30. Flattery #2
Nevander takes the pastry by hand in the end. Probably smarter, given how flaky it is. Seren is disappointed until he feels the wistful jealousy scattered amidst the crowd. Some wish they were in Nevander’s place. Some wish they were in Seren’s.
“Be careful,” Nevander warns, but he sounds more fond than cautious.
Seren reins in his empathy as the next fae mounts the steps. He needs to concentrate on introductions and conversations, etiquette and connection.
The conversations are easier than Seren expected, especially with Nevander whispering each name as they approach.
The Lord of Spiritwood gives a dagger, in sympathy but not apology for the attack suffered on his lands.
The Lady of the Pyran brings a poem Seren doesn’t understand.
It sounds like murmuring water. Bittertree of the Wandering Grove brings only polite greetings, as does a fox fae of Milla’s Menagerie.
Seren is good at this part, even with his empathy shielded. He’s spent so many years honing his words to avoid negative reactions. Edith and Alard always called him manipulative. Here, that’s an asset.
During a lull, Seren surveys the courtyard again. Some emotions retract at the brush of his empathy. Surprise, then silence.
Seren spies Folly, astounding a gaggle of younger fae with card tricks, and doubtless fantastic lies.
The music slows, and the dances slow with it.
Perhaps Seren could keep up with that tempo.
He’s been sitting too long, and his goblet is empty.
Taking a deep breath, he gathers his nerve to ask Nevander to dance.
Then he stumbles on pure malice.
The emotion is gone the next instant, sheathed so securely Seren can’t find any traces of it. But its memory still burns cold.
“Seren,” Nevander says urgently, kneeling at his side. His expression is calm, a smile playing on his lips. An act for those watching, because everyone is watching, because Seren is exposed and unsafe and—
“Someone here hates me,” Seren whispers.
“Who?” Nevander asks.
“I don’t know.” Seren struggles to sift through the crowd’s emotions, except now the curiosity and attraction and joy all feel sinister.
His empathy shies away, afraid of being hurt again.
“They only slipped for an instant. It may be nothing. It’s not a crime to hate me, and they may not intend harm. ”
“Don’t discount your instincts,” Nevander says quietly. “Even if there’s no threat, we can leave at once.”
Seren doesn’t understand. “There’s no need.”
This is too important. Seren needs to build alliances, to consolidate power, to find one brother and avenge another.
Nevander’s hand falls next to his. Almost a caress in this public place. “You don’t have to suffer.”
Seren’s breath hitches. The idea of hiding from this is laughable, but he can’t draw up any mirth.
“I’ve endured far worse for far longer,” Seren says, and regrets it for the sudden pain in Nevander’s eyes.
He covers Nevander’s gauntlet in his gloved hand.
“Check the wards, then return to my side, Lord Guardian.”
The instruction rebalances them both. Nevander rises to his feet. “I’ll leave you with Idalia and…” He glances down the steps, and new tension reveals itself in his sudden polite relaxation. “Lady Lysandra.”
Lysandra carries herself with such self-assurance, she seems to be doing Seren a favor by bowing. Approaching with permission is another favor. Her garb is simple, like a Wymond farmer’s work clothes, if any farmer hemmed their trousers in gold thread.
“Excellent,” Lysandra says of her son’s retreating back. “I’d hoped to catch you alone.”
Seren rubs his fingers, though no crumbs have stuck to his gloves. “Why is that?”
Lysandra shrugs. “Proof of concept. Rumor has it you’re rarely seen without him.”
Seren can’t tell if she’s insulting him or not. “As rumors go, that’s quite tame.”
The idea of rumors crawls uncomfortably through his mind. All this attention doesn’t go away when Seren leaves the room. Fae throughout the palace, the realm, think about Seren, and those thoughts are colored with emotion.
In another realm, Edith and Alard still hate him.
“And Nevander is disappointingly calm about farewells,” Lysandra continues. “I leave tomorrow for my workshop, to begin forging the crown.”
“Thank you,” Seren says, seeking out Tansy on the dance floor.
He needs to send Tansy back soon, unless this thing with Gevain goes anywhere. But if Tansy binds himself to Summer, what will Seren do about Edith and Alard?
“Quite the entertaining festival,” Lysandra says pointedly.
Seren barely keeps himself from apologizing. The sting of malice has left him shaken. “I don’t mean to be rude.”
He braces his shields against what surely must be annoyance. Offense. But Lysandra’s features soften, and she gestures to the padded bench. “May I sit, Your Highness?”
“You may,” Seren allows, wary of her kindness.
Lysandra sits, shedding her imperious posture. “I knew your mother,” she begins, a line Seren’s heard too many times. “As Summer King, you will match her in greatness.”
“How can you know that?” Seren asks.
Lysandra smiles. “The task is not so immense as it seems. You don’t need to be a supreme ruler. Simply a steward. A companion to this realm.”
“That sounds too simple to be true,” Seren says, even as the idea settles comfortably. A companion. He could do that. “I’ll still need that crown, though.”
“That you will.” Lysandra plucks a pastry from the floating tray. “I am surprised nobody summoned me, given the urgency of the matter.”
“What do you mean?” Seren asks.
Lysandra’s emotions remain guarded, but annoyance shows on her face. “Someone should have sent for me as soon as the crown broke. I had to take the initiative when I got fed up with waiting.”
That doesn’t make sense. Nevander had said he would send for her, and he can’t lie. But all this time later, Seren can’t recall Nevander’s precise words. Whether he’d left any loopholes.
“I thought someone had,” Seren says, shaken.
“Perhaps it slipped their mind.” Lysandra rises. “With your leave, Your Highness.”
Seren dismisses her in a daze. Nevander wouldn’t have forgotten something so important. He did this on purpose, even though he’s the one who most wanted Seren on the throne. Which means…
A promise rings in Seren’s ears. Before Seren’s coronation, Nevander would not force Tansy back. That was the only thing keeping Seren here at first. By delaying the crown’s repair, Nevander kept Seren in the palace.
Seren jolts as Nevander ascends the dais.
“Everything is secure,” Nevander says. “What did Lysandra want?”
This must be a misunderstanding. Nevander cares about him. Surely Nevander will be able to explain everything once they’re alone.
“We need to talk later,” Seren says, forcing a smile.
Before Nevander can answer, a horn rings out. The music halts, and every fae in the courtyard steps back. Their parting reveals a moss-covered path, winding from the grand entryway to the royal dais. The midnight between summer and autumn has arrived.
Seren stands to witness the procession.
Lady Morana leads a troupe of ritekeepers along the mossy path.
Seren wonders if she fought Gevain for the honor—though Gevain appears occupied nearby, whispering into Tansy’s reddened ear.
The ritekeepers wear their usual patchwork robes, but they seem more formal beneath dancing lights.
Primrose watches from a nearby gazebo, nodding as her ritekeepers pass.
This procession has been repeated every year for thousands of years. Since before the vanishing of Autumn. Morana carries a bundle of greenery. Long ago, she would have surrendered it to a Lorian emissary at the end of the procession. Tonight, she’ll hand it to Seren instead.
As Morana approaches, Seren finds himself breathless with the sense of connection. He inherits not just a kingdom, but a history. Painful sometimes, but beautiful, too. Though Autumn is gone, it isn’t forgotten.
Seren even knows what he’ll say for his speech. The gist of it, anyway. Memory is a gift, and so is change. Loss is a part of life, and people regain what they can and remember what they can’t. For everyone present and absent, Seren looks forward to sharing a new era.
The hardest part will be not addressing the entire thing to Nevander.
He’s supposed to begin when Morana hands him the greenery. But she stops at the foot of the stairs. Her face is cold.
“I am charged with presenting this to the next king of Elladar,” Morana says, her voice clear as a glass dagger. “But I see no king—only a child, driven by whim and easily handled.”
She flings the greenery to the marble. The whole courtyard gasps, and guards rush forward.
Seren freezes. His control falters.
Morana continues louder, heedless of the approaching guards. “I am Morana. I renounce my claim to Brightwood and its folk. In my name alone, I challenge you for the throne of Elladar.”
With every word, her malice sharpens.