6. The Realm Between Realms #2
“I abducted him, then he couldn’t get enough of me.” Yarrow gestures to himself, even as all his doting attention remains on Folly. “Who could blame him?”
“Far too long to tell properly,” Folly corrects.
Then his cheerfulness falters into nerves.
“So, Nevander found you. I thought he might have. But why bring you back now? Are you all right? Is something wrong at court? Or in the village?” Folly grasps Yarrow’s wrist. “Is something wrong here in Elsewhere? We should check the—”
“Breathe, love.” Yarrow grins. “Though it won’t hurt to check the wards.”
Seren hadn’t considered half of Folly’s worries, and now his own nerves build in response. Something must have changed, if Nevander came to fetch Seren after twenty-one years.
If Nevander came at all, instead of the queen herself.
“I’ll explain anything you need to know later,” Nevander says. “We need a place to rest now.”
Ever the promise to explain later.
“Wait,” Seren interrupts, and braces himself for everyone’s anger. Except there’s nothing from Nevander, and only curiosity from Yarrow. Nerves from Folly. Seren forces himself to meet Folly’s mismatched eyes. “You know Nevander. And the fae. Did you know about… Is he telling the truth about me?”
Folly’s nervousness softens into painful compassion. “Oh, dear. I’m the last person you should ask. Four of us stand beneath this tent, and I’m the only one who can tell lies.”
Seren exhales, sharp, like he’s been punched. Somehow, this is the moment he finally believes.
He isn’t human. His entire life has been a lie. No wonder he never belonged.
Folly squints. “Why can’t I see through your glamour, though? The only sign is… Oh. What color do you think your eyes are?”
“Blue,” Seren answers.
“That would make much more sense,” Folly says. “They look gold to me. Eyes are the hardest bit to glamour. The rest of you looks very human.”
“The changeling spell is too strong,” Nevander says. “The glamour will hold even to your eye until Her Majesty breaks the spell.”
Yet another disorienting notion. That even Seren’s face might be a lie. He pushes his hair back, an excuse to surreptitiously touch his own ear. It feels rounded, ordinary. Not long and pointed like Nevander and Yarrow.
“Damn, what a mess.” Yarrow whistles, and a firefly races over. It flashes white and pink around his horns. “My mother’s in Spiritwood for the month, and her cottage here is empty. You can stay there. Just don’t enter her bedroom, and don’t eat anything from the yellow cupboard.”
“The green cupboard is safe,” Folly adds. “No dubious mushrooms.”
Yarrow whistles again, and the firefly dances away. “The firefly will lead you to the door.”
“Thank you,” Nevander says, and pulls the hood over Seren’s head. Another of those presumptuous touches.
“Seren,” Folly says, before they can move. He takes Seren’s hand in both of his. “We’ll talk in the morning, all right? You’re in good hands. You can trust Nevander.”
His words are reassuring, but his worries patter like raindrops against Seren’s heart.
Then Nevander steers him away. The awning’s music gives way to the crowd’s laughter, other disparate melodies.
Nevander’s cloak is too long, and it drags behind Seren with every step.
But it helps. People are still staring—curiosity pings Seren’s empathy—but now Nevander draws most of the attention.
Revelers subtly clear a path before them. As if Nevander is famous. Seren is interesting because Nevander’s arm curls around his shoulders, not in his own right.
The firefly leads them into the forest. The trees stand far apart, and the undergrowth is sparse, but the trees aren’t particularly large. Like a forest both old and new.
Without the press of foreign emotions, Seren finally relaxes into exhaustion.
He lacks the energy to be surprised when they reach the cottage.
A glowing circle surrounds it—more fireflies, Seren thinks at first, except they’re too large and don’t move.
They’re green and blue mushrooms, joined by luminescent moss.
The firefly guide crosses the border, and that stretch of mushrooms goes dark.
Nevander’s voice is soft, but so sudden Seren jumps. “It’s a protective ward. The dark spot is safe to cross, but don’t step on the circle.”
“Thanks,” Seren says, and pulls away from Nevander’s grasp. Even though the distance is cold and lonely. They aren’t in the crowd anymore. There’s no need. Nevander’s still a stranger, and Seren can’t rely on him.
Seren hikes the too-long cloak up to cross the circle.
The cottage itself would look at home in Wymond, except for the strange texture of the thatched roof. It’s hard to see in the dark, but Seren has to assume there are more mushrooms. He can recognize a pattern.
The firefly guide bobs in front of the door. When the door opens, the firefly flies a little loop, then races off.
“Let me enter first,” Nevander says, stepping inside. After a moment, he beckons Seren forward.
The interior is just as ordinary, except for the tiny lights that spring up at Nevander’s gesture. The front room holds a hearth, small tables and chairs, and a long sofa. The dubious cupboards must be behind one of the doors.
“Are you hungry?” Nevander asks as he inspects the room.
“No.” Seren eases the hood back. “Can you teach me to shield now?”
Nevander’s expression is unreadable. “Morning would be better. You should sleep on the sofa.”
Again, the deferred explanations. Seren wants to learn everything now. But gods, Nevander’s right. Seren’s too much of a wreck tonight. Just an hour ago, he was in the cottage he grew up in, listening to his parents argue, wishing he were anywhere else.
Now he is, and he’s more lost than ever.
“I’ll sleep after a few more questions.” Seren fumbles with the clasp of Nevander’s cloak. “Do I have a father?”
“No,” Nevander says, and Seren’s face must look ghastly, because he hastens to add, “There’s a ritual. It’s uncommon and difficult, but it allows high fae to have children without a partner.”
Seren blinks, rocked out of his instant of grief. “This is getting stranger and stranger.”
Managing to undo the cloak, he settles into emptiness. The bad sort, that means his true emotions will unfurl later.
Unless he shoves them down deep enough.
Seren shakes out the cloak, which isn’t as dirty as it should be after dragging behind him. Then he starts folding it. “What about my brothers?”
Nevander stops at the empty fireplace. “They were stolen by Lord Midnight of the nightlands. Elladar’s seers cannot scry into his domain.”
More names that mean nothing to Seren. He sets the cloak on a chair. “One more question tonight. Why did you come for me, instead of Queen Haelwen?”
Seren can’t bring himself to call her mother.
“She hasn’t been well recently.” Nevander looks away as if hiding something. “And this is my duty. You should rest, Cali—”
He cuts himself off, but the name still burns like an iron nail.
Calithel.
So Nevander’s been thinking the wrong name all night. He doesn’t see Seren at all. Just his queen’s changeling son. Just his duty. Seren doesn’t want to rely on Nevander, but the realization is strangely disappointing.
“Are you going to sleep, too?” Seren unslings his satchel, wincing with the movement. He keeps forgetting his new scars. “Or are you going to watch me all night?”
Nevander moves to a window. The magic lights dim behind him. “I’ll sleep. And keep watch.”
Infuriating. Seren doesn’t bother pressing for the truth. Unlacing his boots is a better use of his remaining energy.
Nevander’s blankness is impossible. Seren hadn’t realized how much he used his empathy as a crutch. He’s used to adapting his behavior to keep others happy. To keep them from hating him.
Edith and Alard must be frantic by now. Not because they miss Seren, but because Seren is their only hope of getting their real son back.
A child for a child. Fae stories are full of bargains.
With Seren’s luck, Queen Haelwen will hate him too. Except perhaps she feels the same as Edith and Alard. Missing Seren all these years. Grieving the separation she wrought herself.
Maybe she loves him. Whatever that feels like.