Seren bristles at the challenge. Even though it’s probably not a challenge. Seren just resents himself for not findinganything useful. He casts around the shelves, desperate for something to say, then frowns.
“This is new,” Seren says, reaching for a decorative hair comb.
Nevander blocks his hand, touching the amulet at his throat. “One moment, Your Highness.” Only when the opal flashes does Nevander step aside again. “It’s safe. How do you know it’s new?”
Seren hadn’t considered the potential threat of a comb. He eyes it warily. The carving is beautifully delicate, flowers and a falcon in flight.
“Everything else is arranged so perfectly,” Seren explains. “But this comb is too close to the edge. Like Haelwen set it here hastily, without finding a proper place for it.”
Nevander nods. Either thoughtful or humoring him. “The flowers are summerstars, and the falcon is the emblem of Summer’s Edge. This could be a gift from Lord Gevain.”
“Does that mean anything?” Seren asks.
Nevander plucks the comb and vanishes it into his carryhold. “It means Lord Gevain is due some questions.”
Nevander returns to his reading. Seren returns to blankly staring at expensive ornaments. Then blankly staring at papers. The office is silent except for Tansy and Idalia occasionally murmuring. Mustardseed chimes in less frequently, maybe because he has to rhyme anything worth saying.
Mustardseed and Second Ritekeeper Jasper are the best witnesses Seren has. But Haelwen was alone when she died. Everyone keeps saying that—no witnesses but the palace walls.
Seren’s fingers tense against the parchment.
Primrose says the throne room refuses to open. The palace refuses to speak. But Seren has inherited the authority to cross the palace wards. That’s how he can enter his own bedroom. He has no crown. Maybe he doesn’t need one.
“What are you doing?” Nevander asks, before Seren even moves.
The idea spurs Seren to his feet. “Trying something. Don’t worry.” He lays a hand on the nearest wall. A hanging mirror reflects a face that still startles him. He’s almost used to the blue hair. But the intensity in his golden eyes is new.
He closes his eyes and lowers his defenses. Just like Primrose showed him. As natural as unclenching his fist.
Stubborn frustration hits him first, a tangle of grasping roots. That’s Tansy. Idalia’s curiosity is light, like dandelions on the wind. Mustardseed’s heart is a jagged rock in a stream. Sorrow that time hasn’t yet worn smooth.
Nothing from Nevander, as always.
Instead of shrinking away, Seren pushes for more. If walls can witness, perhaps they have emotions, too. If Seren’s empathy can connect, maybe the palace will guide him in the right direction. Or even open the throne room, so the ritekeepers can investigate.
“Careful,” Nevander says, closer than Seren remembers.
Seren struggles to answer without lying. He doesn’t know enough about Elladar to know if this is reckless, but he has to reach farther, until—
A presence towers over Seren’s heart. Not a mind, as such. Not alive. Just a force of magic, thousands of lives tracing these halls for thousands of years. History both glorious and forgotten. Seren gasps, awestruck, as the palace sees him.
There’s a moment of recognition.
Then a bludgeoning rejection. The palace sees Seren and judges him insufficient.
He reels back and doesn’t fall because Nevander has his elbow. Nevander’s saying something. The words don’t make sense. All Seren can focus on is rebuilding his shields, shutting out the rejection, making himself safe again.
Another emotion pierces through. It isn’t directed towards Seren, but he feels it nonetheless. Loneliness and pain. Feather-soft betrayal. Not the palace. Something smaller.
“Someone is scared,” Seren says, wrenching himself from Nevander’s grasp. “I have to find them.”
For a moment, he thinks Nevander will argue. He’s so used to having to fight for what he wants.
“I’ll go with you,” Nevander says instead.
Seren is already heading for the door. Books and chairs clatter, a strangely mundane scramble in the opulent chamber, as the others follow. Seren’s pace quickens down the stairs. He’s still unfamiliar with the palace, but descending a tower is simple enough. The tiny, sad hurt draws him onward.
“Who’s scared?” Tansy asks, trotting at Seren’s heels. “And how do you know?” His curiosity sparkles over a deeper layer of intrigue. Better than outright hostility.