17. No Witnesses but the Palace Walls
No Witnesses but the Palace Walls
Seren’s ears ring in the emptiness. Four other people crowd the ornate office, all talking and breathing and moving, but Seren’s mind is quiet.
Three days since Primrose’s lesson, he still hasn’t adjusted.
Nobody else’s emotions intrude on his heart.
He has to rely on facial expressions and body language to read the room.
Unless he uses his magic.
“Thank you for coming,” Seren says, leaning against the desk. Then he straightens, feeling disrespectful. This isn’t his office. Well, it is, technically. That’s even worse.
The private office is housed in a tower adjacent to the royal living quarters, right below an impressive greenhouse. Gilded woodwork, sculpted green glass, and crystal lanterns all conspire to hide the lack of windows. Shelves encircle the walls, filled with a wealth of books and ornaments.
The small group watches him intently. Nevander stands to Seren’s left, stern as ever. Tansy lounges against the door, like he’s ready to bolt. Idalia of the royal guard currently balances on one leg. At her side stands another guard, Mustardseed.
One of the first to find Haelwen’s body.
“Nevander and I will go through Haelwen’s personal effects,” Seren continues. He doesn’t even stumble over the name. “I would appreciate your help skimming through her books.”
Mustardseed shifts his weight. He’s a lean man with rich brown skin. The pin holding his locs matches his leafwork armor. “May I ask, if you don’t mind, what does Your Highness hope to find?”
Great question. Seren shrugs. “I hope to find precise plans for Queen Haelwen’s ritual. A journal would be nice. Maybe a list of conspirators.”
Tansy laughs. He’s the first to realize Seren has made a joke.
Perhaps Nevander notices too. If so, he doesn’t laugh. “Start with the books,” Nevander says, indicating. “Set aside anything pertaining to rituals, enchantments, or spellbreaking. Theoretical or historical.”
“Yes, my lord,” Idalia says, bowing from her one-legged pose.
Tansy raises his hand. “Question. Why am I here?”
“If you’re going to haunt the palace libraries, I prefer to supervise,” Nevander says drily.
Seren moves around the desk. He can’t bring himself to sit on the velvet bench. “You don’t have to help. We can manage. Mustardseed, may I speak with you?”
Seren isn’t good at giving orders yet, but he doesn’t need to. The gathering shifts according to the suggestion. Idalia hops to the nearest bookshelf, and Nevander begins sorting a box of letters.
Tansy lingers near the door, like he’s considering leaving. Like he feels a trap closing around him. Then he scowls and grabs a heavy book.
Years of unwanted empathy have taught Seren a few things. Pushing Tansy to return will only harden his resolve. Seren needs to circle around the subject, starting with accustoming Tansy to his company.
He doesn’t have much hope for this investigation. But part of Primrose’s lesson has burrowed deeper under his skin. The mystery of the First Queen’s demise. Seren hates the thought that a thousand years from now, a child might learn the same story about Haelwen.
Once upon a time, a queen died, and nobody knows how.
Seren has lost too much. He won’t let Haelwen rob him of this answer, too.
He has to do something, and accessing Haelwen’s private office is something only he can do.
And he’ll learn more about Elladar along the way.
Not that he’ll become a king like Nevander wants. But knowledge might help him escape.
Mustardseed’s half-bow breaks Seren’s reverie. “What did you wish to ask, before I begin my task?”
Seren barely resists apologizing for his inattention. “I wished to…” His mind catches up to his ears. “Are you rhyming on purpose?”
A grin lights up Mustardseed’s violet eyes. “Alas, I was cursed as a child. A fair price for playing in the wild.”
“My condolences,” Seren says, startled. “I think.”
Mustardseed shrugs with a clink of armor. “By now, it’s a comfortable habit, although I must rhyme that with ‘rabbit.’”
That must be very inconvenient. Seren should ask Nevander how to avoid such curses. “I’ve heard you were among the last to see Haelwen alive,” Seren says, because speaking plainly is easier. “And among the first to find her dead. Did anything strange stand out?”
Mustardseed has already reported to Nevander and Primrose. If he’s annoyed at having to repeat himself, he doesn’t show it. “All around her were over-bloomed flowers, an increase in magical powers. There were cuts on her hands and face, which healed without a trace.”
Seren has never heard such sadness in rhyme. He touches his own forearm. “Nothing else?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness, I have nothing new.” Mustardseed bows. “If I learn anything, I will first tell you.”
“Thank you,” Seren says. Part of him wants to reach out and taste Mustardseed’s sadness. See if it’s easier to stomach than Seren’s own.
Instead, as Mustardseed joins Idalia’s search, Seren turns to the shelves behind the desk.
There’s an exquisite wooden box. A set of statuettes—bear, griffon, wolf, unicorn.
More trinkets, all artfully arranged. Pride of place goes to the box containing the broken crown. Shattered upon his mother’s brow.
“Is it normal for injuries to heal after death?” Seren asks quietly.
“With enough power involved,” Nevander says, and sets a bundle of parchment on the desk. “These were recent.”
Seren takes a deep breath, centering himself the way Primrose showed him. Then he sits at the queen’s desk and begins to read.
He tries to, at least.
The fae of Elladar speak the journey tongue, same as Wymond. Words are spelled mostly the same. The letters are thinner, more graceful, but close enough to what Seren’s used to. He’s certainly deciphered worse handwriting, his own included, while working for Alard.
He’d hoped reading Haelwen’s words would bring her closer. Seren only feels further away.
With his empathy quiet, Seren’s own anxious hurt is far too loud. Nevander stands nearby, slowly flipping through papers. He’s a ray of cold in the opulent warmth. Seren had thought they’d reached an understanding in Primrose’s haven, but in the days since, Nevander has been sterner than ever.
It doesn’t make sense. Seren had thought he’d done well.
Not good enough to impress Nevander, clearly.
Seren doesn’t even resent Nevander for that.
The more he learns, the more he grasps the scope of his ignorance.
He teased Nevander for fighting everything in the haven, but at least Nevander fought instead of panicking.
If Seren had Nevander’s discipline, impervious to distraction and emotion…
He wouldn’t be himself.
“What are you reading, Tansy?” Nevander asks.
“A Half-Hag’s Humble Guide to Flora,” Tansy answers cheerfully. “With a special appendix of mixed drinks.”
Disbelief quiets the room. Tansy holds an alarmingly ornate tome. Ragged yellow pages exude malice.
Idalia laughs. “You may be human, but your lies need work.”
“I suppose it does look like a dark grimoire of unspeakable curses,” Tansy says, flipping a page. “But it’s just a nice list of flowers.”
Nevander jerks his head, and Idalia hops over to retrieve the book. “Whatever it is, you can read something else.”
Idalia slams the book shut in a shower of ominous sparks.
Tansy sighs but doesn’t protest the confiscation. “Perhaps you can accompany me on my next library trip, Lord Nevander. You can help me pick something more… suitable.”
Seren looks around for the sudden source of anger. Nevander seems unmoved. Everyone else seems amused. The anger is Seren’s own. Tansy is blatantly flirting with Nevander, and Seren dislikes that unreasonably.
Flustered, Seren sets the papers aside. He’ll go back to them, but first he’ll try examining the display shelves. Looking at trinkets doesn’t require as much concentration as reading.
When he eases open the crown’s case, Seren’s knees weaken. So many gems. How much would that be worth back home, even broken—a thousand gilden? Five thousand?
Seren closes the case gingerly and moves to a smaller box, carved in ornate geometric designs. This one is empty, with a palm-sized impression in the velvet.
“That would have held a memory,” Nevander says from very close. The scent of honeysuckles and amber, a breath of citrus, surrounds Seren. “Haelwen kept important ones in glass spheres.”
“Where is it now?” Seren asks.
Nevander draws away, gaze averted, as if remembering he wants nothing to do with Seren. “I don’t know. Have you found anything interesting?”
Seren bristles at the challenge. Even though it’s probably not a challenge. Seren just resents himself for not finding anything useful. He casts around the shelves, desperate for something to say, then frowns.
“This is new,” Seren says, reaching for a decorative hair comb.
Nevander blocks his hand, touching the amulet at his throat. “One moment, Your Highness.” Only when the opal flashes does Nevander step aside again. “It’s safe. How do you know it’s new?”
Seren hadn’t considered the potential threat of a comb. He eyes it warily. The carving is beautifully delicate, flowers and a falcon in flight.
“Everything else is arranged so perfectly,” Seren explains. “But this comb is too close to the edge. Like Haelwen set it here hastily, without finding a proper place for it.”
Nevander nods. Either thoughtful or humoring him. “The flowers are summerstars, and the falcon is the emblem of Summer’s Edge. This could be a gift from Lord Gevain.”
“Does that mean anything?” Seren asks.
Nevander plucks the comb and vanishes it into his carryhold. “It means Lord Gevain is due some questions.”
Nevander returns to his reading. Seren returns to blankly staring at expensive ornaments. Then blankly staring at papers. The office is silent except for Tansy and Idalia occasionally murmuring. Mustardseed chimes in less frequently, maybe because he has to rhyme anything worth saying.