26. A Distant Mother
A Distant Mother
Anticipation quickens Nevander’s steps. An hour apart is too long, and he’s relieved to find Seren waiting outside the garden.
Seren leans against a marble column, either relaxed or tired.
Nevander should usher him to rest. The royal artificer can wait until Seren’s had a day’s rest and a change of clothes.
Except Lysandra has waited long enough. Nevander should have sent for her, and she’ll certainly call him on that.
The important thing is that Seren is ready for his crown. He’s done escaping. He reached for Summer magic. Nevander will see his prince crowned, then take the changeling human home, and the realms will balance again.
Seren lights up at Nevander’s approach. “You were quick.”
“I sent a bird to Valerian. He’ll enjoy the trip to Spiritwood.” Nevander nods to Jasper, who fidgets at the gateway. “I also spoke with the seneschal about festival security. He seemed relieved to be rescued from Gevain and Morana.”
Seren’s eyes glint with a very fae sense of mischief. “I may be responsible for that.”
His collar sits askew around his neck. Nevander itches to straighten it, but after last night, simple touches feel a thousand times more intimate. Ritekeeper Jasper is watching. Unsaid words crowd behind Nevander’s lips. You look beautiful. I missed you.
“I also picked up a scry-warding ring,” Nevander says, lifting his hand.
The etched gold band sits snug around Nevander’s left middle finger, above his carryhold. Leaving Seren’s side isn’t an option. Caging Seren in the palace is tempting but impractical. That means Nevander must become difficult to find.
“That’s wise.” Seren reaches out, as Nevander hoped. “Can I see it?”
The feather-light touch is exhilarating and grounding in equal measure. Seren looks down, then up through shadow-blue lashes, and Nevander has the strangest fantasy of certainty.
This will work. Seren doesn’t want to escape anymore, and Nevander doesn’t have to choose between duties.
“Let’s see Lysandra,” Nevander says, and raises his voice. “Ritekeeper?”
Jasper bows, their relief clear. “Right this way, Your Highness.”
Maybe Nevander should have warned Seren about another matter in that quiet moment. But Seren is already following Jasper, and all Nevander can do is stick to his side. Just as likely the matter won’t come up.
Today, the Garden of Rites is a grassy outdoor workshop.
A worktable, an unlit forge, and a free-standing rack of tools cluster in the center of the meadow, surrounded by a sprawling array.
Moss and golden flowers form the circles and runes.
Saplings grow from key intersections, some flowering, some laden with fruit.
A woman stands at the worktable, something glittering in her hands.
She’s tall, her golden hair secured in a knotted twine net.
Her garb contradicts itself, both practical and pristine.
Leather gloves, a close-fitting sleeveless top, trousers flowing loose to sturdy leather boots—all in pure, flawless white.
Her belt pouches hold components too volatile for a carryhold.
She herself is a tool of her craft. Golden runes shift slowly over her bare, tanned arms.
Nevander recognizes the box open on the worktable. The case that holds the shards of the Summer Crown. Someone must have fetched it from Haelwen’s office.
Lysandra glances up at their approach, eyes as hard and blue as the gem in her hand. “You’re finally here. Ritekeeper, leave us.”
Jasper freezes awkwardly, looking to Nevander for help. But Nevander waits for Seren, which Lysandra will clearly notice.
“You may go,” Seren says, breaking the silent debate. He isn’t quite practiced enough to hide his wariness. When the gate closes behind Jasper, Seren continues. “Welcome, Lady Lysandra. I’m glad to meet you.”
Lysandra’s bow is so slight as to be sarcastic. “How many strangers have you met in Elladar? Aren’t I just another? Are you glad to meet me, or to don the Summer Crown?”
Seren barely flinches at the return volley. “I suppose it’s up to you, whether I’m glad to meet you or not.”
“What’s wrong?” Nevander interrupts.
Something must be wrong. Lysandra is often difficult, but never this combative. No wonder Jasper was nervous.
Lysandra flings her hand towards the worktable, a rare fury trembling down her arm. “I am here to repair the Summer Crown. Were you aware it was a fake?”
Shock roots Nevander to the meadow floor. “I was not aware,” he answers. The truth is his defense. Otherwise, Lysandra would surely attack, and she would be right to do so.
“A fake?” Seren asks, confused. “Who would do that?”
Lysandra plants herself between Seren and the table. Nevander grabs Seren’s arm before she can snap at him. “Please answer her, Your Highness,” Nevander says gently. “It’s important.”
Spirits. Hopefully Lysandra can’t see what Seren’s look of relief and trust does to Nevander.
“I wasn’t aware it was a fake either,” Seren says, focused on Nevander.
“Good. That’s good.” Lysandra steps aside, her face still hard. “I wanted to trust you two. Look at the shards—are they the same as when you last saw them?”
Nevander joins them at the worktable, keeping a respectful distance from Seren against his own wishes. Now isn’t the time.
Looking into the box, Nevander inhales sharply. “No. The shards were genuine the last I saw them—or at least, a better fake than this.”
The gleaming shards are the wrong shade of gold—too pale—and the wrong shape—curved too narrowly. Nevander will have to inspect the cupboards for any missing goblets. The gemstones aren’t diamond or sapphire. They’re simple glass.
Seren touches the edge of the box. “I don’t know where the real crown is. I don’t know who took it, or how, or why. I’ve never seen these fakes before. If that is sufficient for your trust, can you tell me why this matters?”
Lysandra’s shoulders finally slacken. “It matters on two accounts. The first is personal. I may be a distant mother, but I care for my creations.” She tosses the blue glass into the box, where it clatters.
“The second will greatly inconvenience you. I could mend a broken crown in a month. To forge a new one is more complicated.”
Inconvenience is a brutal understatement.
“When?” Nevander asks.
“Midsummer,” Lysandra answers. “When the realm’s power is at its height.”
Nevander exhales. He’ll have to adjust everything. The current strategy—securing Seren’s throne through authority, not power—will have to last eleven more months.
Fae may live for centuries, but too much can still happen in eleven months.
“Is there any way to accelerate that?” Seren asks.
Lysandra regards him carefully. Nevander wonders what she sees. Shades of Haelwen, or something new. Lysandra knew Haelwen for a very long time. She isn’t used to meeting strangers.
“Finding the stolen shards would help,” Lysandra says. “I will set myself to that task, with your permission.”
“Gladly granted.” Seren closes the box of false shards. “I last saw the real shards ten days ago. They must have been taken after that.”
“That will help,” Lysandra says.
Ten days ago was when Seren found the injured squirrel. Another memory crosses Nevander like a shadow—the night Seren claimed to see Midnight in the tower greenhouse. To reach that greenhouse, one would pass the office where the crown was kept.
Lysandra doesn’t need to hear about that; if Seren was having visions, Nevander would rather keep that private. But Nevander will ask the royal guard to consider that night in their own investigations.
“The palace is hosting a banquet for the threshold,” Seren is saying. “I would value your attendance.”
Lysandra considers, then smiles. A nice, friendly smile that fills Nevander with dread. “I shall rearrange my travels.” She bows, ominously polite. “I have one question before I take my leave. Are you two sleeping together?”
Seren chokes.
Spirits take her. Nevander’s hand instinctively flexes for his sword. “I’m not having this conversation.”
“If so, I approve.” Lysandra addresses Seren as if Nevander weren’t there. “My son needs someone to lighten him up.”
Seren’s blank stare breaks into a gasp.
“See you at the banquet,” Lysandra says, before swanning from the garden.
When they’re alone, Seren whirls around. “Were you going to mention that Lysandra was your mother?”
Nevander winces. “I’ve been distracted.”
Seren laughs, a release of nerves. “You didn’t act like mother and son at all. Are you quarreling? If you’re quarreling, I can uninvite her from the festival.”
Relief eases Nevander’s guilt. At least Seren is taking this in stride. “We aren’t close, but we aren’t quarreling. I moved out from her roof a hundred years ago. Our lives rarely intersect.”
Seren nods, clearly processing that, and Nevander feels a pang of sympathy.
Seren is still adjusting to the timescale they were both born to.
And hearing about Nevander’s blithely distant relationship with Lysandra must be difficult.
Seren’s mother died before he met her. The woman who raised him didn’t love him.
Perhaps Nevander should visit Lysandra more often.
Seren shakes off the moment. “If I’d known, I would have changed clothes.”
His clothes aren’t dirty—the blood and dirt were easy to charm away—but that’s the same silk shirt Nevander shoved up Seren’s stomach last night. The same linen trousers Nevander unlaced to reach Seren’s cock.
Now, Seren’s gaze falters, as if he recalls the same moments. “Gods’ twisted humor. How could she tell?”
How could she not, when Nevander bends toward Seren like a blossom toward the sun?
“She’s perceptive,” Nevander says. “As well as abrasive.”
“You’re not wrong.” Seren’s smile is surprising—and spellbinding. “But I think I like her. Who is your father, anyway? Have I met him already?”
Distracted, Nevander answers, “I don’t have one.”
Seren’s face falls. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Shit. Nevander keeps forgetting how new Seren is. “No, not like that. Lysandra used the same ritual as Haelwen. I never had a father.”
“That’s good. Maybe.” Seren runs his hands through his hair, thoughts clearly racing. “Gods. Spirits. Who took the crown? And why?”
Nevander resists the urge to brush the hair from Seren’s forehead. Then he stops resisting—because this is permitted. Because Seren leans so naturally into the touch. “We’ll find out. You should take the day to rest.”
“What about you?” Seren asks.
Nevander hesitates, torn. He needs to follow up on the Spiritwood incident.
He needs to question Jasper before asking them to investigate everyone who could have accessed the broken crown.
The poor seneschal probably needs another conversation, too, to see how he’s coping with Gevain and Morana’s assistance.
“I thought so,” Seren says. “Let’s both survive the rest of the day. I want to be seen at court supper this evening.”
Nevander never thought he’d be so reluctant for Seren to embrace his duty. “Lysandra can be overwhelming. Your wellbeing is most important.”
Seren takes a shaky breath. “The way you say that so easily…” He clasps Nevander’s hands. “I’m fine, and you have to trust me, because I can’t lie either. I could tell Lysandra was angry, but only in the ordinary way. Her shields are as solid as yours.”
In the face of Seren’s earnestness, Nevander can only relent. Slightly. “As soon as supper ends, you’re going to rest.”
“I will,” Seren promises, tracing Nevander’s rings. The lingering touch must be deliberate “And I expect you to help me relax.”
He flees before Nevander can do anything ill-advised.
Nevander presses his knuckles to his lips, composing himself. Then follows.