Page 35 of The Hidden Fae Prince
“Thank you for gathering,” Nevander says, precisely at the appointed hour.
For once, the courtiers pay Nevander as much attention as he pays them.
“By what authority do you summon us?” Morana asks, the barb too obvious. Her lavender hair hangs loose with scattered flowers today. She wears a gray gown instead of her usual dueling leathers. Not quite an imitation of Haelwen.
Not quite not.
Nevander meets her gaze squarely. “The invitation is a courtesy, not a summons. You are welcome to withdraw.”
Morana smiles as movement rustles around the chamber. “As I presumed. I hope your courtesy reassures my nervous peers.”
Nevander catches tension from several, noting their names. Everyone is trying to figure Nevander out. Whether he’s merely the prince’s guardian, or the new power behind the throne. For reasons of her own, Morana’s barb was a feint to draw out those opposed to either.
At least, those with less control over their facial expressions. Nevander won’t assume every smile hides a friend.
Fortunately, Nevander doesn’t need friends in court. He just needs to present a strong, orderly succession on Seren’s behalf. Seren isn’t ready to preside over court yet, but if Nevander has a few more days to guide him—
The door behind Nevander opens. Sir Idalia salutes the room and announces, “His Highness, Prince Seren of Elladar.”
Surprise whips Nevander around as murmurs rise.
Seren enters from the Summer door. As if planned, the muted green of his shirt matches the mural’s rolling fields. The painted sky sets off his delicate complexion.
Brushing past Nevander, Seren takes the presiding chair. “Thank you for gathering everyone, Lord Guardian,” he says, then addresses the room. “Please continue.”
He meets Nevander’s eyes in challenge. Fragrance lingers in the echoes of their touch. Summerstars. A whispering river. A subtler, stronger blow than any blade.
12
Both Feared and Loved
Feigningease,Serenleansback in the tall chair. He’s never worn such fine clothes. The material whispers against his skin. The shirtsleeves are tight from wrist to elbow, fitting perfectly without restricting movement. The shoes are styled like riding boots, but the storm-gray damask wouldn’t survive trudging through a pasture. Unless they’re enchanted to stay clean. That wouldn’t surprise Seren.
This is a mistake, but he can’t retreat now. At least he’s not alone in his discomfort. Barbs of wariness strike from the gathered courtiers. Nobody expected Seren to attend this meeting held in his name.
Which is why Seren has to be here. He refuses to be blinkered, dependent on whatever scraps of information Nevander relays. Seren’s life has been a lie for too long. Heneeds to learn as much as possible about himself, his powers, and his new realm, if he wants to escape.
Nevander’s brief flash of surprise is well-hidden. His armor is simpler today, misty gray leather trimmed in gold, cut close to his frame. An emblem of a bear roars across his cuirass. Nevander suits this place as well as he suits the sunlit forest, like a blade reflecting the room around him.
His gaze cuts away from Seren to the gathered courtiers.
Luckily high fae seem good at shielding when not in shock. After the first flurry of honest emotions, the storm quiets.
A fae woman with loose lavender hair claps her hands. Her single-lidded eyes gleam an icy blue. “Perhaps we should begin with introductions, unless anyone has prepared labeled portraits for His Highness.” She waits for a few chuckles. “I am Lady Morana of Brightwood.”
Seren winces at the rush of embarrassed dread from Morana’s direction. Not her, but the man behind her. He’s pale, with gray hair despite his apparent youth. Humiliation emanates from him in a tidal wave.
Before Seren can muster a response, another man stops forward. He’s familiar, and his russet brown complexion seems to glow against his pastel robes.
“I am Lord Gevain of Summer’s Edge.” Gevain bows, red-brown hair spilling over his left shoulder. The other side is cropped close to the scalp. “I excel at illusion and poetry, and I enjoy long dances in the moonlight.”
Seren does his best to keep a neutral expression. Nevander’s gauntleted hand twitches.
“I regret my suggestion,” Morana interjects.
A dozen other fae introduce themselves. The helpful gesture soon drives Seren to despair. Not knowing names was more acceptable prior to introductions, and remembering everyone is a lost cause.
Morana’s idea of labeled portraits sounds nice.
