11. This Timeless Place
This Timeless Place
Evening bleeds into night, into dawn. Nevander shed his armor hours ago, but the weight on his shoulders feels heavier than ever. He’s about to snatch a few hours of sleep when word reaches him. Wildkeeper Valerian has arrived.
“Send for him,” Nevander says.
The messenger is gone before Nevander considers that Valerian might want to rest after his journey.
Nevander exhales, surveying his new quarters. The Irisal Suite is more spacious than he needs, the walls covered in friezes of bards and artisans. His belongings make a meager pile in the vastness. Still, he owns more things than he realized. Living in one place for decades will do that.
The suite’s finest feature is its balcony, draped with lilacs. Just below and to the right of Prince Seren’s balcony. No direct view, but a short flight.
Seren sleeps in a nearby guest chamber. Guards and servants are still preparing the royal suite for its new occupant. They need to pack away Queen Haelwen’s clothing.
The separation feels like a splinter, slowly digging deeper. But Seren’s likely grateful for the distance. He seemed distant, angry, when they parted for the night.
Nevander hadn’t realized how much Seren already trusted him until that trust shattered.
He can’t blame Seren. Using Tansy as blackmail is cruel, even if Nevander left generous loopholes in his promise.
Seren just needs to stay long enough to learn how important his role is.
How much the realm needs him. The duty is heavy, yes, but that should make it harder to shake off.
Time. Nevander needs time. Even as this timeless place changes faster than he’s ever known.
His meeting with Ritekeeper Primrose was both reassuring and troubling. No evidence of intrusion or malice in Haelwen’s death. Which means no enemy to hunt down and eliminate. No apparent solution to an undefined problem.
A knock at the open door interrupts Nevander’s brooding.
A white and gray fox trots in, followed by a man with dark green hair.
No uniform—wildkeepers don’t have a dress code.
The man wears scuffed leathers and a cloak that looks gray, then green, then brown, depending on the angle.
His single-lidded eyes are a vivid green, even for a fae.
And Nevander is deeply relieved to see him.
“Lovely place,” Valerian comments, looking around. “I think Spindle approves.”
The fox sniffs the empty fireplace, then settles on a plush red rug.
“Any trouble on the journey?” Nevander asks.
Valerian grimaces. “Besides the obvious? No.”
As they speak, Spindle’s fur changes color in patches, gradually matching the red of the rug. Her nose twitches constantly, taking in the new environment.
“That’s good,” Nevander says. “I need to ask—”
“No,” Valerian says bluntly, and smiles at Nevander’s consternation. “Can whatever you summoned me for wait for twenty minutes?”
Nevander forces back his anger. “I’d rather not.”
“Which means it can.” Valerian clucks his tongue, and Spindle leaps to his side. “You, Lord Guardian, are wound too tight. I’d offer a massage if I thought you would accept. Instead, I insist you spar with me. We can handle business after that.”
Nevander is dangerously close to lashing out at his friend, which means Valerian is right. The stress and lack of sleep are compromising his judgment.
“Perhaps I should be glad you spend all your time in the woods,” Nevander says, heading for the door. “Being so well understood at court is dangerous.”
“Not half as glad as I am,” Valerian says with a laugh.
As they travel, Spindle’s fur turns white again to match the marble.
Then green and pink to match the gardens.
Then an eye-searing orange, matching nothing at all.
Aroom foxes change color according to both camouflage and whim.
Spindle’s route appears scattered, but she’s just as watchful as her companion.
Elladar’s wildkeepers exist in balance and contrast to the ritekeepers.
They have no formal organization—that would betray their very ethos.
Each wildkeeper swears individual allegiance to the First Wildkeeper.
They serve Summer’s wilderness according to the First’s wishes when known.
Otherwise, they follow their own judgment.
Nevander prefers the certainty of his own service. Except the last few days haven’t felt certain at all.
Four goldwood trees mark the corners of the dueling grounds. Spindle trots off to chase tidingbirds while Nevander and Valerian break their weapons from the trees.
They salute without words, then begin circling.
The branch is lighter than Nevander’s sword, and tiny leaves and buds sprout from its length.
Part of the challenge is adjusting to the new weapon’s shape.
Magic flows, alive, controlled, his veins like leylines.
Packed earth whispers beneath his boots.
He feels every eddy of air through his light clothing.
Valerian’s branch weaves between dawn’s first sunbeams. The evasive movements give away as little as Nevander’s stillness.
“I miss sparring with Yarrow,” Valerian comments. “He was never this tediously patient.”
“I don’t find winning tedious,” Nevander counters, and Valerian’s laughter creates an opportunity.
They clash. Slim branches collide, leaves shaking, yet their cores remain like steel, imbued with each fae’s innate magic. Body, spirit, and weapon align in harmony, long practice become instinct.
Nevander ducks, aiming under Valerian’s guard. But Valerian anticipates him, and Nevander pivots away before he loses the advantage. Tiny leaves swirl in their wake.
He’ll have to teach Seren this. No, Seren needs a proper teacher. Primrose would be best, if she agrees—she’s used to guiding students with different perspectives. Nevander will have to ask her.
Valerian darts forward, and Nevander is slow to react. He’s still thinking about Seren as he meets Valerian’s branch, and his concentration falters.
Nevander’s branch bends, splintering white beneath the golden bark. The fracture ricochets, felt in his spirit, even if the sound wasn’t obvious.
“Congratulations to the victor,” Valerian says, saluting himself.
Nevander withdraws his magic from the weapon. “Well struck.”
“Not well enough.” Valerian collects Nevander’s branch. “That shouldn’t have worked.”
“Perhaps I’ve grown kind.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Valerian returns both branches to the nearest tree. Wood fibers weave together, grafting the branches in place. Nevander’s branch straightens with a faint snap, and moments later, every sign of splintering is gone.
Nevander can’t erase his error so easily. Valerian’s right. He should have won that bout. Instead of focusing himself, Nevander has proven his faults.
Valerian stretches. “I wouldn’t call you relaxed, but I’ve made a valiant effort. Now tell me. Why did you summon me before Haelwen died?”
The unspoken accusation is surprising, but fair. “I didn’t know of her death in advance,” Nevander says.
“That’s good.”
“I had located Prince Seren in the human realm.”
Valerian hisses through his teeth. “That’s not good. What were you thinking? If Haelwen finds out… Right.”
Spindle prances up to sit at Valerian’s feet, like she’s on guard.
Nevander has plenty of excuses. Haelwen had been weakening, and bringing her heir back was politically wise.
Teaching Seren the ways of their kind was necessary too.
But for the sake of their old friendship, Nevander gives Valerian the real truth.
“I found an opportunity to ease my vow. I was too selfish to resist.”
Few know of Nevander’s situation. Valerian is one of them. They’ve grown apart over the past few decades, but Valerian’s face still softens. “Being selfish might do you good.”
“Regardless,” Nevander says briskly. “Two days ago, an augray attacked Seren. In Prima.”
Any softness vanishes from Valerian. “That’s troubling.”
At his feet, Spindle’s ears pin back.
“You know Midnight’s creatures better than I,” Nevander says. “Could it have been there by chance?”
Valerian kneels to stroke Spindle’s bristling neck. “Augrays can’t jump realms, and they’re hunting beasts. Someone must have sent it to search for something, but I wouldn’t assume Calithel. That’s impossible with the changeling spell.”
Nevander wishes he could believe that. “If I found Seren, someone else could have.”
“Calithel—” Valerian corrects himself. “Seren wasn’t the only fae in Prima that day.”
Spirits. Nevander hadn’t considered that he might be a target. Or worse, that he may have led the enemy to Seren.
“I know augrays, but you know the monsters of this palace,” Valerian says. “Figure out who knows your movements.”
The morning’s brightness seems thin. Like a glamour hiding shadows. “You suspect a traitor.”
Valerian rises gracefully, regarding the surrounding trees and towers. “Strange, isn’t it? Fifty years ago, we were stealing mushrooms from Yarrow’s mother. Now you’re here, at the center of things.”
“Nostalgia,” Nevander accuses, as if by naming the blade he can blunt it. “What are you scheming, Valerian?”
Green eyes brighten with mirth. “I pine for the edges of things. All this royal turmoil keeps me from my wandering.”
Valerian was the quiet one back then. A lone fae who came and went as he pleased. Nevander and Yarrow might not see him for a season or a year, before he would return like nothing had changed. He had high fae blood, but no ties to court.
Now Nevander is the quiet one, but Valerian still prefers to wander. This conversation isn’t about the past. The reminder of their long friendship is intentional.
“What are you dancing around?” Nevander asks.
“Fetching a lost prince is one thing,” Valerian says. “Fetching a king is something else.”
Nevander breathes in the cool morning, and reflects on their long friendship, as intended. “You doubt him, though you have not met him.”
“Can he wield blade or branch?” Valerian gestures to the goldwood trees, no longer wavering. “Jasper says the throne room is still closed.”
Nevander would be furious if he didn’t share Valerian’s doubts. And Valerian won’t be the only one. At least Valerian is brave or loyal enough to speak plainly.
Some high fae will see Seren’s weakness not as a problem, but as an opportunity. Those are the ones Nevander must guard against.
He must guard against his own doubts, too. “Seren survived decades in a realm not his own,” Nevander says. “He’ll learn what he needs to learn.”
Valerian nods. “As long as I’m free to wander the wilds, you can put an arberos on the throne. I simply warn you as a friend.”
Nevander can’t bring himself to be thankful for the warning. Though he would appreciate an ally today. “I’m meeting with the court today. Would you join me?”
Valerian’s laugh is a clear rejection. “Absolutely not. But if there’s anyone you’d rather not see, I can delay them on my way out. Shall I seduce Morana again? Or let Gevain think he’s seduced me?”
Nevander shakes off the disappointment. “Your bedroom conquests do not factor into my plans.”
“Oh, we rarely make it to a bedroom,” Valerian says cheerfully. He snaps his fingers, and Spindle makes an impressive leap to his shoulder. Equally impressively, Valerian doesn’t flinch at the impact. “But today, I have wilds to keep. Farewell, old friend.”
“Farewell,” Nevander says, then remembers one last obligation. “Yarrow says you should visit him.”
“When he never visits me?” Valerian reaches up to scritch beneath Spindle’s chin. The aroom fox’s eyes close in contentment. “I’ll send word if I have news about augray movements.”
Here and gone again. Valerian has ever been a shadow between the trees. For the first time, Nevander understands the appeal. The light at the center of things has teeth.
Nevander stands at the chamber’s head as the courtiers gather. Gevain of Summer’s Edge arrives first. Morana of Brightwood arrives near the end, with a minor lordling of Spiritwood at her heels. The same people who joined Haelwen’s last revel now gamble on the outcome of her death.
Ritekeeper Primrose still hasn’t coaxed the throne room open, and that would send the wrong message, besides.
Nevander has chosen Calendar Hall for this meeting instead.
The room is square, cornered by columns of marble trees, and a mural sweeps across each wall representing the four realms of Myria.
Rich orange trees to the west. Stark snowy mountains to the north. Flowering meadows to the east.
Summer’s fields and soft waters stretch behind Nevander, and the empty chair at his side.
Haelwen never ruled by council, but sometimes she had conversations.
When those conversations were less public than court and less private than personal audiences, she held them here.
Nevander’s choice of room signals continuity without placing himself too near a throne.
That messaging is more important than the contents of the meeting.
“Thank you for gathering,” Nevander says, precisely at the appointed hour.
For once, the courtiers pay Nevander as much attention as he pays them.
“By what authority do you summon us?” Morana asks, the barb too obvious. Her lavender hair hangs loose with scattered flowers today. She wears a gray gown instead of her usual dueling leathers. Not quite an imitation of Haelwen.
Not quite not.
Nevander meets her gaze squarely. “The invitation is a courtesy, not a summons. You are welcome to withdraw.”
Morana smiles as movement rustles around the chamber. “As I presumed. I hope your courtesy reassures my nervous peers.”
Nevander catches tension from several, noting their names. Everyone is trying to figure Nevander out. Whether he’s merely the prince’s guardian, or the new power behind the throne. For reasons of her own, Morana’s barb was a feint to draw out those opposed to either.
At least, those with less control over their facial expressions. Nevander won’t assume every smile hides a friend.
Fortunately, Nevander doesn’t need friends in court. He just needs to present a strong, orderly succession on Seren’s behalf. Seren isn’t ready to preside over court yet, but if Nevander has a few more days to guide him—
The door behind Nevander opens. Sir Idalia salutes the room and announces, “His Highness, Prince Seren of Elladar.”
Surprise whips Nevander around as murmurs rise.
Seren enters from the Summer door. As if planned, the muted green of his shirt matches the mural’s rolling fields. The painted sky sets off his delicate complexion.
Brushing past Nevander, Seren takes the presiding chair. “Thank you for gathering everyone, Lord Guardian,” he says, then addresses the room. “Please continue.”
He meets Nevander’s eyes in challenge. Fragrance lingers in the echoes of their touch. Summerstars. A whispering river. A subtler, stronger blow than any blade.