31. The Puppeteer
The Puppeteer
Nevander has always preferred a concrete threat. Each moment slows to a cool, clear image. Guards weave through the crowd, ensuring nobody else uses the opportunity for trouble. Just as they should.
Morana’s challenge invokes traditions as old as Elladar itself. The next step in the dance belongs to Seren, who’s gone white with shock.
That’s what knocks Nevander off balance. Not the challenge.
“What is the meaning of this?” Seren asks, too shrill.
Morana spreads her arms to the crowd. “The puppet knows nothing of our customs. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Silence,” Nevander barks, the whipcrack of a word startling even Morana for an instant.
Then she gives a mocking bow. “Here we have the puppeteer.”
“Oh, please.” Gevain steps forward alone, thankfully not dragging Tansy into the spotlight. “Have you never heard of friends, Morana Kinless?”
Laughter ripples through the courtyard.
“Sharp words to hide a dull blade,” Morana retorts, but the damage is done. Her singular hold on the crowd’s attention is fractured.
Nevander hates to be grateful to Gevain, but he uses the opportunity to center himself.
He has to stay steady so Seren can depend on him.
The accusation is just so cruelly absurd.
Seren has flung himself into learning about Elladar and the fae.
Centuries of stories and traditions. Enough history to drown in, but Seren never stops trying.
“You must name a champion,” Nevander says, turning his back on Morana. She’s harmless at the moment. To strike outside the dueling circle would forfeit her claim. “You cannot win against her on your own.”
Seren’s gaze darts like a tidingbird. “How much time do I have?”
Primrose lumbers towards the dais. The guards make way.
“The challenge must be answered within the hour, or you forfeit,” Nevander explains. Quietly, but there’s no privacy in this arena.
“I’d recommend against forfeiting,” Morana calls out. “The people want a show.”
Nevander takes Seren’s wrist. He can’t embrace his prince now, can’t kiss the worries from those pale lips. But Nevander wears Seren’s flower in his hair. He can do this much. “No need to rush. Ignore her.”
Seren’s golden eyes alight on him, and only him. “What are the terms?”
Primrose settles beside them. Challenger and champion will negotiate the terms. You must choose a champion you trust to make promises on your behalf.
“Are there specific criteria for champions?” Seren asks, and Nevander suppresses his surging anger.
Seren shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t hesitate. He should already have declared his champion.
They must be available within the hour, Primrose says. And of course they must accept.
“What about you?” Seren asks.
Primrose sighs so hard petals fall from her fur. I preserve order. I do not take sides, however fond I may be of you.
“You will choose me,” Nevander snarls, releasing Seren’s wrist before he grasps too hard. “No other.”
Gasps and laughter weave through the crowd, then muffle with a twitch of Primrose’s ears. As the circle of silence settles around them, Seren’s attention never wavers.
His panic is gone.
“I did not enjoy the last time you fought for me,” Seren says, and touches Nevander’s armor. Right where Midnight’s blade pierced him through.
Nevander covers Seren’s hand. Memory surges like a fresh glamour. Not the fight but the moments after. Seren’s need. Nevander’s unraveling.
“I survived that,” Nevander says, shoving the memories aside. He has to focus. “Morana is far less powerful than Midnight.”
“Can I give you an elixir in the middle of a duel?” Seren demands. When Nevander doesn’t answer, he exhales harshly. “It hurts to see you hurt.”
That tenderness is a gift Nevander dares not accept. Not now, when he needs every wit and instinct honed to a single edge. His hand tightens over Seren’s. Then he pulls Seren’s hand away.
Morana is far less powerful than Midnight. She’s less powerful than Nevander, in terms of raw strength, though hopefully she’s unaware of that. But she’s a cunning, deadly duelist. Nevander can’t think of anyone else who would agree to be Seren’s champion and survive.
Logic names Nevander as the only choice. His vow of protection echoes the call. The mad song of possessiveness is even louder.
“If you choose another champion,” Nevander says, “I will first challenge them for the right to fight in your name.”
Seren rocks back. Then resolution stiffens his shoulders. “Gods, Nevander. Fine. What do I need to say?”
The precise words aren’t important, Primrose says. Simply say Nevander will answer the challenge as your champion. I can explain the rest while my ritekeepers prepare the circle, and Nevander readies himself.
“All right,” Seren repeats, vulnerability hiding away. “Do you need a moment?”
Nevander desperately wants one. “I don’t.”
“Then Ritekeeper Primrose, please drop this silence,” Seren says, and steps to the edge of the dais.
Primrose’s ears twitch again, and murmurs rise. Not as loud as Nevander expected. Morana waits silently, no longer egging on the crowd. She knows as well as Nevander that success tonight doesn’t depend on popular support. Skill alone will decide who sits the Summer throne.
Morana is bold but pragmatic. Renouncing her claim to Brightwood means her family won’t bear the shame if she fails. If she succeeds, she’ll found her own dynasty.
Seren stares Morana down. The murmurs die in anticipation, and Morana’s jaw tenses, then relaxes. Her attention turns to Nevander as Seren speaks.
“I am Seren.” His voice is quiet but clear. “I am also Calithel. I name Nevander as my champion.”
It’s the first time he’s claimed his birth name. Nevander would be proud if it didn’t sound so much like surrender.
Primrose asks, Do you accept, Lord Nevander?
“I do,” Nevander says.
The challenge is met. Please wait as the ritekeepers ready the circle.
A dueling circle can be drawn with a stick in dirt.
Tradition grows more complicated in the heart of Elladar.
Guards usher fae away from a broad space before the dais, while ritekeepers trace runes around the edge.
A barrier wavers in their wake, like heat over a stone road.
The crowd thins on the ground as revelers move to the public balconies surrounding the Court of Hours.
Seren stands alone, ensnared in tradition. Nevander wants to kiss him.
But losing control will hurt them both. Instead, Nevander removes his gauntlet, then his carryhold ring. “Here, my prince. I can’t bring enchantments into the circle.”
Seren flinches. Ah. The endearment stings enough. “Is the,” Seren starts, then takes the ring. “This is too big for me. Can I put it in my own carryhold?”
“Best not.” Nevander closes Seren’s gloved hand around the simple ring. “Just hold it for me. I’ll be back for it.”
Seren relaxes slightly, as if bolstered by the promise. He hasn’t yet learned the difference between intention and fate. Hopefully Nevander won’t be the one to teach him today.
Alone, Nevander descends the dais. He surrenders the rest of his enchanted items to a ritekeeper. A few talismans, tiding tokens. A stretch away, Morana submits to another ritekeeper’s inspection. She carries no enchantments. She was prepared.
Lysandra is nowhere to be seen. Nevander is startled to have looked for her. He should spend more time with her after this, prickly as she is. Seren has taught him not to take a parent for granted.
The circle is ready, Primrose says.
Nevander and Morana step inside. Perimeter runes flicker but don’t set.
Wordlessly, Nevander walks the edge, checking that everything is written correctly.
Morana does the same. She moves with utter ease, and Nevander takes the chance to assess her as well as the runes.
Her armor looks decorative, but like Nevander’s, must be functional.
Her lavender hair is bound in a tight crown.
She wears a sword and a long dagger at her hip.
Are you satisfied with the circle? Primrose asks from outside.
Morana steps to the westward challenger rune. “I am.”
Nevander moves ten paces away to the champion rune. “I am.”
You may commence.
Nevander’s sword appears in his right hand.
His left joins for a double grip. Morana’s sword and dagger jump to readiness, too.
No enchantments in the circle, but any other weapon is permitted.
A fae’s blade depends on the strength and control of their magical essence.
There’s no effort to balance the scales in that regard.
The strongest fae will win, whether by skill or raw power.
First, negotiations. Three questions define a courtly duel.
One asked by the challenger, the next by the champion, the last by the challenger again.
Forcing the order of questions can be a crucial strategy—ask the questions you care about least for your opponent to answer.
Get your opponent to ask the questions you most want to control.
But Nevander has a sense he and Morana will agree on the important answers tonight.
“Grounded or aloft?” Morana asks.
“Aloft,” Nevander answers. “To blood or to death?”
Surprise ricochets around the courtyard.
Most would expect a champion to maneuver that answer for himself.
But Morana doesn’t react. She too understands the stakes.
A duel for the Summer throne cannot end in blood alone.
Nevander would have Morana assassinated afterwards. She would do the same for him.
Besides. There’s still an escape route, depending on Nevander’s next answer.
“To death,” Morana answers. “Open or closed?”
An open circle allows retreat as forfeit, but requires concentration not to go out of bounds accidentally. An extra challenge for hobby duelists. It also requires concentration not to hurt onlookers.
“Closed,” Nevander says, protecting the crowd—and cutting off their escape routes. His answer begins the silent countdown. Nevander’s breath slows to match.
Three. The circle pulses gold.
Two. The circle settles.
One.