28. To Be a Shield
To Be a Shield
With tremendous effort, Nevander forces his attention back to Idalia’s report. He must maintain discipline. Unfortunately, Seren’s sleeve keeps riding up his wrist as he pets Harmony. The movement exposes the edge of a glittering bruise.
Nevander kissed that mark into Seren’s skin this morning.
Now Seren presides over Calendar Hall, which has become the interim throne room. This afternoon’s meeting should be brief ahead of the night’s threshold festival. Brief and private. The only participants are Nevander, Seren, Idalia, Jasper, and Valerian.
And two four-legged friends.
The palace is abuzz with too many guests, straining Seren’s empathy and control to their limits.
Nevander wants to whisk Seren into his haven for safekeeping.
At least he can help Seren decompress every night.
Sometimes with sex, but not always. A routine of quiet moments, so Seren doesn’t have to think and Nevander can soothe his own deepest urges.
Protection. Caretaking. Control. To be a shield between Seren and the world’s worries.
“My final matters belong together,” Idalia says. Her hands are empty. Valerian’s aroom fox stole her juggling ball ten minutes ago. “Lord Gevain reports that Lady Morana has been sending too many messenger birds. Meanwhile, Morana reports that Gevain sends too few.”
Nevander is truly tired of that pair of headaches. “Have all their birds followed, so we know the recipients.”
“Is sending too few messages really a problem?” Seren asks, still petting Harmony. He’s grown more comfortable asking questions over the past few weeks.
Valerian shifts like he’s about to answer, but remains silent. The currently yellow Spindle bats Idalia’s ball back and forth. She’s been pointedly ignoring Harmony, as if annoyed she doesn’t have a chance at the squirrel.
“The information won’t hurt,” Nevander says, then adds, “Tracking only. No interception yet.”
Idalia salutes. “Speaking of birds.”
A tidingbird flits into the hall and lands on Nevander’s hand. Retrieving the message, Nevander braces himself for the likeliest disasters. Maybe Morana finally challenged Gevain to a duel instead of just pecking at him. Maybe Tansy’s turned himself into a cat. Again.
At least Seren looks entranced by the luminous bird. These small moments of wonder are reassuring
The message is for Seren, not Nevander. “The Lord of Elsewhere has arrived,” Nevander says. “He has a gift for you.”
“Which Lord of Elsewhere?” Seren asks, brightening.
Nevander hands over the note. “The sensible one.”
Their fingers brush, and Nevander savors the hint of Seren’s smile. “I’d hoped to see Folly. Do you need me here?”
The question is close to asking permission. Haelwen would never have done that. But Nevander’s growing to appreciate Seren’s consideration. “I can brief you afterwards,” he says, despite the pang of reluctance. “Idalia?”
She salutes and heads for the door.
When Nevander dreamed of retrieving his hidden prince, the dream ended there. Seren would return, and Nevander would have him. He never imagined the constant little farewells.
Yet parting is sweeter when Seren reaches out, grasping Nevander’s forearm above the gauntlet.
“Thank you for your efforts,” Seren tells the others, another courtesy Haelwen would never give.
No words for Nevander. Just a shy glint in his golden eyes before he leaves through the Summer door. Harmony and the tidingbird dart after him. Idalia follows at a more sedate pace.
Idalia and Jasper have witnessed Nevander and Seren’s discreet touches over the past several weeks. If they have opinions, they give no sign. Valerian, newly returned, watches with a griffon’s focus.
There isn’t much left of the meeting. Too many questions, too few answers.
Information without resolution. Primrose has confirmed the palace wards are intact.
There are no dangerous exceptions, not even for royal blood.
Haelwen apparently closed that loophole after Zavriel and Briar disappeared, removing the possibility of an unknown royal bastard causing havoc.
Even Briar himself wouldn’t be able to enter without permission, or Zavriel if he was alive.
The crown’s theft must have been an inside job, likely by someone disguised as Midnight. Household interrogations have yet to turn up leads.
“Has Lysandra caused any problems?” Nevander asks.
Jasper shakes their head, clearly relieved. “She’s been most helpful. There’s one problem. With the number of people we’re questioning, we can’t keep the theft a secret.”
“I heard before I arrived,” Valerian adds. “The woods and villages are full of speculation.”
Unfortunate, but Nevander had resigned himself to this. “Let them enjoy the gossip. Seren’s position doesn’t depend on the crown. Is there anything else, Ritekeeper?”
“I should review the procession,” Jasper says, straightening their robes. “Everything is ready, but I like to make sure.”
They leave the room to Nevander, Valerian, and Spindle, who’s now pacing the room. Valerian looks poised to fly into the painted forests. Never one to stand still.
Never one to hold his tongue either, at least with Nevander. But he keeps quiet until Nevander says, “What is it?”
“I was wondering,” Valerian draws out, green eyes glinting with a leer. “How good is he?”
Fury flashes across Nevander’s vision. His hand burns for his sword. “That’s none of your concern.”
Valerian simply tilts his head. “Good enough to cloud your judgment, then.”
And Nevander realizes he has failed a test. “You’re infuriating.”
“But not wrong.” Valerian looks away, dark green hair shielding his expression. “Be careful, friend. You’re frightening enough when you’re in control.”
The warning rankles, sensible as it is. Nevander hadn’t expected congratulations on his new relationship.
Valerian prefers his own courtly entanglements brief.
But Valerian could at least show some understanding, even support.
Two decades of a fractured vow are over.
Nevander finally gets to put himself back together.
Maybe that’s the problem. Nevander has soldiered through his hurt for so long. He can’t expect a connection he doesn’t offer. He could stand to be more like Seren.
“Will you attend the festival?” Nevander says. “Yarrow’s lifebond will be there, too, and Seren could use more supportive voices in the crowd.”
Valerian shakes his head ruefully and taps his thigh. Spindle trots to his side. “Then you should not value my attendance.”
Nevander tenses. “Explain yourself.”
Valerian extends his open palms, crisscrossed with worn green wrappings. The leather encircling his forearms is softened by use, but tough. “I do not oppose your changeling prince. I’m simply not convinced he should be king.”
That’s the sort of whisper Gevain silenced his attendant Daffodil for. Nevander suddenly understands the temptation.
“Convince yourself of what you like,” Nevander says coldly. “So long as your doubt does not impede my duty.”
“See that imperious tone?” Valerian smiles. “You would make a fine king yourself. If Yarrow can rule a realm, why couldn’t you?”
“Why couldn’t you?” Nevander snaps.
Valerian shrugs. “I’d consider it, if I could manage it from the wild woods. Fear not, Lord Guardian. My doubts remain thoughts, not actions, and I voice them only to you.”
Nevander should feel grateful for that. If Valerian was truly a threat, he would hide from Nevander, not confront him.
Any gratitude is muffled beneath the weight of responsibility. He cannot manage the entire realm’s doubts and protect his prince at the same time.
“We will miss your presence at the festival,” Nevander says at last.
Valerian pauses as if waiting for something else. Anger or denial or reassurance. Then he bows with excessive flourish. “A happy threshold to you.”
He stalks from the room, his fox at his heels.