Page 92 of The Hidden Fae Prince
“Has Lysandra caused any problems?” Nevander asks.
Jasper shakes their head, clearly relieved. “She’s been most helpful. There’s one problem. With the number of people we’re questioning, we can’t keep the theft a secret.”
“I heard before I arrived,” Valerian adds. “The woods and villages are full of speculation.”
Unfortunate, but Nevander had resigned himself to this. “Let them enjoy the gossip. Seren’s position doesn’t depend on the crown. Is there anything else, Ritekeeper?”
“I should review the procession,” Jasper says, straightening their robes. “Everything is ready, but I like to make sure.”
They leave the room to Nevander, Valerian, and Spindle, who’s now pacing the room. Valerian looks poised to fly into the painted forests. Never one to stand still.
Never one to hold his tongue either, at least with Nevander. But he keeps quiet until Nevander says, “What is it?”
“I was wondering,” Valerian draws out, green eyes glinting with a leer. “How good is he?”
Fury flashes across Nevander’s vision. His hand burns for his sword. “That’s none of your concern.”
Valerian simply tilts his head. “Good enough to cloud your judgment, then.”
And Nevander realizes he has failed a test. “You’re infuriating.”
“But not wrong.” Valerian looks away, dark green hair shielding his expression. “Be careful, friend. You’re frightening enough when you’re in control.”
The warning rankles, sensible as it is. Nevander hadn’t expected congratulations on his new relationship. Valerian prefers his own courtly entanglements brief. But Valerian could at least show some understanding, even support. Two decades of a fractured vow are over. Nevander finally gets to put himself back together.
Maybe that’s the problem. Nevander has soldiered through his hurt for so long. He can’t expect a connection he doesn’t offer. He could stand to be more like Seren.
“Will you attend the festival?” Nevander says. “Yarrow’s lifebond will be there, too, and Seren could use more supportive voices in the crowd.”
Valerian shakes his head ruefully and taps his thigh. Spindle trots to his side. “Then you should not value my attendance.”
Nevander tenses. “Explain yourself.”
Valerian extends his open palms, crisscrossed with worn green wrappings. The leather encircling his forearms is softened by use, but tough. “I do not oppose your changeling prince. I’m simply not convinced he should be king.”
That’s the sort of whisper Gevain silenced his attendant Daffodil for. Nevander suddenly understands the temptation.
“Convince yourself of what you like,” Nevander says coldly. “So long as your doubt does not impede my duty.”
“See that imperious tone?” Valerian smiles. “You would make a fine king yourself. If Yarrow can rule a realm, why couldn’t you?”
“Why couldn’t you?” Nevander snaps.
Valerian shrugs. “I’d consider it, if I could manage it from the wild woods. Fear not, Lord Guardian. My doubts remain thoughts, not actions, and I voice them only to you.”
Nevander should feel grateful for that. If Valerian was truly a threat, he would hide from Nevander, not confront him.
Any gratitude is muffled beneath the weight of responsibility. He cannot manage the entire realm’s doubts and protect his prince at the same time.
“We will miss your presence at the festival,” Nevander says at last.
Valerian pauses as if waiting for something else. Anger or denial or reassurance. Then he bows with excessive flourish. “A happy threshold to you.”
He stalks from the room, his fox at his heels.
29
A Small Token
