“That’s wise.” Seren reaches out, as Nevander hoped. “Can I see it?”
The feather-light touch is exhilarating and grounding in equal measure. Seren looks down, then up through shadow-blue lashes, and Nevander has the strangest fantasy of certainty.
This will work. Seren doesn’t want to escape anymore, and Nevander doesn’t have to choose between duties.
“Let’s see Lysandra,” Nevander says, and raises his voice. “Ritekeeper?”
Jasper bows, their relief clear. “Right this way, Your Highness.”
Maybe Nevander should have warned Seren about another matter in that quiet moment. But Seren is already following Jasper, and all Nevander can do is stick to his side. Just as likely the matter won’t come up.
Today, the Garden of Rites is a grassy outdoor workshop. A worktable, an unlit forge, and a free-standing rack of tools cluster in the center of the meadow, surrounded by a sprawling array. Moss and golden flowers form the circles and runes. Saplings grow from key intersections, some flowering, some laden with fruit.
A woman stands at the worktable, something glittering in her hands. She’s tall, her golden hair secured in a knotted twine net. Her garb contradicts itself, both practical and pristine. Leather gloves, a close-fitting sleeveless top, trousers flowing loose to sturdy leather boots—all in pure, flawless white. Her belt pouches hold components too volatile for a carryhold.
She herself is a tool of her craft. Golden runes shift slowly over her bare, tanned arms.
Nevander recognizes the box open on the worktable. The case that holds the shards of the Summer Crown. Someone must have fetched it from Haelwen’s office.
Lysandra glances up at their approach, eyes as hard and blue as the gem in her hand. “You’re finally here. Ritekeeper, leave us.”
Jasper freezes awkwardly, looking to Nevander for help. But Nevander waits for Seren, which Lysandra will clearly notice.
“You may go,” Seren says, breaking the silent debate. He isn’t quite practiced enough to hide his wariness. When the gate closes behind Jasper, Seren continues. “Welcome, Lady Lysandra. I’m glad to meet you.”
Lysandra’s bow is so slight as to be sarcastic. “How many strangers have you met in Elladar? Aren’t I just another? Are you glad to meet me, or to don the Summer Crown?”
Seren barely flinches at the return volley. “I suppose it’s up to you, whether I’m glad to meet you or not.”
“What’s wrong?” Nevander interrupts.
Something must be wrong. Lysandra is often difficult, but never this combative. No wonder Jasper was nervous.
Lysandra flings her hand towards the worktable, a rare fury trembling down her arm. “I am here to repair the Summer Crown. Were you aware it was a fake?”
Shock roots Nevander to the meadow floor. “I was not aware,” he answers. The truth is his defense. Otherwise, Lysandra would surely attack, and she would be right to do so.
“A fake?” Seren asks, confused. “Who would do that?”
Lysandra plants herself between Seren and the table. Nevander grabs Seren’s arm before she can snap at him. “Please answer her, Your Highness,” Nevander says gently. “It’s important.”
Spirits. Hopefully Lysandra can’t see what Seren’s look of relief and trust does to Nevander.
“I wasn’t aware it was a fake either,” Seren says, focused on Nevander.
“Good. That’s good.” Lysandra steps aside, her face still hard. “I wanted to trust you two. Look at the shards—are they the same as when you last saw them?”
Nevander joins them at the worktable, keeping a respectful distance from Seren against his own wishes. Now isn’t the time.
Looking into the box, Nevander inhales sharply. “No. The shards were genuine the last I saw them—or at least, a better fake than this.”
The gleaming shards are the wrong shade of gold—too pale—and the wrong shape—curved too narrowly. Nevander will have to inspect the cupboards for any missing goblets. The gemstones aren’t diamond or sapphire. They’re simple glass.
Seren touches the edge of the box. “I don’t know where the real crown is. I don’t know who took it, or how, or why. I’ve never seen these fakes before. If that is sufficient for your trust, can you tell me why this matters?”
Lysandra’s shoulders finally slacken. “It matters on two accounts. The first is personal. I may be a distant mother, but I care for my creations.” She tosses the blue glass into the box, where it clatters. “The second will greatly inconvenience you. I could mend a broken crown in a month. To forge a new one is more complicated.”
Inconvenience is a brutal understatement.