5. Copper Painted Black
Copper Painted Black
An argument simmers beneath the silent meal. Keeping his head down, Seren eats as quickly as he can without seeming rude. He wants to get back to his bedroom, so he can keep scouring Fearsome and Wondrous Histories of the Fae for something, anything that might help.
But there’s nothing about augrays or guardians in the water-damaged book.
His stomach twists with each bite, both starved and nauseous. Like his body resents the need to fuel recovery. His shoulder aches deep beneath the new scars.
He’s spent the past day jumping at shadows, wondering if the golden-haired fae still watches him.
There’s been no sign, but Seren’s skin crawls, and his ears ring with Nevander’s final words.
For once, Seren feels safest at home, where the iron rabbit above the door wards off the fae. Nevander can’t enter.
Until I come for you.
“Leave the dishes,” Alard says when Seren stands. “I’ll wash up tonight.”
“Thanks,” Seren says, and flees the room.
Gods’ mercy, it’s getting worse. Either his parents hate him more every year, or Seren is becoming more sensitive. Or everything just feels worse after coming so close to escaping yesterday.
At least he and his parents agree on one thing.
They prefer arguing with Seren out of the room.
Tonight’s fight will be about him, Seren’s sure.
It usually is, even when they snap about other things.
Alard coming home late. Edith leaving her apothecary kit open.
They pick at each other instead of talking about Seren.
The cottage is two stories, barely. Downstairs are the kitchen, fireplace room, and Edith and Alard’s bedroom.
Upstairs are a landing crowded with cupboards, and Seren’s attic room.
That’s where he hides from the buffeting emotions.
He can mend clothes or play solitary card games or read from his small library.
But masochistic interest keeps Seren on the landing tonight. He needs to know if anyone saw him leave yesterday. If anyone saw him return, traces of dried blood beneath his spare shirt.
If anyone else saw monsters stalking the woods, with shadowy fangs or endless bright eyes.
He opens his bedroom door, then closes it. Just loud enough to be heard from the kitchen. Then he creeps to the loft railing and kneels. He can’t see into the kitchen, and Alard’s rumbling words are impossible to make out.
Edith’s voice is clear and vicious. “You go ahead and ask. Except you’d rather run from everything, like always.”
“What’s the point of staying?” Alard asks, too calmly.
“Oh, fuck you.”
A pang seizes Seren’s chest. This is a deeper argument than usual. And his parents might hate him, but he still wants them to be happy. Seren bows closer to the dusty floorboards, trying not to breathe too loudly.
Alard’s next words are barely audible. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
“He’s our son,” Edith says, and she sounds sad. A chair scrapes. “I need some air.”
Oh. It is about him. Seren slinks away from the railing and presses hidden against the wall. Downstairs, the back door thuds shut.
He shouldn’t have listened. He learned nothing, except that his parents’ marriage is closer to fracturing than he realized, and somehow, it’s because of him. Yet they still won’t let him leave.
Seren turns to find his bedroom door open.
He could have sworn he closed it, but he must be mistaken. Nobody could have come upstairs without him noticing.
Downstairs, dishes clatter into the washbasin. Seren startles, covering his mouth. Then, feeling foolish, he sneaks into his bedroom.
Where Nevander leans against the windowsill.
Seren freezes. The sight is shocking, yet somehow inevitable. Like a blow to the head Seren saw coming but didn’t duck away from.
The fae warrior doesn’t suit the room. His features are too fine for the simple furnishings.
His hair is too bright for the oil lanterns.
He wears the same armor as yesterday, thousands of lacquered metal leaves arrayed like a suit of feathers.
Somehow the leaves don’t clang with Nevander’s every move, and the blacksmith would love to learn that secret.
Silent. Just like the fae’s emotions.
“Are you going to scream?” Nevander asks, his voice low.
Which is when Seren realizes he’s still frozen in the doorway. Screaming may be the wisest decision. Except Seren can’t put his parents at risk.
And he’s curious, with the sort of intrigue that burns beneath his skin. He’s never met someone whose emotions he couldn’t feel.
“Why are you here?” Seren asks instead of answering. He closes the door—which reminds him of another unmooring fact. “How are you here? We hang iron above the threshold.”
Nevander gleams even more beautifully in the enclosed space. Like his radiance has nowhere to bleed out, so it swirls around the whitewashed walls, layering upon itself.
“There is no iron above the threshold,” Nevander says. “Merely copper painted black.”
“Copper?” Seren repeats stupidly. “Why?”
That isn’t possible. There’s no reason for Alard to hammer fake iron over the door. It’s not like copper is cheaper. The stories must be wrong. If fae aren’t afraid of iron, then perhaps they can lie as well.
Nevander frowns faintly, the first show of emotion since Seren entered. Displeasure. Anger. But Seren can’t tell who the anger is for.
“I’ve wondered how I should do this,” Nevander says. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be the one to explain. Yet I must, else this is simply an abduction.”
Fear chills Seren’s stupid curiosity. New plan: keep the scary fae warrior happy, then run.
“I would appreciate an explanation,” Seren says, edging towards the door. He pastes on his most earnest smile, the one that helps make him likeable.
His plan hits a problem. Seren doesn’t know how to make someone happy without emotional guidance.
“Their names are Edith and Alard, yes?” Nevander asks.
Seren can’t hide his defensive reflex. “Stay away from them.”
“I’m not here to harm them,” Nevander says, his very reassurance voicing a threat. “No doubt the iron is fake because Edith and Alard suspect the truth. You aren’t one of them. You’re one of us.”
Absurd. Impossible. Yet the intensity of Nevander’s eyes stifles Seren’s protest. Nevander believes this fantasy with devastating conviction.
“Why do you think that?” Seren asks, his voice distant.
“Fae can’t lie,” Nevander says. “Can you?”
Of course Seren can lie. But that protest too sticks in his throat. His breath quickens. “Lying is wrong. That’s why it’s difficult.”
“Humans find it far too easy.” Nevander moves to Seren’s bookshelf. His knuckles rap the wood. “If you were human, you could lie to me now. Tell me this shelf is made of gold.”
Seren remains silent, stomach twisting. Just like every time he tries to lie.
Nevander gestures to the window and the dark, clear sky. “Tell me the season is winter, and Wymond sits buried in snowdrifts.”
“Please,” Seren whispers. “Stop this.”
Nevander’s voice softens. “Tell me you’re happy in this human village. That no part of you yearns for the place you belong.”
Seren’s breath hitches. He waits for the next impossible demand, but this time, Nevander waits for him.
A thousand past strangenesses swarm around him. Every time he failed to lie for his own good. Every time he felt dizzy crossing an iron-warded threshold. His hated, impossible empathy.
The yearning.
Seren clenches his fists. “The shelf is made of wood. The season is summer. And I’ve never belonged anywhere.”
“You belong in Elladar,” Nevander says. Again, that damned certainty.
Seren can’t imagine what such confidence feels like. “Then why am I here?”
“If you’ll listen, I’ll explain.”
Seren would know if he were fae. He would feel different. Except he doesn’t know how other humans feel. Even if he doesn’t believe Nevander… “I’ll listen,” Seren says, moving to the window. Leaving the door feels like surrender, but Seren needs the comfort of fresh air.
Nevander steps back as if to give Seren space, heedless of how his presence fills the room. “Twenty-one years and several months ago, you were born in the Court of Elladar. Your mother is Queen Haelwen, she named you Calithel.”
Seren’s window overlooks the backyard. Alard’s woodshed. Edith’s herb garden. The fence Seren tottered across as a child, practicing balance, falling over and over. Nevander’s words are preposterous. Seren isn’t a queen’s son. His parents are—
Disoriented, Seren grips the windowsill to keep upright. If he isn’t human, Alard and Edith aren’t his parents.
“Elladar is beautiful, but treacherous,” Nevander continues. “Your brothers were taken by an enemy of the realm. Fearing for your safety, Queen Haelwen invoked the changeling spell.”
Seren’s breath shallows. Brothers—he has brothers. Except he can’t even process that. He’s heard plenty of changeling stories around festival campfires. Parents warn their children to be home for dinner, or they’ll be switched with fae spawn.
Edith and Alard never tell those stories. They never talk about the fae at all.
“What does the changeling spell entail?” Seren asks, going cold. Maybe it’s not as horrific as the stories say.
“Every creature’s spirit has a connection to their birth realm,” Nevander says. “Traveling briefly between realms is possible, but if I stayed a year in Prima, I would begin to sicken. So would anyone without something binding them to the new realm.”
“What is the changeling spell?” Seren demands. He doesn’t need context; he just needs to know what happened.
“Her Majesty bound you to the human realm with a trade.” Nevander pauses, as if controlling himself. “She took a human child and left you disguised in his place.”
Seren sways, vision blurring with anguish. With years of loathing.
With pity.
Nevander draws nearer. “Calithel, are you—”
“Don’t!” Seren throws up a hand, backing into the windowsill. He’s no match for the fae, but Nevander still stops. “Don’t call me that.”
He isn’t Calithel. He’s Seren. A stolen name, bound too painfully to his soul to untangle.
Seren used to imagine he had other parents.
Maybe a lord and lady lost him during a bandit attack.
They would recognize him years later as their fine carriage trundled through Wymond.
They never stopped looking for him. Or his parents were the bandits, and they left Seren in Wymond for a safer life.
The bandits would come to find him when the authorities stopped hunting them. However many years later.
Seren invented plenty of parents who loved him. But he never dreamed of another stolen child. A gaping wound that could only scar into loathing.
“Where is he?” Seren asked, sick. “Their real child?”
A rare clear emotion flashes in Nevander’s eyes. Surprise. “Tansy was raised in Elladar. He’s safe and happy, to understate the matter.”
Gods. No wonder they loathe him.
Nevander turns towards the door. A moment later, footsteps rattle the stairs.
“Leaving without confrontation would be easiest,” Nevander says, lowering his voice. “Gather your things, and I’ll explain the rest on the journey.”
Seren covers his mouth, as if the sound of his breathing will give him away. He’s not ready to make a decision. This is too much. He still doesn’t want to believe it.
A light knock shakes the door. “Seren?” Alard calls out. “Is someone in there with you?” Annoyance seeps through like spilled oil.
Seren swallows down his answer. The truth, because he can’t lie. Instead, he lifts his chin and asks the fae, “If I go with you, will their real son return?”
“Yes,” Nevander says.
Alard knocks again. “Open up!”
Decision firms Seren’s resolve. He’s still terrified, but that’s not important. He snags his satchel from under the bed—still packed for what he imagined as an entirely different escape.
“Then let’s go,” Seren said, swinging it over his shoulder.
Nevander bows his head. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Seren freezes. ‘Your Highness’ isn’t much better than ‘Calithel.’
Nevander takes Seren by the elbow, and with his free hand touches an amulet at his throat. A doorway gleams into being. Taller than Nevander, wide enough for two. Beyond is a garden of stars, a sky full of flowers, an ocean of sunlight.
Terrified and resolute, Seren steps through.