Nevander is silent so long that Seren regrets his outburst. Finally, he breathes a laugh. “You aren’t ready. How could you be? You’re twenty-one. When I was your age, I was carelessly frolicking in court, with little more sense in my head than Tansy.”
An answering laugh startles from Seren. “I can’t imagine that.”
“I can’t lie.” Nevander rises, extending a hand. “You aren’t ready, but you’re closer than I dared to plan for.”
Seren takes the hand, warm as summer. Nevander eases him to his feet.
“Every part of you impresses me,” Nevander says. “Your thirst for understanding. Your possibilities. Any distance is the consequence of my own weakness.”
“You aren’t weak,” Seren says, swaying on his feet.
“I aim to protect you.” Nevander’s grasp softens, lingering, before letting go. “I am conflicted over how best to do that.”
“Conflict isn’t weakness.”
“And wisdom isn’t solely the domain of Autumn, it seems.” Nevander gestures upwards. The trees flash white, then blue, then white again. “A high fae’s haven is an intimate space. Allowing someone inside is an act of trust.”
Seren’s nerves stir at the word ‘intimate.’ “It’s beautiful.”
“All you have are my words and actions,” Nevander repeats. “I’ve never brought someone to my haven before.”
“Oh,” Seren says stupidly, hoping his face doesn’t show how much he likes that. Being the first. Being special. More than the echo of a dead queen.
“The place suits you,” Nevander says, which is lovely, until he adds, “As does the shirt.”
Flushing painfully hot, Seren covers his eyes. As if that will help. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”
Nevander’s grin looks less practiced than usual, caught from between Seren’s fingers. “I notice everything about you.” He lowers himself to the ground. “Sit with me? We can give Sir Mustardseed and Sir Idalia more time to interrogate the honeysuckles.”
Face still burning, Seren sits. Not too close. He should ask more about Haelwen’s visions, or Lord Midnight, or the palace defenses. Instead, his curiosity circles around this tiny haven nobody else has ever been to. “Is this a real place? I mean, does your haven look like somewhere else?”
“Spiritwood.” Nevander leans back on both hands. “Yarrow, Valerian, and I used to play there, when we were youngerand more foolish. No, that’s untrue. Yarrow’s still as foolish as ever.”
Thinking of Nevander as young and carefree is strange, when his present relaxation is such a rare gift.
“How old were you?” Seren asks.
“Around seventy,” Nevander answers casually, and Seren chokes.
“How old are younow?”
“A hundred twenty-four.” Nevander’s smile fades. And that too is a deliberate gift. “That was one of the last questions Haelwen ever asked me. She thought I was too young.”
“Of course,” Seren says, dazed. “She was going mad.”
Nevander’s laugh is sharp, surprised. Seren is too tired to worry about how thrilling that laughter is.
Or whether it’s better or worse for his vision of Midnight to be real.
20
Clouds Promising Rain
CalendarHallhasbeenrearranged. The presiding chair now sits on a small dais, and the chair’s legs have been shortened. Seren’s feet touch the dais when he sits, instead of dangling over the flagstones.
The throne room still refuses to open. Elladar Palace does not acknowledge a new ruler.
Nevander stands at Seren’s side, a step down but still distractingly tall. He wears the gray leather armor again, with the roaring bear emblem. The gauntlets fit his hands perfectly. They would rattle around Seren’s wrists, still warm with the summer heat of Nevander’s skin.
