“Running will not help you,” Nevander says, “and Summer needs a ruler.”
“Does that ruler have to be me?” Seren asks helplessly. “There must be someone better suited.”
Nevander remains stone-faced. “There are few who even have sufficient magic. Your brothers are gone. Between the other high fae… now more than ever, I would not trust them.”
“I’ll take that chance. This isn’t…” Seren swallows, stuck on an uneasy half-truth. “This shouldn’t be my responsibility.”
Nevander looks away. Silence hardens like a second coat of armor. Then he says, “You want to return Tansy to Wymond. He will refuse. He already schemes to remain past his welcome.”
The change of subject catches Seren off-balance. “I’ll make him return. He has to. They miss him.”
“Make him?” Nevander asks, his gaze returning like a lash of sunlight. “By whose hand?”
Seren flinches back.
He had assumed Nevander would help. With Tansy, with leaving court, with everything. Because Nevander has guided him through every step of this journey. Nevander wants Seren to be king—but if Seren could just persuade him—
Nevander’s words are painfully precise. “Before your coronation, I will not return Tansy by force. For better or for worse, I am not sworn to obey you.”
Seren’s helplessness boils to frustration. “What are you sworn to?”
Pain gasps through him. A breath of fire, a heartbeat of thorns.
It’s gone before Seren even staggers backwards, trembling with subsiding magic. The emotion was too fleeting to define, and the shock is Seren’s own.
Nevander, for one moment, lost control.
Now Nevander approaches, until his presence obscures the weeping tree. He touches the center of Seren’s chest. “Should you wish it, you shall have my obedience when the Summer Crown sits upon your head. Until that moment, you do not command me.”
The promise radiates heat, but Seren shivers. The argument is over, and Seren is trapped.