17. No Witnesses but the Palace Walls #2
Mustardseed and Second Ritekeeper Jasper are the best witnesses Seren has. But Haelwen was alone when she died. Everyone keeps saying that—no witnesses but the palace walls.
Seren’s fingers tense against the parchment.
Primrose says the throne room refuses to open. The palace refuses to speak. But Seren has inherited the authority to cross the palace wards. That’s how he can enter his own bedroom. He has no crown. Maybe he doesn’t need one.
“What are you doing?” Nevander asks, before Seren even moves.
The idea spurs Seren to his feet. “Trying something. Don’t worry.” He lays a hand on the nearest wall. A hanging mirror reflects a face that still startles him. He’s almost used to the blue hair. But the intensity in his golden eyes is new.
He closes his eyes and lowers his defenses. Just like Primrose showed him. As natural as unclenching his fist.
Stubborn frustration hits him first, a tangle of grasping roots. That’s Tansy. Idalia’s curiosity is light, like dandelions on the wind. Mustardseed’s heart is a jagged rock in a stream. Sorrow that time hasn’t yet worn smooth.
Nothing from Nevander, as always.
Instead of shrinking away, Seren pushes for more. If walls can witness, perhaps they have emotions, too. If Seren’s empathy can connect, maybe the palace will guide him in the right direction. Or even open the throne room, so the ritekeepers can investigate.
“Careful,” Nevander says, closer than Seren remembers.
Seren struggles to answer without lying. He doesn’t know enough about Elladar to know if this is reckless, but he has to reach farther, until—
A presence towers over Seren’s heart. Not a mind, as such. Not alive. Just a force of magic, thousands of lives tracing these halls for thousands of years. History both glorious and forgotten. Seren gasps, awestruck, as the palace sees him.
There’s a moment of recognition.
Then a bludgeoning rejection. The palace sees Seren and judges him insufficient.
He reels back and doesn’t fall because Nevander has his elbow. Nevander’s saying something. The words don’t make sense. All Seren can focus on is rebuilding his shields, shutting out the rejection, making himself safe again.
Another emotion pierces through. It isn’t directed towards Seren, but he feels it nonetheless. Loneliness and pain. Feather-soft betrayal. Not the palace. Something smaller.
“Someone is scared,” Seren says, wrenching himself from Nevander’s grasp. “I have to find them.”
For a moment, he thinks Nevander will argue. He’s so used to having to fight for what he wants.
“I’ll go with you,” Nevander says instead.
Seren is already heading for the door. Books and chairs clatter, a strangely mundane scramble in the opulent chamber, as the others follow. Seren’s pace quickens down the stairs. He’s still unfamiliar with the palace, but descending a tower is simple enough. The tiny, sad hurt draws him onward.
“Who’s scared?” Tansy asks, trotting at Seren’s heels. “And how do you know?” His curiosity sparkles over a deeper layer of intrigue. Better than outright hostility.
“I can feel people’s emotions sometimes,” Seren says, before thinking whether it’s wise to share. They’ve reached the tower’s lowest chamber, and he has to decide which archway to take.
Tansy’s wariness spikes. “How lovely.”
“I usually try not to,” Seren assures him, and turns left.
The wariness doesn’t fade as they exit into a garden, redolent with gardenias and foxgloves.
“I had wondered what your knack might be,” Idalia chimes in. “Strange to see the waterfalls dark.”
“Why is that?” Seren says, searching.
Idalia cartwheels, so graceful she seems to float, and comes up next to a fountain. “Queen Haelwen collected memories. Favors, trades, and consequences. Those memories once swam like stars through all the palace waterways.”
Of course. Seren walks in his mother’s shadow. Everyone else in this procession knew Haelwen, and he alone can’t remember her light.
He halts in the fragrant center of the garden, wrestling his own self-pity down so it doesn’t cloud his search.
“What happened to the memories anyway?” Tansy asks. “After Her Majesty kicked it.”
Mustardseed chimes in. “I can guess, though I don’t know. The same place all our memories go.”
Vanished. There’s been too much of that.
“Quiet,” Nevander admonishes them.
It’s not directed at Seren. But his whirling mind latches onto the order—and obeys with relief. The inner quiet allows him to focus.
“There,” Seren says, and rushes to the fountain.
A statue of a hooded figure stands in the center, outstretched hands spilling clear water. Seren splashes into the fountain, soaking his embroidered boots. Balancing on the statue’s feet, he finds the creature huddled beneath the stone hood.
The squirrel shrinks back, dark blue eyes glassy with fear. Its white-gold fur is matted and dark in places.
“You poor thing.” Seren wants to reach out, but the wounded animal would likely see that as a threat.
Water moves behind him. Nevander says, “May I see?”
Seren shifts to one of the statue’s feet, letting the others see. Nevander stands in the fountain, and the others gather close.
“You can sense squirrel emotions?” Tansy asks, flabbergasted.
Mustardseed sighs. “Well, that’s a shame. I can see what’s to blame.”
Seren nearly slips as he turns, but Nevander catches him, quicker than reflex. “What do you mean?”
“Most squirrels are gold or green,” Idalia explains, possibly to save her colleague the trouble of rhyming. “They blend in with the goldwood trees. White squirrels are rare, and they usually don’t live long.”
There were animals like that back in Wymond. Prey animals especially. “Because predators find them easily?”
“Those injuries aren’t from a predator,” Nevander says. His touch lightens once Seren is steady, but doesn’t fall away. “Other squirrels drive them out before they attract a hawk or fox to the community.”
The squirrel trembles, making itself smaller.
“Oh,” Seren says.
“It’s natural,” Nevander says, an explanation without warmth.
Yet he’s the one who keeps catching Seren, when it would be more natural for Seren to fall. “Maybe so.” Seren draws closer again, holding the statue’s shoulder for balance. “But I don’t like it.”
Seren grew up in a village on the edge of the woods. He’s no stranger to the violence of nature and cultivation, nor the sacrifice of one to save the whole. Years ago, illness struck a shepherd’s herd. She had to cull half her sheep to prevent the spread.
It just feels wrong in this land of wondrous magic. Seren is supposed to be a prince, but his every achievement is countered with helplessness. He may control his magic now, but he’s no closer to explaining his mother’s death. He’s no closer to sending Tansy home.
Maybe he can help this small creature.
“Please stay quiet,” Seren says, and tries to steady his mind. Just like when Nevander ordered the others to be quiet
The squirrel’s fear darts erratically, and once Seren would have flinched away. Instead, he tries to accept the fear, while securing his own emotions. He won’t retreat, but he won’t surrender either.
Back in Wymond, he couldn’t fix anything. He was the creature that didn’t belong. Here, he can make a small difference.
“I’m not here to hurt you.” Seren tries to sound soothing, in words and thought. “I’d like to help.”
The squirrel’s trembling slows. It stares unblinking past its fluffy tail. No longer terrified but not yet trusting.
Seren reaches for happy memories. Chiyo’s affection when he praised her apron. Summer’s fondness welcoming him home, the rightness in his heart. His relief at finding Nevander in the Winter haven.
“Why do I feel so calm?” Tansy asks, far behind him.
“Sorry,” Seren says dreamily. “I’m trying something.”
As he speaks, the squirrel uncurls. Nose twitching, it slinks from the statue to Seren’s waiting hands. Its fur is impossibly soft around the mats, its weight light as a feather. Yet the venture of trust weighs heavily.
Heart thudding, Seren holds it close. “Do you know what they eat?”
“I’ll find out,” Nevander says, his lip twitching. Almost a smile. And Seren feels a little more powerful than before.