“Perhaps it slipped their mind.” Lysandra rises. “With your leave, Your Highness.”
Seren dismisses her in a daze. Nevander wouldn’t have forgotten something so important. He did this on purpose, even though he’s the one who most wanted Seren on the throne. Which means…
A promise rings in Seren’s ears. Before Seren’s coronation, Nevander would not force Tansy back. That was the only thing keeping Seren here at first. By delaying the crown’s repair, Nevander kept Seren in the palace.
Seren jolts as Nevander ascends the dais.
“Everything is secure,” Nevander says. “What did Lysandra want?”
This must be a misunderstanding. Nevander cares about him. Surely Nevander will be able to explain everything once they’re alone.
“We need to talk later,” Seren says, forcing a smile.
Before Nevander can answer, a horn rings out. The music halts, and every fae in the courtyard steps back. Their parting reveals a moss-covered path, winding from the grand entryway to the royal dais. The midnight between summer and autumn has arrived.
Seren stands to witness the procession.
Lady Morana leads a troupe of ritekeepers along the mossy path. Seren wonders if she fought Gevain for the honor—though Gevain appears occupied nearby, whispering into Tansy’s reddened ear. The ritekeepers wear their usual patchwork robes, but they seem more formal beneath dancing lights. Primrose watches from a nearby gazebo, nodding as her ritekeepers pass.
This procession has been repeated every year for thousands of years. Since before the vanishing of Autumn. Morana carries a bundle of greenery. Long ago, she would have surrendered it to a Lorian emissary at the end of the procession. Tonight, she’ll hand it to Seren instead.
As Morana approaches, Seren finds himself breathless with the sense of connection. He inherits not just a kingdom, but a history. Painful sometimes, but beautiful, too. Though Autumn is gone, it isn’t forgotten.
Seren even knows what he’ll say for his speech. The gist of it, anyway. Memory is a gift, and so is change. Loss is a part of life, and people regain what they can and remember what they can’t. For everyone present and absent, Seren looks forward to sharing a new era.
The hardest part will be not addressing the entire thing to Nevander.
He’s supposed to begin when Morana hands him the greenery. But she stops at the foot of the stairs. Her face is cold.
“I am charged with presenting this to the next king of Elladar,” Morana says, her voice clear as a glass dagger. “But I see no king—only a child, driven by whim and easily handled.”
She flings the greenery to the marble. The whole courtyard gasps, and guards rush forward.
Seren freezes. His control falters.
Morana continues louder, heedless of the approaching guards. “I am Morana. I renounce my claim to Brightwood and its folk. In my name alone, I challenge you for the throne of Elladar.”
With every word, her malice sharpens.
31
The Puppeteer
Nevanderhasalwayspreferreda 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 offriends, Morana Kinless?”
