9. Before He Shatters
Before He Shatters
Easing Seren onto the couch, Nevander is torn between focusing on his charge and any signs of danger.
The royal parlor, bedecked in greenery and white quartz, is securely warded.
Idalia stands by a crystal bear statue, and two more guards wait outside.
Nevertheless, Nevander trusts only his own judgment.
If he can even trust that, unsettled as he is. Habit and ritual carry him through a situation no habit could have prepared him for.
The Queen of Summer is dead.
“Should I summon a healer?” Idalia asks, unusually nervous. A wand spins between her fingers.
“Not yet,” Nevander says, touching the amulet at his throat.
The green opal contains a few enchantments the royal guardians use often. Nevander calls upon the detection spell, searching Seren for unknown curses or weapons. The amulet warms, then cools. There’s nothing amiss. Whatever caused his initial collapse, Seren merely sleeps now.
Relief eases Nevander’s heart. By some presumptuous instinct, he brushes the blue hair from Seren’s face.
The prince’s breath is deep, his lips pale. The deep mauve velvet of the couch gives his cheeks a rosy luster. Nevander fears to touch him too strongly, lest he leave bruises glittering in Seren’s skin.
How fitting that the missing piece of Nevander’s life only returns when everything else shatters. How unfair to place such a burden on Seren’s thin shoulders.
Guilt shoves away any relief. Nevander’s failure has already scarred his prince. And when Seren awakes, it will be to the realm where his mother is dead.
A dozen theories rain like arrows. Perhaps Haelwen’s illness worsened. Or Lord Midnight or another rival slipped past the wards. A curse. A ritual gone wrong. It doesn’t matter yet. Each theory demands the same course of action. Protect Seren. Identify the threat. Nevander will not, must not panic.
Could one of the courtiers have done something? Morana was nearby, as was Gevain. The latter’s helpfulness clearing the doorway only makes Nevander more suspicious.
Reluctantly, Nevander rises. “Report, Sir Idalia.”
Idalia twirls her wand to the other hand. “You felt it, my lord. The queen died not half an hour ago. We closed down the palace, per your contingency orders. Nobody has left.”
“And the emissaries?” Nevander asks.
“They’re ready at your command.”
Nevander takes a steadying breath. He began his contingency plans as soon as Haelwen’s erratic behavior became clear.
In the event of Haelwen’s death, Nevander must protect the line of succession.
Haelwen named Seren her heir. His bloodline is strong.
He has the power to rule—if he learns how to wield it.
But there are those who would seize this opportunity.
“Send them out,” Nevander says. “Let all of Elladar know their prince has returned.”
The message is more complicated than that. Crafted to reassure worried village fae who felt their queen’s death—and warn off those who might seek opportunity. But that’s the important part.
Idalia’s twirling wand falters. She grabs it tight. “So that’s really him.”
Nevander resists the urge to stand between her and Seren. He won’t be the only one watching Seren’s every move anymore. He’ll have to get used to sharing.
“How did Haelwen die?” Nevander asks. “Who was with her?”
“The ritekeepers are still examining her,” Idalia says. “Nobody was…”
Her gaze darts past him, and Nevander turns to find Seren shakily sitting up. In a flash, Nevander kneels at his side.
“Are you hurt?” Nevander asks, searching Seren’s pale face.
Seren licks his dry lips and points. “That’s just a statue, right? Not a real bear turned to crystal?”
He’s avoiding the question, which is wise. Nevander shouldn’t have asked it. Seren clearly notices Idalia, and revealing weakness in front of strangers is dangerous.
“It’s just a statue,” Nevander says, trying to sound calm. “What happened?”
Seren grabs Nevander’s arm as if for balance. Then he looks around, golden eyes lingering on the Idalia, and removes his hand. “My magic is stronger here.”
Fucking courtiers—they should know to shield better. Regardless of how shocking the situation is. Regardless of not knowing about Seren’s empathy.
Spirits. Best to hide that until Seren learns to control it, lest others use it to control him.
Nobody should know, except Nevander. Seren was overwhelmed enough in Elsewhere. Here in Elladar, new to the raw magic of his home realm?
“I’m sorry,” Nevander says. “I should have anticipated that.”
Seren actually laughs, sharp and disbelieving. “It sounds like you have enough on your plate.” He gathers himself visibly. Somehow, he looks more determined with his true face. “Who are you?”
Idalia bows deeply. “I am Sir Idalia of the royal guard.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Seren.” He shifts awkwardly on the couch. “You were telling Nevander what happened. I would like to hear that, too.”
Idalia’s attention darts to Nevander. It’s natural that she would look to him for direction, but Nevander must emphasize Seren’s authority.
“As His Highness wishes,” Nevander says sternly.
Seren and Idalia both seem flustered.
“Last night was normal after you left,” Idalia says. She resumes spinning her wand. “Queen Haelwen retired to her chambers. She rose early this morning and went to the throne room, though she had no audiences.”
“Was that usual?” Seren asks, surprisingly calm. His grip is tight on the edge of the couch.
“Yes, at least recently,” Nevander answers. “Were you saying nobody was with her?”
“She was alone,” Idalia confirms. “No witnesses but the palace walls. Mustardseed and Jasper were in the antechamber, and they rushed in to—to find her, after we all felt it.” Idalia breaks away, her green complexion turning gray.
“Primrose arrived soon after. Apparently, they barely got the queen out before the throne room closed.”
Nevander’s hand is on Seren’s shoulder. He hadn’t noticed until now, when Seren stiffens. Releasing him, Nevander asks, “Was there any sign of intrusion?”
“I don’t believe so.” Idalia’s wand wobbles. “I barely spoke to Mustardseed. Everything has happened so fast.”
“You’ve done well,” Nevander says.
Seren jumps to his feet. Distress breaks through his voice. “Wait, you don’t know how she died?”
Idalia bows. “I don’t, Your Highness. The ritekeepers are examining her.”
Seren blinks rapidly. Nevander nearly grabs his arm again, before Seren composes himself. “I need a moment,” he says tightly, and whirls away to examine the crystal bear statue.
Dread colors Nevander’s sympathy. Seren’s scuffed boots look out of place on the woven floral rugs.
His patched shirt looks shabby beside the carved goldwood pillars.
If he carried himself with a high fae’s grace, that would be one thing.
Nevander has a wardrobe prepared for him.
But Seren nearly cried just now. Two decades in a human village have left him unprepared for his destiny.
Nevander must forge Seren into something stronger before he shatters.
At least Nevander’s contingency plans have held together so far. He returned to controlled chaos, not an opportunistic coup.
“Where is Tansy?” Nevander asks quietly.
“I’m not sure,” Idalia answers.
“Ensure he doesn’t leave the palace,” Nevander says. The order is redundant. Nobody can leave until the ritekeepers loosen the wards. But Seren cares about returning Tansy to Wymond.
Idalia doesn’t question the redundancy. “Yes, my lord. Anything else?”
“Send Valerian to me as soon as he arrives,” Nevander says. “And tell the seneschal I’ll be moving my quarters to the Irisal Suite.”
Idalia leaves without questioning that either. The Irisal Suite is adjacent to the queen’s quarters—Seren’s quarters, now. It’s been empty since Prince Zavriel’s disappearance. It would have been Seren’s quarters, had he grown up in Elladar.
The move will spark rumors. Courtiers will say Nevander is taking advantage of the transition to grasp for power.
It will spark fewer rumors than what Nevander wishes he could do: move into this parlor, even closer to his prince.
Despite the turmoil, this is the best Nevander’s felt in years.
Nevander turns to find Seren at the fireplace. Light makes a halo of his soft blue hair. He’s transfixed by the portrait above the mantel.
Haelwen’s painted face is serene beneath her gemstone crown. She sits upon the goldwood throne, flanked by her children. The eldest, Zavriel, stands with a book in one hand and distance in his eyes. A circlet binds his dark blue hair. He’s younger in the painting than Seren is now.
Briar appears even younger, pale blue hair streaming in an unseen wind. He beams at the tidingbird perched on his finger.
The portrait was painted before Seren’s birth. In another life, it should have been moved to a side room. Haelwen’s office, or the Irisal Suite. A new painting with all three princes should hang above this mantel, where Haelwen could see it every day.
Weakness ripples through Nevander. He counts heartbeats to reinforce his shields. He wouldn’t dare call Haelwen a friend, and he’s spent the past two decades resenting her.
But she was his queen. She embodied home for every creature in Elladar. In all his contingency plans, Nevander never imagined his own grief.
His hand is on Seren’s shoulder again. This time, Seren leans into the touch.
“Where is she?” Seren asks.
“The Garden of Rites,” Nevander answers.
Seren pulls away, and his bright gold eyes mirror his mother’s. “Take me to her.”
And Haelwen’s parting words echo, stern as iron in Nevander’s mind.
I too have no regrets.