Valerian kneels to stroke Spindle’s bristling neck. “Augrays can’t jump realms, and they’re hunting beasts. Someone must have sent it to search for something, but I wouldn’t assume Calithel. That’s impossible with the changeling spell.”
Nevander wishes he could believe that. “If I found Seren, someone else could have.”
“Calithel—” Valerian corrects himself. “Seren wasn’t the only fae in Prima that day.”
Spirits. Nevander hadn’t considered that he might be a target. Or worse, that he may have led the enemy to Seren.
“I know augrays, but you know the monsters of this palace,” Valerian says. “Figure out who knows your movements.”
The morning’s brightness seems thin. Like a glamour hiding shadows. “You suspect a traitor.”
Valerian rises gracefully, regarding the surrounding trees and towers. “Strange, isn’t it? Fifty years ago, we were stealing mushrooms from Yarrow’s mother. Now you’re here, at the center of things.”
“Nostalgia,” Nevander accuses, as if by naming the blade he can blunt it. “What are you scheming, Valerian?”
Green eyes brighten with mirth. “I pine for the edges of things. All this royal turmoil keeps me from my wandering.”
Valerian was the quiet one back then. A lone fae who came and went as he pleased. Nevander and Yarrow might not see him for a season or a year, before he would return like nothing had changed. He had high fae blood, but no ties to court.
Now Nevander is the quiet one, but Valerian still prefers to wander. This conversation isn’t about the past. The reminder of their long friendship is intentional.
“What are you dancing around?” Nevander asks.
“Fetching a lost prince is one thing,” Valerian says. “Fetching a king is something else.”
Nevander breathes in the cool morning, and reflects on their long friendship, as intended. “You doubt him, though you have not met him.”
“Can he wield blade or branch?” Valerian gestures to the goldwood trees, no longer wavering. “Jasper says the throne room is still closed.”
Nevander would be furious if he didn’t share Valerian’s doubts. And Valerian won’t be the only one. At least Valerian is brave or loyal enough to speak plainly.
Some high fae will see Seren’s weakness not as a problem, but as an opportunity. Those are the ones Nevander must guard against.
He must guard against his own doubts, too. “Seren survived decades in a realm not his own,” Nevander says. “He’ll learn what he needs to learn.”
Valerian nods. “As long as I’m free to wander the wilds, you can put an arberos on the throne. I simply warn you as a friend.”
Nevander can’t bring himself to be thankful for the warning. Though he would appreciate an ally today. “I’m meeting with the court today. Would you join me?”
Valerian’s laugh is a clear rejection. “Absolutely not. But if there’s anyone you’d rather not see, I can delay them on my way out. Shall I seduce Morana again? Or let Gevain think he’s seduced me?”
Nevander shakes off the disappointment. “Your bedroom conquests do not factor into my plans.”
“Oh, we rarely make it to a bedroom,” Valerian says cheerfully. He snaps his fingers, and Spindle makes an impressive leap to his shoulder. Equally impressively, Valerian doesn’t flinch at the impact. “But today, I have wilds to keep. Farewell, old friend.”
“Farewell,” Nevander says, then remembers one last obligation. “Yarrow says you should visit him.”
“When he never visits me?” Valerian reaches up to scritch beneath Spindle’s chin. The aroom fox’s eyes close in contentment. “I’ll send word if I have news about augray movements.”
Here and gone again. Valerian has ever been a shadow between the trees. For the first time, Nevander understands the appeal. The light at the center of things has teeth.
Nevanderstandsatthechamber’s head as the courtiers gather. Gevain of Summer’s Edge arrives first. Morana of Brightwood arrives near the end, with a minor lordling of Spiritwood at her heels. The same people who joined Haelwen’s last revel now gamble on the outcome of her death.
Ritekeeper Primrose still hasn’t coaxed the throne room open, and that would send the wrong message, besides. Nevander has chosen Calendar Hall for this meeting instead. The room is square, cornered by columns of marble trees, and a mural sweeps across each wall representing the four realms of Myria. Rich orange trees to the west. Stark snowy mountains to the north. Flowering meadows to the east.
Summer’s fields and soft waters stretch behind Nevander, and the empty chair at his side.
Haelwen never ruled by council, but sometimes she had conversations. When those conversations were less public than court and less private than personal audiences, she held them here. Nevander’s choice of room signals continuity without placing himself too near a throne. That messaging is more important than the contents of the meeting.