Ch. 15: Decorative and Ch. 16: The Prince's Hand

Chapter 15: Decorative

Serali had survived assassins with less difficulty than the first hour of the Spring Benefactors’ Gala.

The assassins, at least, had been honest.

They had wanted to take her.

Lady Ameline Corvast apparently wanted only to know whether Lyehiran royal daughters were traditionally educated in court dancing.

Serali looked at her.

Lady Ameline smiled.

It was an excellent smile.

Soft.

Pleasant.

Weaponized beyond reason.

“I would not know,” Serali said.

A pause.

“You were raised at court, were you not?”

There it was.

Not were you taught?

Not do you dance?

Raised at court.

Serali had lived in Vulmar’s palace for more than a century.

So had servants.

Prisoners.

Unacknowledged children.

People waiting for someone important to remember they existed.

“Yes.”

Lady Ameline waited.

Serali did not help.

Eventually the woman said, “I had only wondered whether the customs differed.”

“Frequently.”

Another pause.

Serali smiled.

Not pleasantly.

Lady Ameline excused herself.

Pell remained three paces away.

He had become very good at looking as though he could not hear conversations clearly audible from where he stood.

Orran was worse at it.

“You may laugh,” Serali murmured.

“I would never, Lady Serali,” Orran said.

Coward.

She took a sip of wine she had no intention of finishing.

Across the ballroom, Marielle’s glass fish jumped through the fountain in perfect sequence.

Everly stood near the basin with Lessa and appeared to be explaining something to another child using both arms.

The green fish leapt.

Everly clapped.

Good.

At least someone was having a useful evening.

Serali looked back toward the crowd.

Mistake.

Lord Terevan intercepted her. “Royal Mage.”

“Lord Terevan.”

His bow was exactly correct.

That made it worse.

“I wished to commend your conduct at First Sun.”

Serali had learned over the last three weeks that commendation was sometimes merely interrogation with a softer introduction.

“Thank you.”

“My wife and I were present,” Terevan said.

“I am sorry.”

He blinked.

Serali considered. “That you were endangered.”

“Yes. Of course.”

His expression recovered. “We saw what you did for the children.”

Serali’s shoulders tightened despite herself.

The canopy.

Everly.

Hagen bleeding.

The blade coming toward her.

“Anyone would have.”

Lord Terevan looked at her for one beat too long.

“No,” he said. “I do not believe anyone would have.”

Serali did not know what to do with that.

Apparently neither did he.

His gaze shifted briefly toward Allandra.

Then back.

“And I suppose congratulations are also in order regarding your… formal status.”

Serali’s mouth went dry.

“Royal Mage?” Serali asked.

“Certainly.”

The answer came too quickly.

He knew exactly what she meant.

She decided not to rescue him.

Again.

A peculiar amount of her evening involved allowing Avalusian nobles to drown in sentences they had chosen themselves.

It was improving her mood.

“Lyehira’s correspondence has created some confusion,” he said eventually.

“There seems to be a great deal of that going around.”

His smile tightened. “I merely meant that some may wonder whether ‘Princess’ would be the more appropriate address.”

Serali looked at him.

Pell became fractionally more attentive.

Orran stopped pretending to study the fountain.

Serali smiled. “Only if you are trying to start an incident.”

Lord Terevan went very still.

Then laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because there were people nearby.

“Royal Mage, then.”

“An excellent choice.”

He withdrew.

Serali exhaled.

“You cannot arrest them for conversation,” she told Pell.

“I had not suggested it.”

“Daravan would.”

“Captain Daravan would say conversation is not ordinarily grounds for arrest.”

“Ordinarily.”

Pell’s mouth twitched.

Traitor.

Everly rescued her twelve minutes later.

Serali was being asked whether Night Fae formal magic traditionally incorporated blood.

The question was academically phrased.

It was still about blood.

Then a small hand slipped into hers.

Serali looked down.

Everly stood beside her in pale gold, hair braided with tiny sun-shaped pins, expression serious. “Serali.”

“Yes?”

“The silver fish is winning.”

Serali looked toward the fountain. “Winning what?”

Everly frowned. “The jumping.”

Of course.

Serali turned to the scholar who had been explaining comparative magical traditions without being invited. “Excuse me. This appears urgent.”

He looked down at Everly.

Everly nodded.

Very serious.

Serali allowed herself to be led away. Lessa followed, keeping close enough to intervene if Everly’s enthusiasm became running.

Once they were out of earshot, she said, “Thank you.”

Everly looked up. “For what?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

She accepted this.

Children were useful that way.

They reached the fountain.

Marielle stood several feet away speaking to one of the apprentices.

Corren was beside her.

Mael had taken the outer edge of the crowd.

Good.

Daravan had apparently found her.

Again.

Everly pointed. “Watch.”

The fish jumped.

Then the final blue-green fish caught the light and seemed to hang for half a breath before falling.

Everly gasped.

Serali had already seen the mechanism work.

It was still beautiful.

“The silver one is not winning,” she said.

Everly stared at her. “It jumped highest.”

“The blue-green one stayed in the air longer.”

“That does not count.”

“Why?”

“Because jumping is height.”

“That seems arbitrary.”

Everly looked deeply offended. “Uncle Hagen agrees with me.”

“Then you are definitely wrong.”

“Serali.”

A shadow fell across them.

Hagen stood behind Everly. “I heard that.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from NovelPhoenix. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“That was the intention.”

Everly pointed toward the fountain. “Tell her.”

Hagen studied the fish. “I refuse to enter a dispute without reviewing the rules.”

“You already said silver.”

“That was before I knew there was litigation.”

Serali looked at Everly. “He is weak.”

“I know.”

Hagen put one hand over his heart. “A difficult family.”

Then someone called his name.

His expression changed almost invisibly.

Prince again.

He bent and kissed the top of Everly’s head. “I will return, little Sun.”

“You have to decide.”

“I understand the gravity.”

He walked away.

Everly watched him go.

Then looked toward Allandra across the room. “Mama is busy too.”

“Yes.”

Serali followed her gaze.

Allandra stood surrounded by ambassadors, nobles, and three people Serali did not know.

Gold beneath chandeliers.

Perfect posture.

Perfect smile.

Queen.

Their eyes met for less than a second.

The bond warmed.

Serali looked away first.

Too many eyes.

Always too many eyes.

Everly squeezed her hand. “Do you like my dress?”

Serali looked down at her. “Yes.”

Everly brightened. “Lessa picked the ribbon.”

“Then Lessa has excellent judgment.”

“I picked the shoes.”

Serali glanced at them.

Gold slippers.

One already bore a faint splash from Marielle’s fountain.

“Obviously.”

Everly smiled.

That interaction required no calculations.

No titles.

No questions about blood.

No one waiting to turn the answer into something useful.

Serali suddenly understood why Allandra sometimes disappeared into the nursery after council.

As the evening continued, the questions changed but the scrutiny did not. People watched Pell and Orran, looked toward Allandra, and tried to make Serali explain herself without quite asking her to.

One woman wanted to discuss the Lyehiran succession. Another asked whether Cillian had attended court often.

Serali ended that conversation quickly.

A young lord asked whether she intended to retain the Xuiven name.

She told him she had not yet decided whether to retain the conversation.

He left.

That helped.

Eventually Serali retreated to the wall.

Not hid.

Retreated strategically.

There was a difference.

Verya was already there.

She wore grey.

Of course she did.

Not council grey.

The gown was softer than anything Serali usually saw her wear, silver-grey silk fitted cleanly through the waist with darker embroidery at the sleeves.

It was lovely.

Verya looked exactly like herself in it.

Serali stopped beside her. “You are hiding.”

Verya did not look away from the ballroom. “No.”

Serali waited.

Verya sighed. “I am observing from a less irritating location.”

“That is hiding.”

“I am better at it than you.”

Serali looked down at herself. “I am against a wall.”

“Yes.”

“So are you.”

“I was here first.”

“Then you are an experienced wallflower.”

Verya turned her head.

Serali smiled.

Verya looked back toward the dancers. “I regret helping you become comfortable enough to speak to me this way.”

“No, you do not.”

“No.”

They stood in companionable silence.

That was another thing Serali liked about Verya.

Silence did not require repair.

Across the room, couples moved through the first formal dance.

Serali watched for several moments.

Then looked at Verya. “No one has asked you.”

Verya’s eyebrows rose.

“To dance,” Serali clarified.

“I understood.”

Serali glanced at the floor again. “I understand why no one asks me.”

Verya’s expression flattened. “Do you?”

“I am Lyehiran.”

“You are Avalusia’s Royal Mage.”

“I am a Night Fae.”

“A factual observation.”

“My father is currently demanding my return while denying responsibility for armed men who tried to abduct me.”

“Admittedly inconvenient.”

Serali looked at her.

Verya’s mouth moved.

Barely.

Serali continued. “But you are wearing a very nice gown.”

Verya turned slowly.

Serali gestured at her. “You are.”

“I am aware.”

“And you are not Lyehiran.”

“Also true.”

“No one appears to hate you.”

“That is where you are mistaken.”

Serali smiled despite herself. “So why is no one asking you to dance?”

Verya considered the ballroom. “Men who prefer decorative women tend not to enjoy me.”

Serali looked at her. “Decorative.”

“Soft. Agreeable. Admired without becoming inconvenient.”

“Ah.”

“I am frequently inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

Verya gave her a cool look.

Serali lifted her glass. “Compliment.”

“Poorly phrased.”

“I learned diplomacy from Hagen.”

“That explains it.”

Serali looked again toward the dancers. “There must be men who like intelligent women.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Powerful women?”

“Fewer.”

“Women on the Queen’s council?”

“Fewer still.”

“Women who correct them publicly?”

Verya glanced at her. “There you begin approaching extinction.”

Serali laughed.

Quietly.

Verya’s expression softened.

Only a fraction.

Serali said, “That cannot be the whole reason.”

“No.”

There was something in the answer.

Serali waited.

Verya looked down at her own hands. “I was asked more often when I was younger.”

Serali said nothing.

“Before the council. Before people understood how much Her Majesty listened when I spoke.”

Her voice remained even.

“Then there were fewer invitations.”

“Because you became important.”

“Because importance in a woman is attractive in theory.”

Serali looked at her.

Verya’s mouth curved without humor. “In practice, some men prefer intellect until it disagrees with them. Influence until it exceeds theirs. Ambition until it competes with their own.”

Serali thought of Lyehira.

Different court.

Familiar machinery.

“Idiots,” she said.

“Many.”

“Were there any who were not?”

Verya was quiet. “A few possibilities.”

Not lovers.

Not great lost romances.

Possibilities.

Serali understood the distinction.

“One man stopped calling after I corrected him during a dinner,” Verya said.

Serali blinked. “What did you correct?”

“His interpretation of a trade statute.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“It was.”

“Then definitely an idiot.”

“Yes.”

Serali frowned. “And you accepted this?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate.

Verya finally looked at her. “I stopped expecting them to become better.”

That was different.

Serali understood that too.

Verya continued. “I could have made myself easier.”

Her tone made the word ugly.

“Less sharp in public. Less opinionated. Less visible. Smiled at the right moments. Allowed men to explain things I already knew.”

Serali’s face twisted. “Why?”

“Precisely.”

Verya looked back toward the room. “I decided I would rather be difficult to love than easy to diminish.”

Something inside Serali went very still.

She thought of Allandra.

Not because Allandra wanted her smaller.

Never.

Because Allandra did not.

Because Allandra had looked at every sharp, inconvenient, wounded piece Serali possessed and wanted her anyway.

Dangerous thought.

Wrong room.

Serali drank.

Then, she asked, “You never wanted it?”

Verya was silent long enough that Serali nearly withdrew the question.

Then she said, “I did.”

Simple.

No bitterness.

That made it sadder.

“I simply stopped structuring my life around the expectation.”

Serali looked at her.

Verya lifted one shoulder. “I have work I value. Friends I trust. Her Majesty makes my life intolerable in professionally rewarding ways.”

Serali looked toward Allandra. “Accurate.”

They stood quietly.

Then Verya said, “For what it is worth, the court is not entirely hostile to you.”

Serali looked around. “Your standards are troubling.”

“They are afraid.”

“Better.”

“Not of you.”

Serali glanced at her.

“Not only of you,” Verya amended.

That sounded more plausible.

“They are afraid of what you mean.”

Serali’s smile vanished.

Verya nodded toward the fountain, where Everly was again explaining the fish to two noble children. “Children care what happens.”

Serali followed her gaze.

“Adults care what it means.”

Everly laughed as the silver fish jumped.

Verya continued. “You protected the Queen’s daughter. You publicly refused Lyehira. You took an Avalusian oath. The city cheered.”

“And?”

“And every person in this room spent the last three weeks deciding what those facts do to alliances, marriages, factions, succession, trade, and war.”

Serali’s stomach tightened. “The city looked at me and saw a shadow.”

Verya looked at her.

“The nobles look at me and see a lever,” Serali said.

A pause.

“Yes,” Verya said.

At least she did not lie.

Serali leaned back against the wall. “I preferred the fish.”

“Most sensible people do.”

Across the room, Hagen finished a conversation with an elderly lord.

Then he looked directly at Serali.

Verya noticed. “Ah.”

Serali narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Your evening is about to become worse.”

Hagen began crossing the ballroom.

Serali watched him come. “He looks pleased.”

“Exactly.”

“That is rarely good.”

“No.”

Hagen stopped before them.

He bowed first to Verya. “Lady Verya.”

“Your Highness.”

Then to Serali. “Royal Mage.”

Serali looked suspiciously at his offered hand. “No.”

“I have not asked anything yet.”

“You crossed an entire ballroom smiling.”

“A crime?”

“Evidence.”

Verya lifted her glass. “I will leave you to your investigation.”

“Traitor,” Serali said.

Verya stepped away.

Hagen’s hand remained extended.

Around them, Serali could already feel attention shifting.

Of course.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Serali looked at him, then at the hand. “This is political.”

“Deeply.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

Serali glanced toward the dancers.

Then back at him.

“One dance.”

Hagen smiled. “One dance.”

She put her hand in his.

Chapter 16 — The Prince’s Hand

Hagen knew exactly what the room would think when Serali put her hand in his.

That was why he had asked.

Not the only reason. But certainly one of them.

“One dance,” she reminded him as he led her toward the floor.

“I remember.”

“You have a history of becoming ambitious.”

“Only when encouraged.”

“I am not encouraging you.”

“No. You have been admirably clear.”

Half the court was pretending not to watch. The other half had abandoned the effort.

Serali looked around the ballroom. “I dislike your people.”

“Our people.”

She looked at him.

Hagen smiled. “There. That face is much better.”

“What face?”

“The one that suggests you are considering murder rather than escape.”

“I am considering both.”

“Excellent. We should have time for the dance first.”

The musicians shifted into the opening measures. Hagen slowed at the edge of the floor, giving her space to see the couples arranging themselves.

“It is a simple one,” he said.

Serali watched a pair take their places. “There are six steps.”

“Only if you insist on counting.”

“I insist on counting everything.”

“I know.”

He offered his hand again. She took it, and he placed the other carefully at her waist.

She stiffened. Not dramatically. Enough that Hagen felt it.

“Too close?”

Her violet eyes flicked toward him, then softened by a fraction. “No.”

“If you want to stop, tell me.”

“You would lose your political gesture.”

“I would survive.”

She studied him for a moment. Then the music settled into its rhythm, and she let him lead.

Around them, the court rearranged itself.

Not physically. Socially.

That was the trick of places like this. One gesture could change the shape of a room without moving a single chair.

Serali had spent most of the evening being watched as an unanswered question. Royal Mage. Night Fae. Vulmar’s daughter. Foreign princess, according to Lyehira. A danger to some, a curiosity to others, and an opportunity to anyone sufficiently ambitious.

Hagen was tired of it.

A prince asking her to dance did not erase any of those things. But it established something else.

She belonged on the floor.

Anyone who wished to treat her as something poisonous would have to do so after watching the Queen’s brother put his hand at her waist in front of everyone.

Politics was frequently stupid.

Occasionally, stupidity could be useful.

“You are thinking,” Serali said.

“Dangerous accusation.”

“Accurate accusation.”

Hagen guided her through the first turn. “You are doing well.”

“You are changing the subject.”

“That too.”

She glanced past him toward the watching guests. “How many people are you trying to instruct at once?”

“As many as possible. It is economical.”

“Verya would approve.”

“Verya was standing against a wall with you. The two of you together create an atmosphere hostile to courtship.”

“Verya said something similar.”

“Then it is certainly true.”

Serali made a small sound that might have been a laugh.

Good.

Three nearby couples noticed.

Even better.

At the edge of the floor, Terevan caught Hagen’s eye and bowed. Hagen acknowledged him pleasantly.

Serali followed his gaze. “He thanked me earlier.”

“For First Sun?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“He also called me Princess Serali.”

“Less good.”

“He corrected himself.”

“Then we may yet educate him.”

Her mouth twitched. “Is that what this is?”

“Among other things.”

Across the room, Everly had noticed.

Of course she had.

She stood beside Lessa near the fountain, both hands clasped beneath her chin. When Hagen caught her eye, she bounced once, pointed at Serali, and gave him both thumbs up.

Hagen almost missed a step.

Serali followed his gaze. “Oh no.”

“Yes.”

“She told you to do this.”

“She suggested it.”

Everly had intercepted him earlier with a very firm opinion about Serali spending too much time beside the wall. Apparently the Royal Mage required rescuing from it, and Hagen was available.

“You were already planning it,” Serali said.

“Yes.”

“She thinks this was her idea.”

“Yes.”

“You are encouraging her.”

“I am an uncle. It is my principal duty.”

“You have several principal duties.”

“None as important.”

Everly waved.

Serali, despite herself, waved back.

The child lit up, and Hagen felt something in his chest ease.

Everly had been better this week. Not entirely herself, but better.

She still wanted to know where everyone was. Still appeared in his rooms without warning. Still asked whether Serali was coming to dinner before she asked what dinner was.

But she laughed more easily now. Slept through most nights. Had stopped checking the garden windows every time a servant crossed outside.

Mostly.

Three weeks was very little time to put between a child and someone trying to kill her.

Hagen had spent enough of the war watching adults pretend fear vanished because the fighting had stopped. Children deserved better.

So if Everly wanted to believe she had arranged this dance, she could.

Serali stepped on his foot.

Hagen looked down.

“I warned you,” she said.

“You did.”

“I do not dance.”

“You are currently dancing.”

“Badly.”

“Acceptably.”

“I stepped on you.”

“I have survived worse.”

“Yes. I was there.”

That quieted them both.

Only for a beat.

First Sun still did that. Inserted itself without permission.

Hagen remembered the spell coming toward Everly. Serali’s shadow tearing through the air. Allandra moving. Blood.

His own.

He adjusted their path around another couple and gave Serali a little more warning before the next turn.

She followed it without difficulty.

Then her gaze drifted past his shoulder.

Hagen knew where before he looked.

Allandra.

Of course.

His sister stood beside one of the Aurenne envoys, listening with the composed attention of a queen. She was not staring. Allandra knew better than that.

But Hagen had known her too long.

There were people who saw a queen when they looked at Allandra.

Hagen still saw the girl who had once told him about her first kiss with such fierce embarrassment that he had initially assumed something had gone terribly wrong.

It had not.

The problem, apparently, was that she had liked it.

The girl. The kiss. All of it.

Hagen had laughed because Allandra had looked personally offended by discovering desire.

She had hit him with a cushion, then threatened to throw him off the balcony if he ever told anyone.

He had not.

Some things belonged to siblings before they belonged to crowns.

Years later, when the possibility of Allandra’s marriage stopped being theoretical, he remembered that conversation.

Their parents had always known marriage would eventually be discussed. For both of them. Dynasty required it. Alliances benefited from it. Children simplified succession.

Allandra understood all of that perfectly well.

Understanding had not helped.

Hagen remembered the first time a prospective arrangement became serious enough to include names.

A man. A respectable house. A useful match.

Nothing monstrous.

That had almost made it worse.

Allandra had gone very still.

Not angry at first. Not argumentative.

Still.

Hagen had hated that more than if she had overturned the table.

Later, in private, the fury came. Everyone had spoken as though the shape of her life had already been decided and all that remained was selecting the acceptable man who would occupy it.

She had said, bitterly, that perhaps she would become extremely devout and join a secluded order.

Hagen had pointed out that she hated mornings and ritual chanting.

She had thrown another cushion at him.

They had been younger then, and he had assumed he would inherit the greater burden.

For most of his life, he had expected to be king.

He had wanted it, too.

Every tutor, every diplomatic dinner, every tedious lesson in grain tariffs and inheritance law had carried the same unspoken conclusion.

One day, this will be yours.

He had worked toward it. Learned the names, read the reports, endured the lessons, and imagined decisions he would someday have the authority to make.

Then the Mantle had chosen Allandra.

Hagen had smiled.

Eventually.

He had bowed.

Immediately.

And later, alone, discovered that grace did not prevent grief.

He had loved his sister. He had resented her. He had resented himself for resenting her.

The court had found other explanations.

Some called Allandra extraordinary. They spoke of the Mantle recognizing a strength no one else had properly understood, of a queen chosen despite generations of expectation.

Hagen could agree with them.

He knew his sister’s strength.

Others lowered their voices and wondered what the Mantle had seen in him that made choosing a woman necessary.

They seldom said it where he could answer.

He heard enough anyway.

A conversation faltering when he approached. Sympathy offered with a little too much delicacy. An old acquaintance assuring him that everyone had their proper place, as though Hagen had narrowly escaped being entrusted with something he would inevitably have ruined.

He would have been a good king.

Not merely an acceptable one. Not a catastrophe narrowly avoided by an ancient power with better judgment.

A good king.

He believed that still.

There was no graceful way to say it. Defending his own fitness invited questions about Allandra’s. Anger sounded like envy. Silence allowed their conclusions to settle comfortably into fact.

And praising her, which he meant, never seemed to stop anyone from using that praise against him.

Serali’s fingers shifted in his hand.

Hagen brought his attention back to the floor and corrected their direction before they drifted into another couple.

“You stopped leading,” she said.

“A lapse.”

“A dangerous one.”

“I am reliably informed you can consider murder and dancing simultaneously.”

“Do not test the theory.”

He smiled, and she let him guide her through the turn.

Beyond her shoulder, Allandra inclined her head to the envoy. Someone else approached, waiting for a moment of the Queen’s attention.

His sister made room for them.

She always made room.

Hagen had lost a future he had prepared for, and the right to believe the court would judge him by anything other than the moment it disappeared.

Allandra had received the crown.

Sometimes he looked at her and thought she might have lost more.