Nevander falls back and murmurs for Seren’s ears alone. “That’s Second Ritekeeper Jasper. They use neutral pronouns.”
Maybe Serenhasbeen staring rudely at Idalia, if Nevander thinks Seren wouldn’t have picked up on that. But he’s grateful for the preparation anyway, especially when Jasper notices them—
And a wave of nervousness breaks through Seren’s empathy.
Jasper bows, delicate jewelry chiming from their pointed ears. “Welcome to the Garden of Rites. Or perhaps I should say ‘welcome back,’ Prince Calithel.”
“His Highness uses the name Seren,” Nevander interjects before Seren can fully feel the discomfort of the fae name.
“I am glad to see you by any name,” Jasper says. Their demeanor remains refined, ethereal. Only Seren can sense the awkward panic beneath.
“Thank you,” Seren manages. He almost asks permission next, except he’s supposed to be a prince. He didn’t miss Nevander reinforcing his authority in front of Idalia. “I wish to see the queen.”
Ordering people around is beyond him. But he can at least state his desires.
Relief briefly tinges Jasper’s nerves, followed by sorrow. Then everything fades, like Jasper is composing themself. They bow again. “Please follow me, Your Highness. I will clear the garden.”
Nevander makes some signal, and Idalia remains inside. Seren follows Jasper out, Nevander at his heels.
Seren had imagined a garden like those in Wymond. More spectacular, but still an organized collection of flowers, vegetables, and trees. Perhaps comfortable benches or statues. Elladar seems full of statues.
His imagination had not been vast enough. The Garden of Rites is a grove of trees, resplendent in the midday light. All different species, oak and pine and birch and trees Seren has never seen before. A slender pillar of silver bark and wispy gray leaves. A tree with bark so dark it’s nearly black, laden with a rainbow of flowers. A towering golden giant with no leaves at all.
White marble paths trace haphazard routes through the dark earth. More ritekeepers in patchwork robes guide other fae towards the edges.
“The garden always suits the rites at hand,” Jasper explains, leading the way. “The paths and trees take different forms for namings, zeniths, lifebondings, or other rituals. It will look different for your coronation than it looks for Queen Haelwen’s farewell.”
Seren can imagine his coronation just fine. A terrifying maelstrom of attention. He strives for a happier topic and fails miserably.
“What will happen with the body?” Seren asks, and barely stops himself from apologizing. “I only know human funeral customs.”
Jasper surprisingly feels relieved at the question. A matter of training and ritual, perhaps. “She will rest for a week beforebeing buried here, like all her ancestors for the last thousand years.”
The beautiful grove gleams in a more sinister light. There must be remains everywhere, perhaps under Seren’s very feet.
“Half a dozen at most,” Nevander says. “Haelwen was only third in her line.”
Right. A thousand years means something very different to the fae. Moments like these, Seren feels very human and very lost.
The trees thin until the winding path leads them to an immense willow. Its gray-green leaves sweep down in a curtain, obscuring what lies within. Jasper pulls the branches aside and bows.
Seren takes the unobserved moment to glance at Nevander—who nods, giving reassurance Seren shouldn’t need. Then Seren steps forward, and his breath hitches.
The towering tree is split, as if chopped through by an enormous ax, then pulled apart. If any ax were large and sharp enough to cut through such a tree in one clean strike. No hackmarks mar the deep golden bark. A stretch of trunk is simply missing, starting a few feet above the roots. Twenty feet above, the cleanly severed trunk resumes.
On the stump, surrounded by flowers, lies a woman with blue hair.
Two other ritekeepers stand over her, strewing more flowers from wicker baskets. At Seren’s approach, they bow, then step away.
Seren barely sees them. He drifts forward, feeling smaller and smaller, until he stands at the woman’s side.
Her hair is brighter than Seren’s, strewn loose across the pale inner rings of the tree. A luminous white blossom rests in her open right hand. Her left hand clasps a wooden dagger.
Seren has seen bodies before. Wakes and funerals bring out the entire village to bid the dead farewell, regardless of which gods the family follows. But no dead villager ever wore such an expression of confidence.
And no villager ever so resembled Seren. He touches his own face because he doesn’t dare touch hers.
Haelwen appears carved from marble, an impossible force of nature like the severed tree she rests on. Peaceful, still. Had Seren arrived two hours earlier, he could have heard her voice. Instead, she will forever be a stranger to him.
