“Thank you,” Seren says, breaking the spell.
Nevander pulls his gauntlets back on. “The armory’s contents belong to Elladar.”
As if the ring itself is what matters, instead of the fact that Nevander remembered. He set aside time for this nonessential task, just because Seren took interest in his carryhold. Seren isn’t used to being so thoroughly thought of.
Nevander grabs the door. “I’ll explain how to use it on the way.”
There’s no change in his voice. No flaw in his control. Perhaps Seren only imagines the hint of fluster.
13
A Bruise in Another World
Theyreachthetowerlibrary twenty minutes later, and Seren’s dignity scatters. He gawks at the wealth spiraling up the walls. The library holds more books than he’s seen in his lifetime. Writing or copying all of them must have taken generations—that’s certainly one use for immortality. Seren itches to open them and see how they differ from Alard’s books.
The ones he can reach, at least. He can’t see any stairs or ladders to the upper levels. Seven stories of shelves stretch to the faraway ceiling, the upper floors open above the comfortable main floor. Cushions and couches nestle around small tables, some draped with luxurious fur blankets. Another mountain of furs warms next to a magical brazier.
Unlike most of the palace, there are no waterfalls or winding vines. Nor any candles, each magical light safely contained in lantern frames. The library is perfectly orderly.
Except for the shirtless young man scaling a support column. Seren stops, too startled to speak.
“Tansy,” Nevander says sternly.
The young man stops halfway to the second tier. Either because he’s listening to Nevander, or because he can’t climb any higher. His legs, clad in sky-blue leggings, slip an inch down the column.
Then he leans back, beaming over his shoulder. “Hello there, Lord Nevander. Could you be a dear and fetch some books from the top?”
“Get down from there,” Nevander says, ignoring the request.
“You’re no fun.” Tansy squints down at Seren. “Who is… Oh. Fuck.”
Tansy drops from the column. After an alarming stagger, he somehow keeps his feet. He stares unabashed, giving Seren his first clear view of the boy he replaced.
They could have been cousins. Before Seren had blue hair and pointed ears, at least. Cousins or neighbors, because most people in Wymond are cast from the same few molds.
Not brothers. Tansy’s face clarifies the imperfection of Seren’s disguise. Tansy has not just Edith’s blue eyes but her sweet, doll-like features. The same blond-brown hair, worn long to his shoulders.
He’s considerably shorter than Seren, not helped by his bare feet. Silver rings gleam on his toes, and a delicate chain harness chimes across his bare chest. He wears the fae jewelry with utter confidence. All of Wymond would be scandalized.
In the next breath, Seren recoils. Stubborn resentment strikes like a hammer. A grim, hateful hope. Jealousy jabbing into the bruises.
Nevander moves to a discreet distance, still in earshot.
Seren straightens his shoulders. “You’re Tansy.”
“You’re Calithel.” Tansy puts a hand on his cocked hip. “Except I heard you’re still using the name you stole from me.”
Seren tenses. “Is that a problem?”
“Not like I knew the name until yesterday,” Tansy says with a shrug. “I mean, I knew Primrose renamed me, but I like Tansy better anyway. Or maybe I could be Calithel…”
“You knew you were a changeling the whole time,” Seren says, suddenly dizzy. He hadn’t expected Tansy to know so much. Only one of them grew up in a shroud of lies.
“Hard to explain these ears, otherwise.” Tansy tosses his hair back. Bracelets jingle. “Or the fact that Primrose raised me. Not much family resemblance there.”
His words are light, but his resentment still burns.
“Was living here difficult?” Seren asks, unsure which answer will hurt more.
