“What about more recent relations?” Seren says, gathering himself.
Gevain remains serious. “They grow bold. My sister killed a scouting party on our territory last week. The farthest trees of Summer’s Edge grow less friendly—as if their allegiance wavers.”
“You haven’t reported that,” Nevander says sternly, even though Gevain has been surprisingly helpful.
Gevain shrugs. “My house is up to the challenge.”
Seren doesn’t need empathy magic to sense the rising tension. Time to change the subject. “What did you wish to speak of, Lord Gevain?”
“It’s connected, in the way of things.” Gevain’s wave encompasses the murals flowing between seasons. “I have heard rumors of unrest. Whispers of doubt that a human-raised prince can sit securely on the Summer throne.”
Seren strives not to shift on his raised chair. It's hard to sit securely on a seat he isn’t sure he wants.
“Who has been whispering?” Nevander asks.
Gevain nudges Daffodil forward. Her eyes widen, lips tight, but she doesn’t resist. “Unfortunately, the culprit is my dear attendant,” Gevain says. “She had the temerity to suggest someone else might make a stronger king.”
He leaves the identity of ‘someone else’ unsaid. Daffodil averts her gaze, clenched fists trembling.
“Is that why she cannot speak?” Nevander asks sharply. “She spoke quite clearly the other night.”
Gevain pats Daffodil’s shoulder, as one might pat a horse. “I’ve silenced her for a year and a day as consequence for her recklessness.”
Seren’s stomach turns at the casual statement. Yet Nevander doesn’t flinch at all.
Last time Seren was in this room, Lady Morana used a man as a chair. Nobody thanked Seren for interfering, least of all the man he tried to help.
No wonder people whisper doubts about Seren. Seren wouldn’t know how to silence someone for a minute, let alone a year. And everyone in this palace—in this realm—knows how helpless he is. They might pretend to respect his authority, but Nevander’s support is all that protects Seren.
Nevander doesn’t meet Seren’s gaze, still intent on Gevain. Perhaps his slight shift nearer is meant as reassurance. Perhaps Seren’s imagination has grown even more pathetic.
“I handled the matter gently, in recognition of her faithful service,” Gevain continues. “If you wish to be stricter, I can give her to you.”
Fear lashes Seren’s heart, so sharp his breath hitches. He’s slow to ward off the emotion, even as Daffodil bows her head.
Seren isn’t used to people besides Edith and Alard fearing him.
“That won’t be necessary,” Seren says, uncaring if that’s a bad idea. Maybe Nevander would want her interrogated. Maybe Haelwen would execute her on the spot. Seren isn’t yet prepared to punish his subjects.
“I’m relieved, Your Highness,” Gevain says as if discussing the weather, while Daffodil sags at his side. “With your permission, I’ll send Daffodil out.”
Daffodil’s pleading needs no words.
“Go ahead,” Seren says.
She bows deeply, then flees. When the door closes, Gevain continues. “Of course, I would not request an audience merely as an ominous tidingbird. I have two suggestions for a show of strength.”
Make no promises, Nevander warned.
“I’m willing to listen,” Seren says.
“Host a grand banquet.” Gevain lifts a hand, and illusions of tiny tankards, feathers, and dancers spin above his palm. “Impress us with pageantry. Prove you’re truly one of us.”
Nevander had prepared Seren for this topic. The suggestion makes sense. Wymond’s festivals brought the village together. Seren wouldn’t know the first thing about throwing a fae banquet, but ignorance has solutions. “Who typically organizes royal banquets?”
“The seneschal,” Nevander answers.
“Are any holidays upcoming?”
