“—Prince Calithel—”
“Idalia, the door,” Nevander barks.
Beyond the fae courtiers is a door, and a green-skinned woman moves to unbar it. The courtiers scatter enough for Nevander to lead Seren past them, but not far enough. Seren stumbles at a stone step, vision fogging. The magic is too much.
He meets the eyes of one courtier—the man with silver flowers around his arm. The fae appears startled, then unexpectedly sympathetic.
“Are we high fae or boarbears?” he scolds, whirling to face his fellows. “We wanted news. Now let’s gossip like civilized folk, before truth ruins the pleasure of speculation.”
Everyone withdraws, and Seren has space to breathe. One moment of clarity, before the woman called Idalia flings open the door. Nevander pulls Seren through, and the door slams shut.
“Are you all right?” Nevander asks, his voice urgent, his emotions as blessedly hidden as ever. “What happened?”
Seren opens his mouth to answer, then collapses.
9
Before He Shatters
EasingSerenontothecouch, Nevander is torn between focusing on his charge and any signs of danger. The royal parlor, bedecked in greenery and white quartz, is securely warded. Idalia stands by a crystal bear statue, and two more guards wait outside. Nevertheless, Nevander trusts only his own judgment.
If he can even trust that, unsettled as he is. Habit and ritual carry him through a situation no habit could have prepared him for.
The Queen of Summer is dead.
“Should I summon a healer?” Idalia asks, unusually nervous. A wand spins between her fingers.
“Not yet,” Nevander says, touching the amulet athis throat.
The green opal contains a few enchantments the royal guardians use often. Nevander calls upon the detection spell, searching Seren for unknown curses or weapons. The amulet warms, then cools. There’s nothing amiss. Whatever caused his initial collapse, Seren merely sleeps now.
Relief eases Nevander’s heart. By some presumptuous instinct, he brushes the blue hair from Seren’s face.
The prince’s breath is deep, his lips pale. The deep mauve velvet of the couch gives his cheeks a rosy luster. Nevander fears to touch him too strongly, lest he leave bruises glittering in Seren’s skin.
How fitting that the missing piece of Nevander’s life only returns when everything else shatters. How unfair to place such a burden on Seren’s thin shoulders.
Guilt shoves away any relief. Nevander’s failure has already scarred his prince. And when Seren awakes, it will be to the realm where his mother is dead.
A dozen theories rain like arrows. Perhaps Haelwen’s illness worsened. Or Lord Midnight or another rival slipped past the wards. A curse. A ritual gone wrong. It doesn’t matter yet. Each theory demands the same course of action. Protect Seren. Identify the threat. Nevander will not, must not panic.
Could one of the courtiers have done something? Morana was nearby, as was Gevain. The latter’s helpfulness clearing the doorway only makes Nevander more suspicious.
Reluctantly, Nevander rises. “Report, Sir Idalia.”
Idalia twirls her wand to the other hand. “You felt it, my lord. The queen died not half an hour ago. We closed down the palace, per your contingency orders. Nobody has left.”
“And the emissaries?” Nevander asks.
“They’re ready at your command.”
Nevander takes a steadying breath. He began his contingency plans as soon as Haelwen’s erratic behavior became clear. In the event of Haelwen’s death, Nevander must protect the line of succession. Haelwen named Seren her heir. His bloodline is strong. He has the power to rule—if he learns how to wield it.
But there are those who would seize this opportunity.
“Send them out,” Nevander says. “Let all of Elladar know their prince has returned.”
The message is more complicated than that. Crafted to reassure worried village fae who felt their queen’s death—and warn off those who might seek opportunity. But that’s the important part.