Except the armory settles into reluctant acceptance. A concept pushes into Nevander’s mind, deeper than hearing and truer than sight.
A trade.
“My service is my trade,” Nevander says, trying to contain his frustration. He doesn’t need this on top of everything else. He can’t lose control arguing with the palace.
Trade, the armory insists, stubborn as a child’s tantrum.
Impossible. Nevander doesn’t know what to offer, and the armory can’t give him what he wants.
A knock interrupts. Wildkeeper Valerian, who should be halfway to the border by now, lounges in the doorway. No aroom fox at his side today.
“Are you arguing with the armory?” Valerian asks. His striking green eyes see too much.
“Are you here to stoke more unrest?” Nevander retorts.
“That seems unnecessary,” Valerian says lightly. “None ofthisis about me.”
With one gesture, he encompasses all Nevander’s turmoil. Damn him for knowing Nevander too well.
Far too well. “I’m here to apologize,” Valerian says, still cheerful, but his faltering gaze underscores the truth of his words. “I spoke unkindly yesterday, and I didn’t want to leave on that note. I’m sorry, friend.”
That cuts the strings from Nevander’s anger. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I let my own bullshit get the better of me.” Before Nevander can ask what bullshit he means, Valerian continues. “Enough about my treasonous doubts. Why are you fighting with the armory instead of celebrating your victory?”
“I’m traveling to Brightwood.” Nevander’s excuse flows easily. “I’ll celebrate by digging up any hidden allies of Morana.”
“What allies?” Valerian scoffs. “She renounced kinship. Brightwood won’t welcome your suspicion. Come, Nevander. Bask in your glory. Celebrate with your dear… Oh.”
Nevander turns away too late, unable to control his expression.
Valerian moves closer. “Trouble in the inner palace? Entangling with royals is always complicated.”
Nevander’s first impulse is to deflect and protect Seren’s privacy. But Nevander needs to lean on someone too, and he can’t place everything on Seren. That isn’t fair to either of them.
“Seren needs to clear his head,” Nevander says. “He asked not to see me for a week.”
Valerian’s eyes narrow. “Can you even do that?”
That’s the trouble. Nevander always could. A promise doesn’t need to be fulfilled; it can always hurt instead. Now the thorns dig from Nevander’s own obsession.
“He released me from my vow,” Nevander says.
“Canheeven do that?” Valerian asks, reaching into midair. A flask appears in his hand. “He hasn’t been crowned yet.”
“It seems he can.” Nevander rubs his chest. A gesture of weakness he almost stops. But Valerian’s already seen past him. “I don’t know what to do without the vow.”
Valerian unscrews the cap and offers the flask. The scent of cinnamon liquor fills the room. “Thankfully, I do. Drink?”
Nevander waves it off. Tempting, but he’s not sure he can keep anything down.
Valerian closes the flask. “If you’re going to Brightwood, you’re not going alone. But on the way, we’re finding a village where we can drink our weight in wine.”
That sounds sorely needed. Nevander’s first foolish thought is to invite Seren.
“Got room for one more?” another voice calls from the doorway.
Valerian swears, while Nevander barely flinches. Everyone’s sneaking up on him this morning, but he knows the voice.
