18. A Tidingbird
A Tidingbird
Faint harpsong dances in the night wind, melancholy with distance. Courtiers enjoy their nightly revels, but here, the royal wing is quiet. Nevander stands invisible on his darkened balcony. Below, the garden blooms silver with starlight, fragrant with Summer’s eternal warmth.
The next balcony over is a haven of golden light. Partially obscured by honeysuckles, Seren plays with his new pet.
Mustardseed is posted outside the royal quarters tonight.
Assigning other people to guard Seren feels wrong, though there’s no expectation that Nevander be by his side at all times.
Most fae lords don’t keep personal bodyguards; being powerful enough to defend oneself is a point of pride.
But most fae lords weren’t raised as human.
Seren’s laughter carries clearly as the squirrel darts through the greenery. A rare, private moment of happiness. Nevander’s invisible gaze is an intrusion, but he can’t tear himself away. And in the quiet, he can’t delude himself that this is his duty.
He never thought he would miss stalking Seren through Wymond. Back when he had Seren all to himself, even if leaving burned like cold iron.
Seren named the squirrel Harmony, because the people of Wymond give their animals aspirational names. A dog called Steadfast. A horse called Kindness. Nevander hadn’t known that. He was so preoccupied with watching Seren, he learned little about the world that shaped him.
Nevander wants to learn more in the most selfish way. This compulsion didn’t take root in Primrose’s haven, just revealed its nature. His desire aches like a second oath, except Nevander never swore himself to this. It’s simply the most natural response to Seren’s existence.
Nobody can know, especially Seren. Nevander must lock his emotions even deeper down as Seren’s ability grows.
Across the garden, Harmony scampers down the wall. Seren leans over the railing, ethereal in white. The loose shirt is too large for him, and arousal jolts Nevander before his mind catches up.
That’s the shirt he gave Seren in Primrose’s haven.
Seren suddenly squints into the night. Then Harmony lands on his head, and he staggers back with a yelp.
Heart pounding, Nevander retreats through his quarters. The rooms look much the same now that he’s fully moved in. He’s never been one for leisure or decorations, which never seemed a problem before. Now, he’s desperate for a distraction.
He must control himself. His duty is to protect Seren, and Seren’s place in this realm is so fragile. Nevander refuses to inflict his lust on his prince.
Even if Seren is wearing his shirt.
Nevander releases his glamour of invisibility. Unclenching his jaw is more difficult. Managing that, he strides from his quarters. A perimeter patrol would do him good. He’s barely left Seren’s side for weeks, and the outer guards should see the Lord Guardian.
The justification echoes hollow as his footsteps down the marble halls.
But he has to do something. Valerian reports that the woods have been quiet.
No augray intrusions. Bristling at the borders from nightlands shades, but no crossings.
Elladar’s courtiers have been behaving as well.
Like everyone’s waiting for someone else to make the first move.
Nevander should be grateful. But right now, he wishes he had something to fight.
As he passes Calendar Hall, something flutters nearby. A tidingbird alights on his shoulder—quite literally. Its feather patterns glow as it winks into visibility.
“For me?” Nevander asks, holding out a hand.
The tidingbird vanishes in flight and reappears when it lands. It settles, round and fluffy, on Nevander’s finger.
Nevander removes a lightweight scroll from its harness. “Thank you.”
Trilling, the tidingbird vanishes again.
The letter is more likely to be dull than dire.
Nevander’s received more messages in the past few weeks than in the past few years combined.
Haelwen’s absence echoes through the palace like fluttering wings.
Not that she personally handled many day-to-day matters.
Her subjects just didn’t doubt their own routines so much.
Nevander unfolds the translucent paper and finds a message signed by the chief librarian. With a sigh, Nevander tucks the letter into his carryhold and changes course. Inspecting the perimeter will have to wait.
Typical Tansy.
He passes the aerie tower, with its constant chorus. Perhaps Nevander should send a letter of his own, by raven or another sturdy bird. Not tidingbirds, which are better suited to shorter distances. The Summer Crown is broken, and Nevander has not sent for the royal artificer.
He never said he would. He just implied it, so nobody else would summon Lysandra. A coronation would be a symbol of strength, and strength itself. Seren would be able to wield Summer magic.
Nevander’s promise would come due. He would lose the leverage that keeps Seren in the palace where he belongs.
Best to wait on summoning Lysandra. Seren is slowly accepting his identity. He’s too kind to ignore a squirrel in distress. Nevander just has to wait until Seren’s own empathy binds him to the realm.
He should take Seren to the aerie soon. The way Seren latched onto Harmony, he’ll probably like the nesting tidingbirds.
Midnight approaches as Nevander arrives at the Court of Hours. Nearly precisely the hour shown on the great clock that overlooks the courtyard—by sheer coincidence. The clock hands never move.
Tonight’s revelry is winding down early. A single harpist meanders from melody to melody, never finishing a song before the next catches their fancy. Atop the dais, a servant directs a floating mop to clean a pool of blood. Presumably a duel, since Nevander would have been informed of a murder.
Nevander stops to ask, “Did anyone die?”
“No,” the servant says, sounding disappointed. “Another fool thought she could challenge the best. Lady Morana went easy on her.”
Nevander conceals a wince. Hopefully Lady Morana won’t use her latest conquest as a chair, at least in front of Seren.
His next stop is the bar. White-haired Sevastia is closing up for the night, and she points him to the correct gazebo.
Fireflies illuminate a sprawl of bodies and pillows. Tansy leans very close to someone Nevander takes a moment to recognize as Second Ritekeeper Jasper. They look different without the ceremonial robes, their hair unbound and their eyes glassy with drink.
Tansy and Jasper are joined by an attendant from Summer’s Edge—Daffodil, Nevander recalls—and Lord Gevain himself.
No book in sight.
“Just the man we need!” Gevain exclaims, waving an empty tankard. Falcon feathers rustle in his hair. “You must open the palace for more visitors. I’m stuck reveling with Daffodil.”
Being rude to subordinates is unbecoming. But Daffodil tosses her hair with a laugh. “Even worse, I’m stuck reveling with Lord Gevain.”
She dissolves into giggles, and Gevain’s smile flashes bright. Ah. The thin line between rudeness and flirtation. That’s none of Nevander’s business.
Tansy lounges back. He’s shirtless again, which appears distracting to Ritekeeper Jasper. “Where is Prince Seren? He should be reveling with us. Has he even tried Sevastia’s mead?”
Nevander ignores the questions. “Follow me, Tansy. We need to speak in private.”
“My dear Lord Nevander,” Tansy purrs. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Daffodil giggles harder, but Jasper looks hurt.
Their hurt dissipates when Tansy’s hand casually falls to their thigh. Unfortunately, this flirtation might become Nevander’s business. Poor Jasper is caught in Tansy’s latest scheme to stay in Elladar.
“Public is fine if you prefer.” Nevander forges past Gevain’s smirk. “Where is the book?”
Tansy’s brow furrows in well-constructed confusion. “What?”
“The book you stole from the palace library,” Nevander says patiently.
“If you’re talking about the grimoire, I had permission and I gave it back.” Tansy waves a hand, chiming with bracelets. “Useless, all of it.”
The boy’s as good at misdirection as any fae. “I’m not asking whether you stole a book. The librarian saw you fleeing with it.”
Tansy’s perfect confusion hardens into a mulish pout. “This is absurd. I haven’t even touched a book all day. Besides, I’ve been reveling for hours. Ask anyone here.”
From anyone else, such a denial would hold weight. Nevander would have to dig between the words for loopholes. But Tansy is human. Raised by a bear of Summer, but clever enough to wield his power of lies.
Daffodil raises her arms in a languorous stretch. Her expression is innocent, her words disruptive. “You were gone for nearly an hour.”
“He said he was getting drinks,” Jasper says, clearly trying to help Tansy. But Tansy glares. Jasper’s words only highlight the flimsiness of Tansy’s alibi.
Gevain watches in silent amusement.
“The librarian saw you,” Nevander repeats. “Save us the trouble of searching your quarters.”
“Then someone else is fortunate enough to resemble me.” Tansy grabs the nearest bottle of mead. Nearly empty, so it doesn’t spill with the force of his gesture. “Or some fucker is framing me with a glamour. Search away.”
Nevander’s not getting more out of him, and continuing the debate will only make them both look stupid. “Very well. I’ll consider your testimony when the librarian finishes her inventory.”
Tansy finishes the mead, tilting the bottle nearly vertical. Then he licks his lips with unnecessary eye contact. “I look forward to the interrogation, Lord Nevander.”
Nevander stalks away rather than indulging him further. Incredible. The boy makes Yarrow look tactful. His manipulations are blatant. Childish. Primrose was right—Tansy and Seren may be the same age in years, but the difference in maturity is stark.
Tansy’s the one who acts like a fae youth, though. Perhaps if Seren had spent his childhood in Elladar, he wouldn’t have grown up so fast.
No. The chains of royalty would have tightened around Seren’s wrists. He might have grown up even faster.
Dwelling on the past is pointless. Nevander hastens his steps, ready to leave the dwindling party. But Lord Gevain catches up at the courtyard’s edge. A trellis of vines obscures them from view.
“May I have a moment?” Gevain asks. “Little Tansy is a mess. A charming mess. But he’s not wrong that Seren should join our revels.”
An alliance between Tansy and Gevain is unexpected, and disconcerting.
“His Highness has been busy,” Nevander says.
“Yet there is more to this palace than books and squirrels.” Gevain’s courtly smile is absent. “How can he rule if you hide him away?”
The question cuts. Nevander doesn’t answer.
“Besides,” Gevain continues. “Who knows what wickedness Morana will turn to in her boredom? She hardly puts any flourish into stabbing people these days. It’s sad to watch.”
“What do you want, Lord Gevain?” Nevander asks sharply.
Gevain waves off the rudeness. “I want what you want, Nevander. To see Prince Seren comfortable on the throne.”
However frivolous Gevain acts, he’s a formidable force. Three centuries old and heir to Summer’s Edge. He would be a dangerous enemy—or a valued ally.
“Why?” Nevander asks.
“I believe it will benefit Summer’s Edge.” Gevain looks away. “And on a personal note, I quite liked Queen Haelwen.”
That wouldn’t be rare. Fae have ever been attracted to power. Nor was it a hopeless desire—Haelwen was hardly chaste over her centuries of rule.
Yet Gevain appears embarrassed. “I’m feeling Sevastia’s mead. I should let Daffodil put me to bed.” That courtly smile returns. “Do help me arrange an audience with His Highness. He must learn to throw a proper party, and you’re hardly up to the task.”
As he leaves, Nevander recalls the wooden comb in his carryhold. Carved with summerstars and a falcon in flight.
Too many threads. Nevander doesn’t know how Haelwen managed them all.
Except she didn’t, in the end. And perhaps it’s unfair to wrap so many threads around his prince’s throat.