30. Flattery
Flattery
Seren pauses beneath the marble archway. The Court of Hours has transformed from an open lounge space to living art. Choreographed chaos. Musicians play their lutes and panpipes from floating glass platforms. A grove of golden trees with emerald leaves chimes with the breeze of dancing fae.
Capes and dresses in gold, blue, and green dominate the crowd. Braids of white flowers. Sheer lace like watercolors over glittering skin. Summer hues, in defiance of the threshold. Laughter, music, color, and light dance beneath a wealth of crystal decorations. Everything refracts in splendor.
Seren’s heart steadies. Once he might have been overwhelmed by this, but he’s learned to center himself, and his guardian waits at his side.
Nevander surveys the crowd with suspicion. “You only have to stay until midnight.”
“As long as you help me unwind after,” Seren says. “But what’s at midnight?”
“Your speech,” Nevander says absently.
Seren’s steadiness fractures. “My speech?”
“You didn’t…” Nevander’s eyes widen. “I thought the seneschal would have told you.”
“Gods and spirits,” Seren says, aghast.
“It’s just sharing a few words,” Nevander says reassuringly. Fae can’t lie, but they can understate.
Before Seren can protest, the laughter hushes. The music falters, then soars brighter without accompaniment. Every glittering face turns.
Seren hadn’t wanted a grand entrance. He chose this side archway out of arrogant curiosity. A test, and the result is a thrill of attention. Seren needs no herald for every fae in the room to notice him.
Gevain and Morana stand nearby, pointedly separate. Lysandra cradles a crystal goblet, amused. Primrose’s shaggy bulk is easy to spot in a dancing circle. Idalia, Mustardseed, Jasper. More familiar faces than Seren expected, but the vast majority are strangers.
“They recognize me,” Seren says under his breath.
“They’d stare regardless,” Nevander replies, his whisper warm. “You are stunning.”
That praise lifts Seren even higher. And everyone surely must notice Seren’s crown of flowers, and the matching bloom in Nevander’s hair.
The attention isn’t painful. Seren can choose how to wield it. Tonight, he wants to make friends.
“Happy threshold,” Seren says, raising his voice. “Where’s the mead?”
Surprised laughter ripples through the crowd. Tansy calls out, bright and irreverent, “Over here, your sparkly highness!”
“Lead on,” Seren says, smiling.
Nevander escorts him across the courtyard. Conversation resumes as it’s clear Seren isn’t giving a speech—yet—but nobody makes a secret of gawking. So similar yet so different from the last time Nevander led him through a crowd. The Elsewhere revels, before Seren knew how to shield.
This crowd’s attention is sharper, but Seren is stronger. He can keep all the stray emotions out.
Fountains of red wine and clear water arc overhead. Though Seren shouldn’t assume it’s water, with how sweet it smells. An acrobat dances from a hanging skein of fabric, creating shape after shape with her body and the shimmering material. From this distance, patches of her skin appear scaled.
Tansy awaits at a bar, clad in voluminous, skirt-like trousers, and nothing but golden paint above the waist. A strange hat leaves his hair disheveled.
The bar wouldn’t appear too out of place in Wymond.
The bottles on the shelf are too fine, especially the ones with pink or green labels, and the bartender’s pointed ears would cause a stir, though.
She’s the oldest fae Seren’s seen, at least by appearance.
Fine wrinkles decorate her eyes, and her leather-bound hair is so white it’s nearly translucent.
“Hello, Sevastia,” Tansy says, hopping onto the bar top. “Seren, do you want the regular mead, or the special mead?”
Sevastia shoves him off without missing a beat. Then she grabs a bottle with a green label. “I’d recommend the regular mead, Your Highness.”
“For you as well,” Nevander warns Tansy, who sticks out his tongue.
“I’m of age,” Tansy complains. “Same as him.”
Tansy’s hat appears to be a wooden bear mask, worn as a sideways headband. It’s adorable, though Seren shouldn’t say that.
Seren accepts a wooden goblet but doesn’t drink yet. “Do I want to know what the special mead does?”
“It’s an aphrodisiac,” Sevastia says bluntly. “Young Tansy is welcome to it, and the consequences too.”
Tansy feigns a shudder. “Oh, I don’t like consequences.”
Nevander touches his amulet and passes a hand over Seren’s goblet.
The surface ripples. Only when Nevander nods does Seren take a sip.
Honeyed sweetness sings across his tongue.
Almost too much, except for the heat of alcohol balancing it.
With that one sip, Seren relaxes, shedding tension he hadn’t known he was holding.
“This has enough consequences for me,” Seren says, both alarmed and delighted. He should sip this slowly. “Thank you.”
Sevastia bows. “My pleasure. Lord Nevander?”
“Not tonight,” Nevander says, unsurprisingly.
Seren should find an opportunity to help his guardian relax. But not tonight, when he’s so dependent on Nevander’s expertise. The sense of security that frees Seren to handle other matters.
“Let’s go to the dais,” Seren suggests. “Tansy, will you join us?”
Tansy’s suspicion requires no magic to read. “Is this flattery to persuade me back to my human hovel?”
Seren raises his eyebrows. “Is it working?”
“Absolutely not.” Tansy snags a bottle of mead. One with a pink label. “Lead on, Prince Seren Calithel Whatsit.”
Nevander’s eyes narrow, but halfway across the courtyard, Tansy’s bottle changes from pink to green. As Tansy swears about the bartender’s trickery, Seren mounts the marble steps.
The dais is higher than Seren remembers.
It’s broad enough for a dozen people, even with the guards flanking either side.
A long, padded bench makes a comfortable throne beneath crystal flowers.
Seren perches, taking in the revels. Everyone else has a perfect view of him.
Time to see who’s bold enough to approach.
Hopefully before the mead goes to Seren’s head.
Unsurprisingly, Lord Gevain is first up the steps. He’s a gleaming vision in gold and copper, from his highlighted hair to burnished silk and leather pseudo-armor. Metal flowers cling to his bare upper arms.
Nevander stiffens with disapproval. His jealousy is as charming as it is unfounded.
Gevain sweeps a bow three steps down.
“You may approach,” Seren says, before Nevander has to nudge him. “Well done with the decorations, Lord Gevain.”
Gevain reaches the top step. “Your approval thrills me, Your Highness.”
“Don’t let it get to your head,” Tansy says, lounging against the far end of the bench. His rudeness is worrying. He should know better, growing up in court.
Or maybe he does know better, because Gevain half-bows. “Your disdain thrills me too, changeling.”
“How are things in Summer’s Edge?” Seren asks.
“We’re grateful for the palace’s support,” Gevain says. “But that’s a matter for council meetings, Highness. Tonight is a celebration.” Gracefully, naturally, he extends a hand. “Would you care to dance?”
Seren doesn’t have to look to feel Nevander’s reaction, a tremor in the air. But Seren can’t make decisions based on his lover’s jealousy—and Nevander wouldn’t want him to.
Maybe Seren should accept. A dance is but a moment, not a commitment. Staying friendly with Gevain would be useful.
That moment would make a statement, though. Particularly Seren’s first dance of the night. And putting aside all the shoulds and should nots, Seren only wants to dance with one fae this threshold festival.
“I appreciate the offer,” Seren says. “But I’ll decline.”
Too late, Seren remembers that this is a statement, too—a public rejection, stinging a fae lord’s pride. But Gevain’s smile doesn’t falter, even through a deliberate glance at the flower in Nevander’s hair.
“I certainly can’t fault your taste, Your Highness, and I hope you won’t fault mine.” Gevain’s smile widens, and he turns to Tansy. “Would you care to salve my loneliness?”
Tansy chokes on his mead. “What.”
Gevain extends a metal-wreathed arm. “Dance with me, rude little human.”
“Fuck off.” Tansy takes another swig through his scowl, then sets the bottle aside. His bold gaze scatters. “Fine. I guess.”
He dodges towards the steps, but Gevain catches his hand. Tansy’s scowl can’t hide his reddening cheeks.
“With your leave, Your Highness,” Gevain says breezily.
Stunned, Seren waves a hand. “Enjoy the party.”
As Gevain sweeps Tansy into the revels, Seren and Nevander share a moment of silence.
“That might solve a few problems,” Seren says eventually.
“Or cause new ones,” Nevander says, sounding just as stunned. He beckons a floating tray of snacks over. After checking them for poison and curses, he nudges the tray to hover at Seren’s side.
Seren surveys the Court of Hours, feeling more comfortable with a successful conversation behind him. The honey blackberry pastries don’t hurt, especially since they somehow don’t stick to his new gloves.
Nobody else is approaching yet. Tentatively, Seren loosens his shields.
Heady admiration rushes across his outstretched magic. Tickles of curiosity, bright as the mead in Seren’s goblet. Attraction, sweet and flaky as the pastries. Green-red anxiety. Someone out there is nervous about speaking to Seren.
Seren couldn’t have survived an entire festival’s attention before. He’s used to hiding in the shadows for his own protection. He never knew how good the light could feel.
“What are you doing?” Nevander asks.
“Indulging my vanity,” Seren confesses. “Pastry?”
He lifts the morsel, and Nevander’s gaze flickers down. Like his imagination follows Seren’s along impetuous tracks. Seren imagines Nevander biting the pastry from his fingers. Warm lips kissing the tips of his gloves.