Page 4 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Sunlight glitters across the water. Noon approaches, and Nevander has tarried too long. He shouldn’t be here, where magic is thin and the trees don’t speak. But he lingers until Calithel flees for the cottage.
The thorns dig deep. Nevander touches the amulet at his throat. The air thins, and he steps between realms.
Returninghomeshouldbea relief. After the dry leylines of the human realm and the strangeness of Elsewhere, Summer’s ambient magic embraces Nevander’s soul. He strides through the palace halls, silent despite his armor, golden hair streaming behind him. No hiding beneath a glamour.
He passes white marble and emerald statues. Each guard, ritekeeper, and tidingbird reminds Nevander of his own place.They’re all like runes in the great ritual of the palace. Some runes are brighter or deeper than others, but all are essential.
But there are fractures beneath the shining surface. Nevander passes two dry fountains. A ritekeeper re-enchants lanterns that were just enchanted last week. The palace reflects its master.
Two years since Nevander noticed. He doesn’t know how long he was oblivious, but the decline has been swift. Soon he won’t be able to hide it.
He prays Haelwen agrees to his question before it’s too late.
Servants and courtiers diminish in number as Nevander continues. Elladar Palace sprawls like a walled city, and warding enchantments control access to the inner quarters. Nevander’s destination is Haelwen’s office, where he finds Sir Idalia on duty.
She’s easy to recognize with her green skin and restless nature. Today, she’s practicing one-handed juggling. Two red apples gleam in the light of a warded doorway.
“Where have you been?” Idalia asks, free hand touching her heart in salute. Her other hand doesn’t miss a juggle. “She’s furious.”
Nevander shoves down his defensive guilt. Avoiding the question, he asks, “Do you know why?”
Idalia circles the apples to her other hand. “She didn’t say, and I didn’t dare ask.”
The mystery is not reassuring.
“Did Ritekeeper Primrose respond?” Nevander asks, lowering his voice.
“She said you could join her for dinner at the riverbank.” Idalia’s green brow furrows. “I don’t understand the need, Lord Nevander. We reviewed the wards just last month.”
A small, mortal stream reflects in Nevander’s mind. He forces back the image. “Call it an abundance of caution,” he says, and crosses the shimmering archway.
Warding magic shivers, granting the permission due his position as Lord Guardian. The office is empty, but the second door is open. The spiral staircase leads to the greenhouse above.
Mounting the marble stairs, Nevander tries to bury his nerves. Usually, he wouldn’t fear Haelwen’s wrath. But usually, he isn’t returning from a forbidden journey to the mortal realm.
Nevander shouldn’t even know the hidden prince’s location. If Haelwen has discovered Nevander’s transgression, the price will be steep.
The tower-top greenhouse is a bubble of warmth. Gold-framed windows welcome the afternoon light. Planters, trellises, and hanging baskets define the space in messy brushstrokes. Blue blossoms, gold, whisper-gray, flashes of pink. Even a lone autumn-red sapling.
A dark pool gleams at the center of the greenhouse. Around the pool sit four benches, each carved from different material. Goldwood, copperwood, silverwood, iriumwood. Around the benches paces Queen Haelwen, muttering under her breath.
She seems not to hear Nevander’s approach. Her long blue hair is braided with marigolds, and her gray gown is pristine. Yet a sense of wildness quickens her steps. Her head bows, and her hands twist.
“Your Majesty,” Nevander says, the formality like armor against uncertainty. He draws close enough to hear her words.
“Where is he?” Haelwen mutters. “Where is he, where is he, whereis he?”
“Your Majesty!” Nevander repeats. “Who are you looking for?”
“My son!” Haelwen shrieks, and kicks over the goldwood bench. It crashes into the pond.
Alarm braces Nevander. Flowers wither and water sloshes in the echoes. This is new. This is worse.
“You hid him yourself,” Nevander says, striving for calm.
Haelwen stares for a long, worrying moment. Then she inhales, straightening her shoulders. By the time she exhales, her face has settled into centuries of serenity. The withering flowers bloom again.
“So I did,” Haelwen says softly. “My memories are dark of late.”
