Half a day since he saw Calithel last. Half a day since hespokewith him. Haelwen wouldn’t smile so brightly if she knew how badly Nevander had transgressed. Or perhaps she would. The Summer Queen knows how to craft a mask.
Half a day since Nevander washed Calithel’s blood from his hands. The stain of failure lingers in his heart. As if he’d sunk his own fangs into the prince’s shoulder.
“The contest is simple,” Haelwen says. “Are the goblets empty or full?”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Nevander makes a show of studying Gevain and Morana’s goblets. To the naked eye, they both appear full of Elladar’s finest mead. Nevander could cast his judgment in an instant, but the dramatic timing requires a pause.
A simple trick, indeed. Any high fae learns such small illusions as children. Mimicking physical appearance is the easy part. Winning the glamour game requires acting—pretending the goblet is heavier or lighter than it is. Or layers of misdirection. Tiny muscle movements. Hints of imperfection can imply a faulty glamour, when in fact the only glamour is the imperfection.
Gevain and Morana are both skilled. Judging the truth would be difficult, if Nevander intended to do so.
“I believe they’re both empty,” Nevander says, and it’s true if belief is a choice.
Morana sighs, and Gevain sweeps a bow—full goblet held gracefully aloft. “May I offer you a drink in your defeat, Lady Morana?”
As Gevain preens and Morana pouts charmingly, Nevander steps back. His part in the charade is over. Picking apart illusion games is a worthless pursuit. If the goblets appear full, Nevander will guess they’re empty—for the sake of his own reputation as Lord Guardian. Suspecting an illusion that proves true is fine. Believing a false image would make him look gullible.
Haelwen knows this about him. Which means she chose the winner in advance by filling Gevain’s goblet. Nevander tucks the information away.
Perhaps Haelwen truly is feeling better, if she’s playing her usual games at court.
“What reward do you ask in victory?” Haelwen asks lightly.
More brash fae would push too far, but Gevain plays it safe. “I humbly beg a single flower from your braided hair, Your Majesty.”
“Shameless,” Morana chides, reveling in the attention regardless of her defeat.
Haelwen’s laugh is a melody. She plucks a blossom from her hair. “Humble or shameless, I can grant this reward.”
Simple tricks. Habits and charades. Tonight is like thousands of other nights in Elladar Palace, and the last Summer Prince is trapped in a human village. A terrified, untrained boy. Haelwen hid him for his own protection, but the result has hobbled him. Calithel can’t even glamour a goblet of mead. He’s never learned how.
There’s potential, though, unless Nevander’s eyes deceived him. Calithel should have been too weak to beat the augray away, but Nevander swears he sensed a thread of magic strengthening the fallen branch.
Wielded in instinct, not practice. Fear, not belief.
Potential isn’t enough. Nevander seizes his opportunity when Gevain and Morana dance away into the crowd. “May I speak with you, Your Majesty?”
“Of business or pleasure?” Haelwen asks, in far too good a mood.
“I prefer to conduct either in private.” Nevander casts his gaze out. The trapeze artist is naked now. “Unlike some.”
“Very well.” Haelwen rises from the swing. Her subjects make way, bowing and curtseying, as she crosses the courtyard. Nevander follows a pace behind and to her left.
Music hushes. Marble echoes. Memories drift as wisps of light through the palace’s streams and waterfalls. All the lanterns they pass are lit. All the fountains run clear. The queen’s magic is strong.
The throne room is a forest beneath a starry glass dome. A river winds across the chamber, and Haelwen leads Nevander across the goldwood bridge to reach the throne.
When Haelwen sits again, she seems transformed. The Summer Queen is more than glamour games and laughter. Her crown, with its diamond and sapphire spires, connects her to the power of Summer itself.
“We are alone,” Haelwen says, and the surrounding trees rustle as if in agreement. “You may speak.”
Echoes. Memories. The throne room, instead of the greenhouse or Calendar Hall. Haelwen can’t have chosen this place by accident. Nevander has watched hundreds of fae in this very room, bold or desperate enough to ask Haelwen’s favor. Now Haelwen places Nevander in the role of supplicant.
Pride wrenches Nevander’s heart. It doesn’t stop him from sinking to one knee. Haelwen’s right. This is no longer advice from a guardian to his queen.
This is a plea. For the prince’s sake. For Elladar’s.
“Call Calithel back,” Nevander says. “Please.”