12. Both Feared and Loved
Both Feared and Loved
Feigning ease, Seren leans back in the tall chair.
He’s never worn such fine clothes. The material whispers against his skin.
The shirtsleeves are tight from wrist to elbow, fitting perfectly without restricting movement.
The shoes are styled like riding boots, but the storm-gray damask wouldn’t survive trudging through a pasture.
Unless they’re enchanted to stay clean. That wouldn’t surprise Seren.
This is a mistake, but he can’t retreat now. At least he’s not alone in his discomfort. Barbs of wariness strike from the gathered courtiers. Nobody expected Seren to attend this meeting held in his name.
Which is why Seren has to be here. He refuses to be blinkered, dependent on whatever scraps of information Nevander relays. Seren’s life has been a lie for too long. He needs to learn as much as possible about himself, his powers, and his new realm, if he wants to escape.
Nevander’s brief flash of surprise is well-hidden. His armor is simpler today, misty gray leather trimmed in gold, cut close to his frame. An emblem of a bear roars across his cuirass. Nevander suits this place as well as he suits the sunlit forest, like a blade reflecting the room around him.
His gaze cuts away from Seren to the gathered courtiers.
Luckily high fae seem good at shielding when not in shock. After the first flurry of honest emotions, the storm quiets.
A fae woman with loose lavender hair claps her hands. Her single-lidded eyes gleam an icy blue. “Perhaps we should begin with introductions, unless anyone has prepared labeled portraits for His Highness.” She waits for a few chuckles. “I am Lady Morana of Brightwood.”
Seren winces at the rush of embarrassed dread from Morana’s direction. Not her, but the man behind her. He’s pale, with gray hair despite his apparent youth. Humiliation emanates from him in a tidal wave.
Before Seren can muster a response, another man stops forward. He’s familiar, and his russet brown complexion seems to glow against his pastel robes.
“I am Lord Gevain of Summer’s Edge.” Gevain bows, red-brown hair spilling over his left shoulder. The other side is cropped close to the scalp. “I excel at illusion and poetry, and I enjoy long dances in the moonlight.”
Seren does his best to keep a neutral expression. Nevander’s gauntleted hand twitches.
“I regret my suggestion,” Morana interjects.
A dozen other fae introduce themselves. The helpful gesture soon drives Seren to despair. Not knowing names was more acceptable prior to introductions, and remembering everyone is a lost cause.
Morana’s idea of labeled portraits sounds nice.
When the room falls quiet, Nevander lifts a hand. “My tidings will be briefer than your introductions,” he says. Any sarcasm is too subtle to pin down.
Morana snaps her fingers, and the gray-haired man startles. Flushed red, he drops to his hands and knees. Other courtiers laugh behind finely gloved hands as Morana shakes out her gown—and sits on the man’s back.
“What are you doing?” Seren asks, shocked.
And every gaze darts towards him, like he’s the one overstepping. Every gaze but one. The gray-haired man stares at the ground, face hidden.
Morana smiles. “I’m sitting, Prince Seren. Is there a problem?”
Nevander has angled himself in a clear bid for Seren’s attention. Seren disregards him. The kneeling fae’s humiliation mounts by the second.
“There is,” Seren bites out. “Let him up.”
The room chills. Distrust, amusement, hostility, from all corners. Seren has given an order, and his court disapproves.
Morana’s smile widens. “I bested Chamomile in a duel,” she says, as if that makes it all right. Maybe it does.
On reflex, Seren looks at Nevander, but he finds no help in the guardian’s impassive face. Seren is a stranger tripping over unfamiliar customs. But it’s too late to untangle himself. He gave an order, and now he has to set a precedent. He cannot waver.
“Regardless,” Seren says, smiling just as sweetly, like he’s sitting down to dinner with his parents. “Let him up.”
For a moment, he thinks Morana will refuse. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she does. Then she gracefully stands. “You heard His Highness.”
Chamomile scrambles to his feet, disheveled, and turns upon Seren not with gratitude, but with increased humiliation. So sharp Seren’s grip tightens on the chair.
Being helped does that to people sometimes.
“Is my forfeit served, my lady?” Chamomile asks, staring fixedly at the wall.
“I suppose so,” Morana says, clearly annoyed. “Leave us.”
With a last spike of resentment, Chamomile bows, then strides from the room. Melodic laughter follows his reddened ears.
Seren sits back, hoping his discomfort doesn’t show. So much for simply listening. “Continue, Nevander,” he says, more awkwardly abrupt than imperious. He should have used a title. That would have sounded more noble.
Nevander remains politely cold. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He turns to the courtiers. “The royal guard and ritekeepers have concluded the initial investigation into Queen Haelwen’s death. There is no sign of intrusion. The likely cause of death is a great ritual gone awry.”
All smiles leave the room, each face intent—some on Nevander, and some disconcertingly on Seren. Surely they hear the leeway in Nevander’s words.
“Ritekeeper Primrose found signs of magic flowing into the throne room, such as only Queen Haelwen could control,” Nevander continues. “However, we do not know the nature of the attempted ritual. If you have information or suspicions, please inform the ritekeepers or the royal guard.”
The word suspicions hisses around the room.
Surely if Nevander suspected anyone here, they would be in chains. Or however law enforcement works in Elladar. Seren forces his hands to loosen on the chair.
The tension and paranoia aren’t only his own. Someone else’s emotions are bleeding in. Seren counts his breaths, recalling Nevander’s instructions. Determine what is his, what is other.
“The incident damaged the Summer Crown,” Nevander says, still calm.
Apparently, understatement is just fine for truth-telling.
“The coronation must wait for the crown’s repair.
In the meantime, Queen Haelwen’s decree of inheritance is clear.
Prince Seren, born Calithel, is acting ruler of Elladar until his coronation. Elladar’s wards recognize his blood.”
Now every eye in the room scours Seren’s courage. He fixes his own gaze on Nevander’s pointed ear, lest he commit another false step.
“I will take questions now,” Nevander says. “Though I may not give answers.”
Gevain steps forward. “When may we leave the palace?”
“When you like,” Nevander says, though that seems too soon. “Ritekeepers are loosening the wards as we speak.”
“Excellent. I have no further questions, but I hope you’ll permit a statement.
” Gevain pauses for emphasis, then speaks clearly.
“We can ill afford discord in these times. Those in the heart of Elladar may feel secure, but Summer’s Edge guards our border.
Lord Midnight is more powerful than ever.
My people have seen augrays on our land. ”
Seren touches his shoulder instinctively. The memory of fangs stings.
Lord Midnight stole his brothers. The loss has been hypothetical to Seren. Yet for the other fae in this room, the threat is clearly real.
“High fae should not waste ourselves in pointless squabbles,” Gevain says, into a rapt and echoing chamber. “Lest we cede more of Summer to the nightlands.”
The speech is rousing. Emotional. Absurd—to place this unity on Seren’s shoulders.
Gevain bows deeply. “I offer my sympathy for your loss, Your Highness. Haelwen was both feared and loved. Speaking for myself, I will miss her. And I look forward to your coronation.”
He steps back without waiting for an answer, thank the gods. Seren can’t say anything in his flustered confusion. The dart of emotion is brief but clear. Someone in this chamber is attracted to Seren, with the strangest possible timing.
He can’t tell who.
Nevander parries a few more questions. Seren does his best to channel the Lord Guardian’s composure until the courtiers depart. Servants and guards leave too, at Nevander’s gesture. Relief loosens Seren’s shoulders. The performance is over.
And Nevander finally turns, bright as summer but cold as the snowswept mural behind him. “What were you thinking?”
Seren jumps to his feet. It doesn’t help; Nevander still towers over him. “She was humiliating him. It was cruel.”
“She had the right,” Nevander says. Patiently, like he’s teaching a child. “They decided the terms before their duel. Either Chamomile saw this coming, or he bargained poorly.” Then Nevander’s brow knits. “Were his emotions hurting you?”
“That’s not the point,” Seren says, flushing. “Do you only stop cruelty if it hurts you personally?”
“My duties do not concern cruelty, whether it hurts me or not.” Nevander regards Seren as if cataloguing every inch, from his too-fancy boots on up. “Attending this meeting was risky.”
“Would Lady Morana have stabbed me in front of everyone? Isn’t that your job to handle?” Realization punctures Seren’s righteous frustration. “No. You want to hide how pathetic I am.”
Nevander doesn’t deign to confirm the accusation. “Your strategy of saying little was smart, but silence is still a message.”
He doesn’t need to point out that Seren failed in that strategy.
“Absence is a message, too,” Seren counters.
Gods’ spite, he shouldn’t care. This isn’t his palace.
These aren’t his people. But Seren knows what people feel about him behind their calculated words.
“Hiding lets them imagine the worst of me, and I learn nothing about them. About this place. So what if I show my inexperience? That’s the truth, and I assume fae enjoy being right as much as humans. ”
Nevander’s lips twitch. “We are proud creatures. I should have remembered you would be no exception.”
Seren bristles, expecting an insult, but the words are warm with praise. Like pride is a value, not a flaw. Seren exhales, taking in the painted seasons. Winter is so beautiful when he can’t feel its bite.
“I’m lost,” Seren says. “All my life, other people have kept secrets about me. As long as I’m trapped here, I have to learn as much as possible. If that means looking like a fool at meetings, so be it.”
Nevander meets Seren’s gaze, unrelenting. “Far from a fool, my prince. I apologize for underestimating you.”
Seren has to look away. Nevander’s iron control makes the slightest approval unbearably sweet. He needs to remember his situation. “But you don’t apologize for blackmailing me to stay.”
“That would be a lie,” Nevander says. “I’ll consult you before any future audiences in your name. How do you feel?”
The soft question knocks Seren off balance. “Like I should learn shielding before I interrupt any more meetings.”
“Primrose should be in the tower library now.” Nevander steps towards the Summer door, then stops short. “One thing first.”
He removes his gauntlets, then pulls a small, gleaming object from his belt purse. The action is strangely mundane, after all the magical summonings and carryhold treasures. Nevander holds out a ring—an iridescent white stone set in rose gold.
“It’s lovely,” Seren says, resisting the urge to take it. His hands are too dirty, though he washed them after breakfast. The ring is too fine. It isn’t for him.
“You wanted a carryhold,” Nevander explains, and holds out his empty palm. “May I?”
Seren hesitates, then gives his left hand. Holding him gently, Nevander slides the ring onto Seren’s middle finger. This close, the white opal shines with flecks of blue and green. The band is a delicate braid, too large for Seren’s finger—until with a tingle of magic, it shrinks to a snug fit.
Yet Seren’s skin hums instead with the weight of Nevander’s touch. A nervous yearning holds him motionless. As if grasping Nevander’s hand would grant the security he’s never had.
“Thank you,” Seren says, breaking the spell.
Nevander pulls his gauntlets back on. “The armory’s contents belong to Elladar.”
As if the ring itself is what matters, instead of the fact that Nevander remembered. He set aside time for this nonessential task, just because Seren took interest in his carryhold. Seren isn’t used to being so thoroughly thought of.
Nevander grabs the door. “I’ll explain how to use it on the way.”
There’s no change in his voice. No flaw in his control. Perhaps Seren only imagines the hint of fluster.