34. When He Couldn’t Pretend
When He Couldn’t Pretend
Eyes scratchy and heart numb, Seren ventures from his quarters. Idalia and Mustardseed wait as in the marble hallway, remarkably alert in their leaf green armor.
If they think anything of Seren’s disheveled hair, his clothes from the night before missing only the flower crown, they give no reaction. Either this is normal after festivals, or Seren’s better at concealing his exhaustion that he feels.
Mustardseed volunteers, “Nevander left for the hall of arms, which holds such wonderful blades and charms.”
“I’m not looking for him,” Seren asks, surprised his voice isn’t scratchy too. Just quiet. “Where is Primrose?”
Idalia hops down from her handstand in a clatter. “Primrose usually sleeps in the gardens at this hour, Your Highness. I can find out more precisely.”
“That isn’t necessary,” Seren says. The search will give him time to settle his thoughts. “Thank you.”
He continues down the hall, footsteps echoing too loudly.
His ears are oversensitive. A consequence, perhaps, of locking his shields so tightly.
He can hardly stand his own worn-down emotions, much less anyone else’s.
The palace feels more distant, too. Seren just catches a faint sense that the palace wants him to eat.
The suggestion is thoughtful. Seren disregards it.
Idalia remains in the royal quarters, but Mustardseed follows ten paces behind Seren. They’re treating Seren as if nothing disastrous happened last night. Of course. Nevander wouldn’t expose Seren’s distress. He’s too considerate. Protective.
Possessive.
Seren doesn’t want to see Nevander this morning. Really. Yet he’s still disappointed not to find Nevander outside his chambers.
A flower-carved door opens at Seren’s approach. He crosses into a garden fragrant with gardenia and swaying foxgloves. Where he first found Harmony. Around every tree and statue waits an absence.
Hypocrisy twists Seren’s gut. He needs space. He needs comfort. He needs to comfort Nevander in turn, because breaking the vow broke him, and that’s not what Seren intended.
Seren stops beneath an archway of blue hyacinths. “Mustardseed.”
Startled, Mustardseed approaches. “Is there something you need, by word or by deed?”
“Why do you serve this role?” Seren asks. “Do you enjoy it?”
Mustardseed frowns like it’s obvious. “It’s a good job, Your Highness, with just enough thrills. It beats selling riddles atop the high hills.”
Seren doesn’t know if the latter’s an actual job, or forced by the rhyming curse. But the gist is clear. “Thank you. Carry on.”
Mustardseed bows, then follows Seren into the next stretch of garden. A miniature orchard, fruitless trees just a few feet taller than Seren. No sight of Primrose yet, and Seren should just relent and tell Mustardseed to find her. Or summon a tidingbird.
The morning is beautifully warm, the gardens lush with greenery and shade. This walk is failing to steady Seren as he’d hoped.
Seren may know his way around the palace now, but he’s still so lost. And if he’s lost, he needs information. Primrose showed him how to order his magic. Perhaps she can help Seren order his thoughts as well. She’s the only one Seren trusts not to repeat his questions to Nevander.
He just needs to know his options. Whether it’s even possible to reinstate the changeling spell, exchange himself for Tansy. That way they could remain in the realms they grew up in.
The thought of returning to Wymond hurts like claws closing around his heart, preparing to rip it free. Seren doesn’t belong there. But it was easier, sometimes, when he knew he didn’t belong. When he couldn’t pretend.
Seren expected that. He didn’t expect that the thought of leaving Elladar would hurt so much, too. There are so many books he hasn’t read. So many pixies he hasn’t danced with. So many friends he’s just starting to make.
Maybe it won’t be possible. Maybe Primrose will have another haven quest for Seren instead. He misses the satisfaction of puzzles with clear answers. That could be why selling riddles atop the high hills is a valid career. He should ask Mustardseed about that sometime.
If Seren stays long enough.
Wards feather Seren’s face as he crosses into more public gardens. The pavilions and swings should be quiet, with most fae sleeping off the threshold festival.
But a familiar voice jumps from the nearest gazebo. “Your Highness!”
Seren turns, tension settling into resignation.
Gevain hurries closer, silent Daffodil at his heels. Seren has never seen Gevain dressed so plainly—relatively speaking. Gevain’s practical travel robes still glitter with ruby accents. Strategic cutouts reveal glimpses of his toned arms.
Daffodil keeps her gaze lowered, like a shadow in plain blue linen.
“Lord Gevain,” Seren says, hoping to get this over with quickly. He doesn’t have the patience for courtly banter this morning.
He’s not on a throne, so Gevain doesn’t need permission to approach. “I’m glad to find you, not only because your presence brightens the morning,” Gevain says, the flattery flowing easily. “Tansy wants to speak with you.”
Experience sharpens Seren’s worry. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t believe so, but…” Gevain hesitates. “He seemed upset.”
Uncharitable annoyance prickles beneath Seren’s worry. Of course Tansy wants to talk now, not any of the previous times Seren attempted. Seren isn’t in the mood for Tansy’s impulsive troublemaking.
“Where is he?” Seren asks, because he cares too much to ignore the message. That’s why he’s annoyed.
Gevain offers an arm. “This way. I can lead you.”
“Thank you,” Seren says. He avoids the offered arm, which Gevain drops with a smile.
“Daffodil, dear,” Gevain says. “Wait in the library.”
Her expression is difficult to read. She nods and heads off, the only sounds her footsteps on the stone paths.
Another day, Seren might have loosened his shields and spied on her emotions. Today, he’s still too fragile. And Daffodil likely wouldn’t appreciate that. A witness wouldn’t restore her voice.
“Her silence bothers you,” Gevain remarks as they proceed.
Seren weighs his words. He’s already rebuked Gevain enough regarding the non-proposal, but Gevain seems to be taking that in stride. “Morana accused me of not knowing fae customs. She wasn’t entirely wrong.”
Gevain raises an eyebrow. “You have a knack for nuance that Morana lacked.”
The compliment leaves Seren unsettled. He doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything right today.
They leave the public garden with its swings and pavilions. The fruitless orchard rustles in the sweet breeze.
“Why did you really silence Daffodil?” Seren asks.
“Because if she said the wrong thing to the wrong person, she would lose more than her voice.” Gevain fusses with his hair, as if uncomfortable expressing any sort of compassion. “You don’t agree with my actions. That’s admirable, Your Highness.”
Seren doesn’t feel admirable. He feels pathetic, dreading and yearning for Nevander’s appearance around every corner. Talking to Gevain is somehow easier, which Seren never would have expected.
“What do you think of Lady Morana’s death?” Seren asks. So much for easy conversation.
Gevain gallantly brushes aside a tree branch that wasn’t in the way. “Interesting framing. You could call it Lord Nevander’s victory instead. Your victory.”
Seren winces. That’s how the rest of Elladar would see it. Nevander wields the sword, and Seren wields Nevander. Even when it’s the other way around.
Except Nevander usually charges ahead when Seren is paralyzed. If Seren stood firm, maybe Nevander would listen.
Faint rainbows scatter across the garden. Reflections from a waterfall or crystal window. They cross the hyacinth archway, returning to the gardenias and foxgloves.
“I’ve hated Morana for centuries,” Gevain muses. “She hated me in return. I would not dishonor her memory by speaking fondly of her now.”
Seren is tempted to lower his shields. As if tasting Gevain’s complicated emotions would clarify his own muddled heart. He inhales, tasting the fresh air instead—
And frowns.
Familiar statues and trees surround him, and beds of white flowers. Foxgloves nod like silent bells. But Seren can’t smell the gardenias. Just rich soil and sharp greens.
Another archway waits ahead. Pink and purple roses twine around the curved trellis. Seren digs his heels in, poised for flight.
They’re in the inner gardens now. Seren should have felt the brush of wards. And he and Gevain shouldn’t be alone. “Where’s Mustardseed?”
“The guard? He didn’t follow us,” Gevain says pleasantly.
Something is very wrong. “Why?”
“Because he wasn’t attentive enough.” Gevain’s hand falls on Seren’s shoulder. “And—well, forgive me for showing off.”
He snaps his fingers.
The garden shimmers. Rainbows waver, then fracture. Illusion breaks. Seren and Gevain stand between pale stone walls and the forest’s edge. Past the boundary of protective wards.
This was a ploy. Gevain lured Seren away with news of Tansy.
Seren’s panic ignites.
“Nevander!” he shouts, wrenching away, seeking with sight and magic for—
A cruel hand silences his next cry, seizing him by the throat. Gevain’s smile curls like a poisonous flower as Seren chokes.
“My sincere regrets, Your Highness,” Gevain purrs. “I wanted to do this the easy way, but you didn’t cooperate.”
Seren twists, clawing at Gevain’s hand. Breath burns in his bruised throat. He’s helpless as Gevain snaps his fingers again.
Palace and forest vanish.