25. This Troublesome Throne #2
They wait long enough for Seren to remember his new authority. “You may go,” Seren says reflexively, before considering that he wants more information on what ‘well, it’s fixable’ means.
“Tansy can wait,” Nevander says quietly. “As can Lysandra. We should consult the guards.”
Right. The intrusion in Spiritwood. They need to inform the Lord of Spiritwood too, so he can watch for Midnight and his augrays. Too much tugs at Seren’s mind.
But he doesn’t have to do everything. “You consult the guards and contact Spiritwood,” Seren says. “I’ll check on Tansy. We can meet at the Garden of Rites after.”
Nevander pauses, too guarded to reveal whether he hesitates from duty or affection. If those are any different. “I’ll be quick,” Nevander says, and gestures. A familiar figure cartwheels over. “Sir Idalia will escort you in my absence.”
Seren half hopes for a kiss goodbye, but Nevander stalks away without a touch. Strange relief loosens Seren’s shoulders. He takes off in another direction, Idalia beside him.
“Did our absence cause any problems?” Seren asks.
Idalia pulls a baton from a carryhold. “You’re in charge here, Your Highness. Don’t mind Jasper—they’re just nervous because they’re new.”
“How long have they been a ritekeeper?” Seren asks. He’s used to being the only newcomer.
“Just seven years,” Idalia says, dashing Seren’s hopes. “Or maybe eight.”
She twirls her baton as they press on. The palace is easier to navigate now. Seren focuses on the Court of Hours, its intimate gardens and raised stages, and the living pulse of the palace guides him onward.
There’s no guide for Seren’s swirling thoughts. He needs a few moments to sort them without constant touches and consideration and eye contact. Seren told the truth—he wasn’t being coerced by Nevander’s emotions. He’s just the normal sort of overwhelmed.
They haven’t discussed whether to flaunt or hide their… relationship, dalliance, whatever this is. Another fae brought up marriage yesterday. Seren’s relationships are apparently a matter of state, and he has no idea what that means.
Nevander has behaved with utmost propriety since returning to the palace. Discretion is probably wise.
Seren likes that, for now at least. He needs time to figure out what he wants without courtly interference.
The Court of Hours is quiet in the early morning, but not empty. An invisible servant floats over the gardens, filling their visible basket with cups discarded from last night’s revels. Three people cluster near the central dais—familiar faces Seren is starting to recognize as trouble.
Idalia hangs back, when Nevander would have accompanied Seren to the dais. Hopefully Seren’s sense of exposure doesn’t show. He lived all his life without escorts. He can walk up and talk to people on his own.
Tansy appears to notice Seren first. “Hello, your majestic and beautiful highness!”
Surprised or feigning surprise, Gevain and Morana bow.
“What a delight, Your Highness,” Morana says. “From where do you journey?”
“Spiritwood,” Seren answers, unnerved and braced for hostility. Last time they met, Morana used a man as a chair, and Seren told her to stop—the latter being the greater insult, apparently.
Morana smiles as if she has forgotten, which Seren doubts.
Tansy bows too, unusually polite, but also unusually clumsy. Both might be related to his left leg, which gleams marble from the thigh down, skin-tight trousers and all.
Stone-tight, rather.
“What are you all doing?” Seren demands, his alarm eased by Tansy’s apparent good cheer.
Though maybe that should be more alarming.
Tansy sweeps a dramatic arm, which Gevain gracefully dodges. “We’re just enjoying the glorious sunlight. Sir Idalia!” Tansy snaps his fingers. “Fetch me a tankard of mead. I’m a little tied up, and said glorious sunlight is making me thirsty.”
Idalia simply tosses her baton overhead.
“I was congratulating Gevain on his new honor.” Deliberate annoyance lifts Morana’s voice. “This banquet is a wonderful opportunity for Summer’s Edge.”
Gevain preens, ruffling his sideswept hair. “The glory should go to His Highness. As for me, I was assessing the courtyard’s decorative potential when I happened across Tansy’s predicament.”
“He said he would use me for the decorations!” Tansy says, indignant. “As a statue!”
“I didn’t say that,” Gevain says smoothly. “I said you would make a remarkable statue. Hypothetically.”
“A wonderful opportunity for Summer’s Edge,” Morana repeats, her disapproval clear.
Seren wants to scream. How can they preen and nitpick over a stupid party when Midnight stalks Summer unchecked? When Briar is missing and Nevander got stabbed and Tansy’s turning to stone?
Except revelry brings people together. This is the plan. Seren needs allies, and allies are courted like this—through smiles and games and waterfalls of wine.
Though Seren doesn’t want Gevain to feel too favored. The not-proposal hangs between them.
“I appreciate Gevain’s contributions,” Seren says, with a deep, masking breath.
He can’t imitate Nevander’s stern expression, but he can be pleasant.
Likeable. “As well as Morana’s interest. The banquet is a big, important undertaking.
In the spirit of community, why don’t you both work together with the seneschal? ”
Gevain and Morana mirror each others’ consternation. Tansy covers his mouth, eyes bright.
Morana recovers first. “Thank you, Your Highness. What an unexpected honor.”
Gevain half-bows. “I will enjoy our partnership. So long as Morana understands the decorations are my domain.”
“We’ll see about that.” Morana tosses her flower-laden braid. “Forgive my departure, Your Highness, but I should track down the seneschal.”
“As should I,” Gevain says quickly.
Seren waves in what he hopes is an elegant dismissal. “Thank you both for your help. And speaking of decorations,” Seren says, rounding on Tansy. “None of that answers why you’re like this.”
Morana sweeps away. Gevain lingers but offers no help to the scowling human.
Tansy sighs and produces a small book. “This said it would bind me to the stones of Elladar.”
“Is that the book Nevander accused you of stealing?” Gevain asks, clearly amused.
Tansy rolls his eyes. “No, this is a different forbidden tome.”
Seren’s stomach drops like it too has turned to marble. He’s gotten so caught up in magic and power, he’s neglected the goal that brought him here. At this rate, Tansy is going to get himself killed before Seren returns him to Wymond.
One thing at a time. “Does this book have a countercharm?”
“I haven’t finished reading it yet,” Tansy says with a shrug.
Definitely going to get himself killed. Seren hasn’t the first clue how to fix this. Send Idalia to fetch Nevander or Primrose, probably. They’ll know what to do.
Gevain clears his throat. “No need to disturb His Highness over such a simple spell. Allow me.”
He twists his fingers and mutters under his breath. Stone cracks, and marble crumbles away from Tansy’s thigh to his toes. His leg appears dusty but intact.
“Oh, fuck.” Tansy wobbles but catches himself. “That felt weird.”
Seren’s stomach unknots. “Thank you.”
“Happy to help,” Gevain says cheerfully, then turns to Tansy. “I won’t even require a favor—though if you’d like to owe me, I wouldn’t say no.”
Tansy circles his ankle. “Of course, Great Lord Gevain. I owe you a tremendous favor.”
Gevain laughs. “Liar. Bright morning to you, Prince Seren.”
With one last bow, he saunters away. Tansy attempts to follow, but Seren snags his sleeve.
“We need to talk,” Seren says, tightening his shields. He can’t handle Tansy’s emotions today.
Tansy turns guarded. “Don’t tell me you need more party planners. I’m not stepping into that bloodbath.”
“You got lucky this time,” Seren says, releasing his sleeve. “Gevain didn’t have to rescue you.”
“Of course he did,” Tansy says. “He wants to curry favor with you.”
True, but not the point. Seren focuses. “I know you want to stay in Elladar, but reading random spellbooks isn’t the way.”
“What is the way?” Tansy asks, sharp.
Seren can’t answer.
“You could do it.” Tansy gestures, encompassing Seren head to toe. “Once you’re crowned the King of Summer and all that, you could bind me to this realm. Haelwen’s done it before.”
Grief strikes with cold claws. For the mother Seren never knew. For the parents he did know, missing their real son for twenty years. Lysandra waits in the Garden of Rites. Seren needs the crown, but resisting Tansy’s urging is easier when he can’t help, rather than won’t help.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Seren says, feeling inadequate.
Tansy’s laugh is a snarl. He steps close enough that across the courtyard, Idalia lowers her baton watchfully.
“You arrive out of nowhere, thinking you know what’s best for everyone.
But you don’t know this realm, and you don’t know me.
You didn’t bring me here, and you don’t get to decide when I leave. ”
Seren gestures for Idalia to stay back. Tansy has the right to be angry. Their lives have been twisted mirrors. They understand each other the most and least of anyone.
“You’re right. I don’t know you.” Seren stares Tansy down.
“But you’re also wrong. I didn’t arrive out of nowhere.
I arrived from the village of Wymond. It’s a real place, with real people.
They don’t have magic, but they have revels and sorrow and riverbanks of fresh strawberries. And snow. Have you ever seen snow?”
With a shaking breath, Tansy retreats. “I don’t care. It sounds terrible.”
If Seren pushes too hard, he’ll lose Tansy completely. “We should meet up soon. I can tell you how terrible Wymond is, and you can warn me ahead of your next curse.”
Tansy tousles his light hair. “I think I’m done with curses. But sure. How can I turn down a private audience with the Summer Prince?”
As Tansy darts off, Seren takes a moment to collect himself. Not even an hour apart, and he already misses Nevander’s company.
Hopefully the royal artificer will be easier to handle than Tansy.