35. Magic Mirror
Magic Mirror
One troublesome human shouldn’t be this hard to find.
Nevander is connected to all the palace wards, and finding Tansy should take a single urgent thought.
But the palace rebukes Nevander this morning with familiar stubbornness.
Nevander hurt Seren last night, and the palace is resentful on its prince’s behalf.
More proof that Seren belongs here, if only he can accept his role.
So, Nevander is forced to search by foot and by message. That shouldn’t take this long, either. Tansy is many things, but never subtle.
Between the kitchens and the dining hall, one tidingbird returns. Nevander lifts his hand, and the little bird perches on his finger.
“Is that from the outer guard?” Valerian asks.
Nevander checks the rune sealing the tiny scroll. “Yes.”
“We need to get some of these Elsewhere,” Folly says, peering at the glowing bird. “Though we have to be careful about introducing new species. The change of realm does weird things to some creatures. Like the boarbears…”
Tuning out the nervous chatter, Nevander removes the tidingbird’s message. Beside them, Valerian says nothing. His stress response is closer to Nevander’s than Folly’s. Quiet focus. A ready hand.
“Gevain returned to his quarters at two past midnight,” Nevander says, releasing the tidingbird. His annoyance deepens into something more serious. “Tansy wasn’t with him.”
Folly’s eyes widen. “Tansy’s been missing all morning?”
“And Gevain left the palace ten minutes ago. I need to report this.” Nevander grits his teeth against mingled dread and anticipation. A guard stands on duty at the end of the hall. “Where is Prince Seren?”
“In the tower library,” the guard answers immediately. “Mustardseed just checked in.”
“As you were,” Nevander says, and strides on.
He doesn’t want to burden Seren with ill news, or his own unwelcome presence. But another part of him revels in the ironclad excuse for an audience. Nearly ten hours without seeing Seren. He misses even his prince’s anger.
“I don’t know this Gevain,” Folly says, trotting to keep up. “I mean, I know he’s a courtier, but I’m still not sure what courtiers do exactly.”
“They attend parties and cause trouble,” Valerian says wryly.
“Just like any fae,” Folly points out. “Could Gevain have done something to Tansy? Would he have? Or did something happen after he and Tansy separated? Oh, if only we weren’t in the palace. I could find Tansy in an instant.”
“Does your eye do that much?” Valerian asks.
Folly laughs. “No, my wondrous eye only sees magic that’s right in front of me. But I have a magic mirror, courtesy of Lord Nevander here.”
“No courtesy,” Nevander says. “We traded fairly.”
That was a far different time, when the palace armory cooperated. When Seren was still hidden and Nevander knew his place in the world: duty and painful yearning.
Bringing Seren home should have solved everything.
Nevander never imagined he would feel more lost than ever.
No vows. His heart trembles at the guarded library door.
He barely sees Mustardseed’s bow in his peripheral vision.
And yearning strikes once more, a flower stem sharpened to a dagger, at the sight of his prince.
Seren stands at a table, flipping slowly through a book. He looks at peace amidst the towering shelves and plush couches. Grandeur and comfort. Shadow-blue hair obscures his face. Last night’s clothes embrace his form in lace and leather, deep berry and cool brown.
But none of last night’s anger. Seren looks up, and Nevander flinches at the stillness. That’s the expression Seren wears when weighing a stranger’s flattery. Bargains of uncertain value. Like Nevander is just a courtier coming to curry favor.
Nevander takes a steadying breath. As much as he aches for the anger, the hurt, the truth, he won’t drag their dispute into the open. They’re both too private for that.
“Your Highness,” Nevander says with trained politeness. “Tansy has gone missing.”
Before Seren can reply, Folly lunges forward.
“Who the fuck are you?” Folly demands.
Protective instinct moves Nevander between them. Seren staggers, knocking into the table.
“Step back,” Nevander warns, hand outstretched to call his sword.
Folly points in defiance of Nevander’s ready stance, much less Valerian and Mustardseed poised for action behind him. “That’s not Seren. She’s wearing a glamour.”
His golden eye glints.
Reflex summons Nevander’s sword to his hand, and he whirls on the figure of Seren instead. Humans can lie, but Nevander trusts the urgency in Folly’s voice. And now that he’s looking, the seams of the glamour are clear.
The rendition is nearly perfect, from the hundreds of decorative buttons to the natural shimmer along Seren’s cheekbones. The delicate points of his ears through his hair.
But Seren never looked so cold and still. He can’t control himself this well, not with Nevander. Had they not argued, Nevander wouldn’t have been fooled.
The illusory prince still hasn’t said a word.
“Reveal,” Nevander snarls with a cutting gesture.
His magic lashes out, stronger than he intends, not as strong as he wants.
The illusion shreds violently, ribbons of blue hair and berry silk and royal gold eyes vanishing.
A taller, softer figure staggers into the table.
Wood screeches against stone, and books slide in a rattle of pages.
Long brown hair falls over the woman’s tear-streaked face. She’s village fae, and she doesn’t cry out.
Because she can’t.
“Shit,” Valerian says, and starts muttering urgently to Mustardseed. Something about summoning more guards, getting an exact map of Lord Gevain’s movements over the past twelve hours.
Nevander’s glad to have Valerian’s support for those logistics, because he can’t look away from the crying Daffodil. Fury sharpens him into a blade of ice. “Where is he?”
Daffodil clutches her throat, shaking her head.
Swearing, Nevander sheathes his sword and seizes a quill and ink bottle from his carryhold. He slams them on the table, nearly hard enough to shatter the bottle.
“Can you write?” Nevander demands.
She probably doesn’t deserve his harshness. From her stricken face, she isn’t responsible for her master’s glamour, any more than she asked to be silenced.
Nevander’s being about as nice as he can, though, as every heartbeat drums the alarm. Seren is missing. Nevander must find him.
And destroy anyone who stands in his way.
Daffodil fumbles for the pen and wastes precious seconds choosing a book to deface. As she flips a book of poems to a blank page, Folly sidles closer.
“Here you go,” he says quietly, unstopping the ink bottle. He dips the quill for her.
Daffodil hiccups silently and begins scratching out words.
I didn’t want this. Gevain forced.
“Defend yourself later,” Nevander grits out. “Where is Seren?”
Don’t know, Daffodil writes.
Nevander restrains his frustration as Daffodil continues. Rage won’t help. Nevander knows better.
Switched in garden. Me as Seren. Seren as me. I was to wait here until caught.
“Gevain switched Daffodil and Seren under glamours,” Nevander says aloud. “Mustardseed, where did you last see Gevain?”
Mustardseed salutes. Guilt emanates from him, palpable even without Seren’s knack for empathy. “He headed towards the northwest gate, with Seren in his glamoured state.”
Any consequences for Mustardseed’s mistake are just another thing Nevander has to delay. He turns his attention to Valerian, who stands poised in the doorway.
“I’ve heard from the gate guards,” Valerian says, calm yet efficient. “Gevain already teleported with what looked like his servant.”
Folly covers his mouth. “They could be anywhere. Gods’ teeth in a corncob.”
The news doesn’t shock Nevander. He’s already sorting out Gevain’s possible next steps. Where Gevain might go, what Gevain might use Seren for. What magic or allies Gevain might need.
“Lord Folly,” Nevander says. “May I borrow your scrying mirror?”
Folly fumbles in one of his many coat pockets. “Yes. Of course. Brilliant.” A fae would demand a bargain. Folly simply adds, “Just give it back after you find Seren. Remember, you can’t use it in the palace. And you can only use it once a day.”
“I remember.” Nevander flicks the small golden compact into his carryhold. “Mustardseed, secure the palace and search for any traces of Gevain’s plans. Start with his quarters and the woods.”
Mustardseed salutes, pulling himself together.
“I’ll help search,” Folly says, tapping beneath his golden eye.
Nevander nods. “Valerian, with me.”
“Aye, friend,” Valerian says naturally. Then he looks startled, as if he too had forgotten his argument with Nevander.
A crisis puts things into perspective. Nevander must find Seren. He will. Nothing else matters.
Determination carries Nevander through the marble halls. Vines and flowers tremble in his wake, as if Elladar Palace realizes something is wrong. Nevander meets no resistance crossing the wards towards the nearest open balcony.
“Do you have travel talismans?” Valerian asks as they mount the stairs.
“Most domains, and three blanks,” Nevander answers.
“Good, then we don’t have to use up mine,” Valerian says. “These things are expensive without unlimited palace resources.”
Nevander chooses a gilded door. “Trust me, there are limits.”
The doors open onto a wide balcony, past which the royal forest spreads in eternal glory. The beauty feels wrong. The realm should suffer storms until Nevander has Seren back.
“It didn’t do as much as I thought, did it?” Valerian asks.
“What didn’t?”
“Your vow.” Valerian braces one foot on the low railing. “You’re acting the same as before Prince Seren released you.”
It’s not the same. It’s worse. The only thing that helps is moving forward, sharpening his pain into action. “Now’s not the time.”
Valerian shrugs, and his wings unfurl from thin air. Long and sleek like a falcon’s, not quite as dark a green as his hair. Facing the forest, Valerian says, “I think it’s the perfect time to decide what really matters.”
He leaps out, wings catching the air in a caress.
Nevander launches after him. His wings snap into place as his feet leave the railing. Between the rush of air and lift of magic, he feels unbound.
What really matters. Valerian’s right, damn him. Nevander isn’t panicking over a missing king. He needs to find and protect his lover. Not for the realm, not for a vow, but for Seren’s own sake—and Nevander’s selfish need. This desperation isn’t sworn to a higher power.
No more manipulation. No more scheming for Seren’s best interests against Seren’s will. Elladar needs a king, but if Nevander has to choose between the man he loves and the entire realm, he chooses Seren.
He’ll find Seren. He’ll slaughter Gevain and take Seren into his bloody arms. And if Seren wants to escape his fate, Nevander will follow and never look back.
After a few minutes that stretch like eternity, Nevander angles downwards. The towering goldwood trees part around an overgrown garden. Fallen leaves swirl as Nevander alights, then Valerian after him. Vines rustle around the array of ancient statues.
“Is this far enough?” Valerian asks.
Nevander inhales the green air. His wings fold close. “This is where I brought Seren to Elladar. It’s far enough.”
Scrying is powerful magic. Using the mirror more than once a day risks a dangerous backlash. Nevander can’t waste it too close to the palace, where the ambient magic obscures the scrying.
Once is all Nevander needs. He pulls the scrying mirror from his carryhold, and Valerian leans over his shoulder. Their wings brush lightly. Nevander centers himself, then flips open the case.
The small mirror reflects the leaf-limned sky, a hint of Nevander’s golden hair. Nevander holds the image of Seren in his heart—one of his favorite moments, Seren’s eyes wide with wonder as the pixies swarm him—and asks, “Where is Seren?”
Magic tugs Nevander’s spirit. The silver glass ripples gold. Then it falls still, reflecting only sky and leaves and morning light.
“What do you see?” Valerian asks.
“Nothing,” Nevander answers, his heart cold.
“Huh.” Valerian peers into the mirror, lips pursed. “Are you sure we’re far enough?”
Nevander is sure. But he snaps the locket closed and tucks it away. “I’ll try again, another mile out.”
The mirror shouldn’t be used twice in one day. It’s used up its own store of magic. A second attempt will take magic from Nevander to make up for the lack. Nevander doesn’t know how much. Enough to weaken him, maybe. Enough to burn him out for a week, or a year, or forever.
But he has to try again. He can’t contemplate the alternatives—that Seren is in another realm, beyond the mirror’s sight, where Nevander can’t reach him.
Or that Seren is dead.