When the room falls quiet, Nevander lifts a hand. “My tidings will be briefer than your introductions,” he says. Any sarcasm is too subtle to pin down.
Morana snaps her fingers, and the gray-haired man startles. Flushed red, he drops to his hands and knees. Other courtiers laugh behind finely gloved hands as Morana shakes out her gown—and sits on the man’s back.
“What are you doing?” Seren asks, shocked.
And every gaze darts towards him, like he’s the one overstepping. Every gaze but one. The gray-haired man stares at the ground, face hidden.
Morana smiles. “I’m sitting, Prince Seren. Is there a problem?”
Nevander has angled himself in a clear bid for Seren’s attention. Seren disregards him. The kneeling fae’s humiliation mounts by the second.
“There is,” Seren bites out. “Let him up.”
The room chills. Distrust, amusement, hostility, from all corners. Seren has given an order, and his court disapproves.
Morana’s smile widens. “I bested Chamomile in a duel,” she says, as if that makes it all right. Maybe it does.
On reflex, Seren looks at Nevander, but he finds no help in the guardian’s impassive face. Seren is a stranger tripping overunfamiliar customs. But it’s too late to untangle himself. He gave an order, and now he has to set a precedent. He cannot waver.
“Regardless,” Seren says, smiling just as sweetly, like he’s sitting down to dinner with his parents. “Let him up.”
For a moment, he thinks Morana will refuse. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she does. Then she gracefully stands. “You heard His Highness.”
Chamomile scrambles to his feet, disheveled, and turns upon Seren not with gratitude, but with increased humiliation. So sharp Seren’s grip tightens on the chair.
Being helped does that to people sometimes.
“Is my forfeit served, my lady?” Chamomile asks, staring fixedly at the wall.
“I suppose so,” Morana says, clearly annoyed. “Leave us.”
With a last spike of resentment, Chamomile bows, then strides from the room. Melodic laughter follows his reddened ears.
Seren sits back, hoping his discomfort doesn’t show. So much for simply listening. “Continue, Nevander,” he says, more awkwardly abrupt than imperious. He should have used a title. That would have sounded more noble.
Nevander remains politely cold. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He turns to the courtiers. “The royal guard and ritekeepers have concluded the initial investigation into Queen Haelwen’s death. There is no sign of intrusion. The likely cause of death is a great ritual gone awry.”
All smiles leave the room, each face intent—some on Nevander, and some disconcertingly on Seren. Surely they hear the leeway in Nevander’s words.
“Ritekeeper Primrose found signs of magic flowing into the throne room, such as only Queen Haelwen could control,” Nevander continues. “However, we do not know the nature of the attempted ritual. If you have information or suspicions, please inform the ritekeepers or the royal guard.”
The wordsuspicionshisses around the room.
Surely if Nevander suspected anyone here, they would be in chains. Or however law enforcement works in Elladar. Seren forces his hands to loosen on the chair.
The tension and paranoia aren’t only his own. Someone else’s emotions are bleeding in. Seren counts his breaths, recalling Nevander’s instructions. Determine what is his, what is other.
“The incident damaged the Summer Crown,” Nevander says, still calm. Apparently, understatement is just fine for truth-telling. “The coronation must wait for the crown’s repair. In the meantime, Queen Haelwen’s decree of inheritance is clear. Prince Seren, born Calithel, is acting ruler of Elladar until his coronation. Elladar’s wards recognize his blood.”
Now every eye in the room scours Seren’s courage. He fixes his own gaze on Nevander’s pointed ear, lest he commit another false step.
“I will take questions now,” Nevander says. “Though I may not give answers.”
Gevain steps forward. “When may we leave the palace?”
“When you like,” Nevander says, though that seems too soon. “Ritekeepers are loosening the wards as we speak.”
“Excellent. I have no further questions, but I hope you’ll permit a statement.” Gevain pauses for emphasis, thenspeaks clearly. “We can ill afford discord in these times. Those in the heart of Elladar may feel secure, but Summer’s Edge guards our border. Lord Midnight is more powerful than ever. My people have seen augrays on our land.”
