8. A Cruel Trick
A Cruel Trick
Magic shivers through Seren. The very sensation he sought to grasp is now unmistakable. It choruses with emotion. Shock and fear from Yarrow. Anxiety from Folly. Nothing from Nevander except pure attention. His touch burns beneath Seren’s chin.
Blue dances in Seren’s peripheral vision. His own emotions are distant. Like he waits on a bridge between known and unknown, and staying between is safer.
“My mother?” Seren says, and oh, he shouldn’t speak. Each small word drags the feelings closer. “But I didn’t meet her.”
Nevander’s hand falls away, leaving cold behind. “I am sorry, Your Highness. I should not have delayed us.”
Folly rushes over. “How do you know? Maybe she just broke the spell.”
Seren hates him unreasonably for the hope.
“Not this spell,” Nevander says, visibly shaken.
Stern-faced, Yarrow clasps Folly’s shoulder. “We felt it. All of us born in Summer. The whole realm and all its wayward travelers felt her death.”
This must be a lie. A cruel trick. Seren’s mother cannot die before he meets her.
Except after twenty-one years lived with liars—Alard’s knee doesn’t hurt that bad—Edith’s almost done with her card game—the blacksmith is only friends with the tavernkeeper’s husband, nothing more—the barmaid doesn’t know who shorted their tab—Seren’s parents love him—
Now Seren must suffer the truth instead.
“What happened?” Folly is saying.
“I don’t know,” Nevander answers, gathering himself. “She’s been very sick, but I thought we had more time.”
Seren can’t break down in this unfamiliar realm.
He can’t speak of the queen he never met.
She’s far away. He inhales the fragrant air, and that blue sways at the edge of his vision again.
Seren reaches, half expecting some strange fae insect to evade his grasp. Instead, he catches a strand of hair.
When he tugs it, the pain pricks his own scalp.
“My hair is blue,” Seren says blankly. Yes. This is easier.
“There’s more.” Folly comes alive, and with a performer’s flourish extends a hand to Yarrow. “Fetch me my soothsaying mirror.”
“No magic,” Nevander warns, as if Folly is a threat.
Folly simply shrugs as Yarrow produces the mirror. “It’s an ordinary mirror. I just call it that when I pretend to tell fortunes. Here.”
The mirror is round, the size of a dinner plate. Four carved creatures prance around the frame: a bear, a unicorn, a wolf, and a griffon. Seren tips the mirror up, then nearly drops it.
The reflection is himself, but sharper. The blue hair is less shocking than the iridescent quality of his skin. The slight tilting of his features. His ears are long, and he’s afraid to touch them.
He never looked enough like Edith and Alard, but the disguise is clear in its shattering. Give him the mother’s hair and eyes. Blunt and soften his ears, his jaw. The skin is close enough without the shine. Leave him in the cradle.
Now, his eyes are the same bright gold as Folly’s fae-touched eye. Endless, inhuman gold.
Yet the face is unmistakably Seren’s own. There’s the pale lower lip. The glassy expression. Seren has delved through enough emotions to recognize the calm before breaking.
He returns the mirror in exchange for Folly’s prickling worry. He means to thank Folly, but the words stick in his throat.
“What’s the plan?” Yarrow asks with forced confidence. “I should reassure my frightened denizens.”
Nevander sinks slowly, gracefully to one knee. “You are the heir of Elladar,” he says to Seren alone. “We must return to your court.”
The sudden weight of his expectation is terrifying.
Seren looks from Nevander to Yarrow to Folly, and back again. Each is nervous—because of Seren. They don’t need magical empathy to see his fragility, and they fear the consequences of his breakdown.
Seren should flee. But even if he knew how to escape Elsewhere, he’s always hated disappointing people. He needs more information. “How does inheritance work for the fae?”
“A fae lord chooses their heir.” Nevander’s explanation is gentle, but his gaze is demanding. “Haelwen chose you after your brothers were taken.”
“Summer needs a ruler,” Yarrow says. “Otherwise, the realm’s magic will fall to chaos.”
Nevander remains kneeling. “You won’t be king until the coronation. But we must secure the palace before anyone else grows too bold.”
Gods’ whims. They expect Seren to be a king.
All he wanted was to meet his mother, and to bring Edith and Alard’s real son back. To fix what was broken. Seren isn’t supposed to be important. Even if some starved part of him is wistful for the thought.
Yet in this between-realm without a sun, surrounded by fae, without even the comfort of a familiar reflection, Seren cannot refuse. His life in Wymond is broken. He can only move forward until he finds another path.
“Do you have my things?” Seren asks.
“In my carryhold,” Nevander says.
Seren takes a deep breath. “Then lead me to Elladar.”
Yarrow and Folly are palpably relieved. Only Nevander remains unreadable. Perhaps he can tell that Seren still wants to flee, or that Seren will never be worthy of a crown.
If so, Nevander gives no sign. “At once, Your Highness.” He rises fluidly. “Lords of Elsewhere, may we have passage?”
Folly wrings his hands. “Should I go with you? Seren, I mean? Would it help to have someone familiar? I feel somewhat responsible for you. Elladar can be frightening. At least, I was very frightened when I first arrived. Then again, I’m frightened of a good many things.
Except I should probably stay here, because I don’t know what realm-travel will be like with all of—”
“Remember to breathe,” Yarrow says fondly.
Seren exhales, grateful for the interruption. Folly’s offer is sweet, but his heightened emotions are overwhelming. “You should stay to care for your realm.” Seren forces a smile. “You told me to trust Nevander, right?”
“Gods and spirits.” Leaning into Yarrow, Folly sketches a sign in the air. “This will take you close to the palace. Good luck.”
A doorway unfurls, veiled in shifting gray fog.
Yarrow steps out of the way, pulling Folly with him. “Tell Valerian to visit soon. He keeps putting it off.”
“Thank you,” Nevander says, taking Seren’s arm.
Before Seren’s doubts can break free, they step through the door. The fog brushes feather-light across Seren’s face.
Then they’re still outdoors, but everything is different.
Sunlight and green shadows dance in balance. The sky beyond the treetops sings its welcome. The very air invites Seren to breathe in tandem with the forest. Seren’s eyes sting, adjusting to the brilliance. Elsewhere was new and strange, but this place is right.
Within Seren stirs something deeper than bone, warmer than blood. Lighter than joy.
Summer.
He stumbles forward. Nevander’s hand falls away, leaving Seren to absorb his surroundings.
Around them is a garden of overgrown statues, nestled within a forest of the tallest trees Seren’s ever seen.
Flowering bushes break from their planters, their fragrance brightening the earthy air.
Vines twist around benches. The nearest statue is a tall woman, carved of time-softened marble, wearing an overgrowth of white blossoms like a mantle.
Nevander stands taller, more vivid, the teal of his eyes reflecting the window of sky above. Framed by treetops. Echoing with birdsong. Everywhere Seren turns is a new wonder. Yet Nevander stares at Seren instead.
Seren touches his hair, self-conscious. Gods. His hair is blue. His mother is dead. And Seren is high on rustling leaves and dancing sunlight. He meets Nevander’s gaze, unsure how to speak.
Nevander looks away first. “It’s always like this.”
Seren’s heart thuds. “What is?”
Nevander lifts a hand, cupping a sunbeam in his gauntleted palm. “Coming home.”
Home. This should have been Seren’s home. He knows it with every frayed fiber of his being. The hurt is a shadow in this bright new world. Seren pushes it aside.
Nevander plucks a leather thong from nowhere and begins tying back his hair. “The palace wards don’t allow magical travel within the grounds, but this is close enough by air.”
Seren must have misheard. “By air?”
Wings appear behind Nevander. Pale green, feathered, so long they nearly brush the ground. “I’ll carry you.”
The courage that took Seren through the doorway wavers. “Can’t we walk?”
Nevander extends his hand. “It would be quite slow.”
“How can you even fly? Your bones aren’t hollow. You’re too heavy.” Seren stares at his own hand. What if fae bones are hollow? Seren doesn’t feel any lighter, except perhaps he was always hollow and never realized—
“We aren’t birds.” Nevander’s face remains stern, but by some trick of the ear, he sounds amused. “Our flight is magic.”
“Oh. All right.” Seren places his hand in Nevander’s. He should be more afraid, but his mind is too full of everything else.
“Please forgive my presumption,” Nevander says.
That’s Seren’s only warning before Nevander scoops him up.
One arm hooks behind Seren’s back, the other beneath his thighs.
Seren gives an undignified squeak, clutching Nevander’s shoulders—then flinches when he accidentally touches the crest of a feathered wing.
It’s so soft, warmer than Seren expected, but touching it is probably rude.
Never mind that Nevander just grabbed him.
So they can fly.
Seren clutches Nevander tighter, rudeness be damned. His own shoulder twinges. “Please don’t drop me.”
“You can relax. I have you.” Nevander’s grip is steady, but humor lightens his voice. “Though if strangling me makes you feel better, that’s fine.”
Seren nearly lets go, stunned. “Was that a joke?”
Instead of answering, Nevander launches into the air.
Seren’s stomach drops with the jolting rush. His soul might drop out too—or his spirit, or magical essence. This isn’t the time for philosophical anatomy. Powerful wingbeats drive them skyward, and the trees blur. Seren buries his face in Nevander’s chest, all manners forgotten.