33. Where His Vow Should Be
Where His Vow Should Be
Usually Nevander would find satisfaction in the sense of order. Blades line the armory walls, reflecting light throughout the chamber. More weaponry bristles in goldwood racks. An empty stone table dominates the front of the room. Everything is in its proper place.
But Nevander’s proper place has shattered. His leaf-scale armor feels hollow. He swore to protect Seren, and that impossible vow became a sword in his heart. Over the years, his soul scarred around it.
Until last night. Seren wrenched the blade out, and the bleeding won’t stop.
Nevander risked his life for love and devotion. He killed Morana, snuffing out centuries of skill and ambition, to defend Seren’s place in this realm.
And Seren doesn’t want it.
The armory is silent in the late morning, and Nevander both hates and welcomes the solitude. No voices to intrude on his tightly coiled misery. No distractions except the tasks he appoints for himself.
A trip to Brightwood will be useful. Investigate Morana’s connections, and rumors about the missing crown along the way. Remove himself from the palace before Seren banishes him first.
Nevander’s first unworthy thought had been to ignore Seren’s demand for space. He still isn’t sworn to obedience. He isn’t sworn to anything now. But if he can’t obey his prince, then he’s exactly what Morana claimed.
The armory’s true wealth hides beyond the stone table. Not beneath or behind—nobody is sure exactly where Elladar Palace hides its treasures. Nevander rests a gloved hand on the surface.
His role as Lord Guardian gives him nearly unlimited access to the armory’s contents. He can call up specific items, or categories, but he can’t decide what. Pain fogs his mind. Soreness from the duel. Bruised wings absorbed into his magic.
The empty wound where his vow should be.
Nevander could take something to hasten travel. Or a disguise. There are gemstones that will anchor a glamour to make it easier to hold. Nevander would rather not be recognized on his journey.
He could take an invisibility token. He doesn’t have to leave the palace.
No. That would betray Seren’s trust. But invisibility and illusion anchors are in the same category. No harm in reviewing his options.
“Concealment,” Nevander says, fingertips arcing across the stone table. Gold sparks trail his hand.
Nothing appears.
Nevander must be too scattered to connect with the armory. He tries again. “Concealment.”
The air cools, and the stone table darkens. Refusal.
Nevander frowns. So, the error isn’t his. “Show me what I seek.”
Refusal again.
The armory isn’t alive. It isn’t inanimate either. It’s a presence in between, a subset of the palace, as much spirit as stone. Nevander has never spoken with it before. He’s never needed to. The enchantments simply work.
“I have the right as Lord Guardian,” Nevander bites out, annoyed—before a sudden fear. Seren could have revoked Nevander’s title in preparation for casting Nevander out.
Except the armory settles into reluctant acceptance. A concept pushes into Nevander’s mind, deeper than hearing and truer than sight.
A trade.
“My service is my trade,” Nevander says, trying to contain his frustration. He doesn’t need this on top of everything else. He can’t lose control arguing with the palace.
Trade, the armory insists, stubborn as a child’s tantrum.
Impossible. Nevander doesn’t know what to offer, and the armory can’t give him what he wants.
A knock interrupts. Wildkeeper Valerian, who should be halfway to the border by now, lounges in the doorway. No aroom fox at his side today.
“Are you arguing with the armory?” Valerian asks. His striking green eyes see too much.
“Are you here to stoke more unrest?” Nevander retorts.
“That seems unnecessary,” Valerian says lightly. “None of this is about me.”
With one gesture, he encompasses all Nevander’s turmoil. Damn him for knowing Nevander too well.
Far too well. “I’m here to apologize,” Valerian says, still cheerful, but his faltering gaze underscores the truth of his words. “I spoke unkindly yesterday, and I didn’t want to leave on that note. I’m sorry, friend.”
That cuts the strings from Nevander’s anger. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I let my own bullshit get the better of me.” Before Nevander can ask what bullshit he means, Valerian continues. “Enough about my treasonous doubts. Why are you fighting with the armory instead of celebrating your victory?”
“I’m traveling to Brightwood.” Nevander’s excuse flows easily. “I’ll celebrate by digging up any hidden allies of Morana.”
“What allies?” Valerian scoffs. “She renounced kinship. Brightwood won’t welcome your suspicion. Come, Nevander. Bask in your glory. Celebrate with your dear… Oh.”
Nevander turns away too late, unable to control his expression.
Valerian moves closer. “Trouble in the inner palace? Entangling with royals is always complicated.”
Nevander’s first impulse is to deflect and protect Seren’s privacy. But Nevander needs to lean on someone too, and he can’t place everything on Seren. That isn’t fair to either of them.
“Seren needs to clear his head,” Nevander says. “He asked not to see me for a week.”
Valerian’s eyes narrow. “Can you even do that?”
That’s the trouble. Nevander always could. A promise doesn’t need to be fulfilled; it can always hurt instead. Now the thorns dig from Nevander’s own obsession.
“He released me from my vow,” Nevander says.
“Can he even do that?” Valerian asks, reaching into midair. A flask appears in his hand. “He hasn’t been crowned yet.”
“It seems he can.” Nevander rubs his chest. A gesture of weakness he almost stops. But Valerian’s already seen past him. “I don’t know what to do without the vow.”
Valerian unscrews the cap and offers the flask. The scent of cinnamon liquor fills the room. “Thankfully, I do. Drink?”
Nevander waves it off. Tempting, but he’s not sure he can keep anything down.
Valerian closes the flask. “If you’re going to Brightwood, you’re not going alone. But on the way, we’re finding a village where we can drink our weight in wine.”
That sounds sorely needed. Nevander’s first foolish thought is to invite Seren.
“Got room for one more?” another voice calls from the doorway.
Valerian swears, while Nevander barely flinches. Everyone’s sneaking up on him this morning, but he knows the voice.
A sleepy Lord of Elsewhere enters the armory. Folly’s human face shows exhaustion clearly, shadows beneath his mismatched eyes. His dark hair is a mess, his deep green robe rumpled.
Valerian inspects the stone table, as if embarrassed to be interrupted.
Hopefully Folly hasn’t overheard much. Nevander attempts a smile. “Yarrow won’t appreciate your delayed return.”
“He won’t.” Folly sighs dramatically. Then beams. “You both should visit Elsewhere soon. You’re Valerian, right?”
Valerian takes a barely perceptible breath, then turns. His bright green eyes are unusually guarded. “Should I be flattered or alarmed that you’ve heard of me?”
Folly cocks his head before sweeping a theatrical bow. “Neither, of course. The Great Folarius, Lord of Elsewhere, master of magic and seer of sights, hears all and knows all.” He smooths his rumpled robe. “As for telling all, that’s another thing. The Great Folarius can keep a secret.”
“You don’t have to call him the Great Folarius,” Nevander adds.
Folly waves. “You can if you want. But Folly is fine.”
Valerian relaxes into his own dramatic bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Folly. You’ll have to tell me how you tamed our wild fae friend.”
“What brings you to the armory?” Nevander asks. He gestures at the blade-lined walls. “Though it’s being stubborn today.”
Folly stares blankly, then snaps his fingers. “Oh, right. I don’t need the armory, thankfully. I haven’t the faintest idea how to handle a stubborn armory. I was looking for you, because I’m actually looking for Tansy, and I can’t find him anywhere.” He catches his breath. “Have you seen Tansy?”
Spirits, Nevander doesn’t need this today. “Do I want to know why?”
Folly ruffles his hair, worsening the mess. “Seren asked me to speak with him.”
“He’s probably just sleeping in,” Valerian says. At the others’ questioning looks, he shrugs. “Tansy left the threshold revels with Gevain. I imagine that was exhausting for both of them.”
That makes sense. Nevander had forgotten Gevain and Tansy’s flirtation, given everything that followed. Still… “How do you know that? You weren’t at the party.”
Valerian winks. “I have my sources.”
“You have gossip,” Nevander corrects.
“The best kind of sources,” Valerian says, unperturbed. “Shall we have a proper breakfast before Nevander flees the palace and Folly hunts down Tansy?”
“No,” Nevander and Folly say in unison. Folly laughs, and Nevander continues. “We should find Tansy first, before he turns his leg to stone again.”
“He what?” Valerian asks.
“Again?” Folly throws up his hands and heads for the door.
Nevander follows. He should delegate this to Valerian and Folly. Odds are Valerian’s right: Tansy’s just sleeping off an adventurous night. But Tansy is important to Seren, and Nevander still feels so intensely responsible for his prince.
He can’t blame it on the vow anymore. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much for Seren to reject his care.
Nevander rubs his chest, but the ache isn’t physical. All he can do is hide the pain and try to be useful. One task at a time.