8. A Cruel Trick #2
How absurd to survive the past few days’ turmoil, only to die immediately. At least the fright will kill him before he hits the ground. If people were meant to fly, they would have—
Wings. Gods’ fickle mercy.
Yet despite the heaving ascent, the hair whipping away from his face, Seren remains secure in Nevander’s arms.
Their flight smoothes out above the green-gold canopy. Seren only dares the slightest glance before hiding under Nevander’s chin. He should have tied his hair back, too. Hair ties are the first thing he’ll put in one of those handy carryholds.
“Flying by yourself will be easier.” Nevander’s words are warm through the wind. “Being a passenger turns the stomach more.”
That makes sense, except for one crucial problem. “I don’t have wings.”
“You just haven’t found them yet.”
Seren can’t argue against that certainty, though he doesn’t believe it.
The individual leaves of Nevander’s armor press through Seren’s linen shirt.
They’re smooth, not sharp. Cool in contrast to the Summer sky.
Seren hasn’t been this close to anyone since that traveling messenger a few festivals ago.
They never got past drinks and dancing and leaning close.
Just like always, stray emotions chased Seren away.
If only that messenger had been well-shielded like Nevander. Perhaps Nevander despises Seren, but at least his derision is safely bottled up.
“We’ve passed the sentinel trees,” Nevander says. “I’ll land atop the greenhouse tower. It’s part of the royal quarters, so it’s restricted to—fucking spirits.”
Startled by the vehemence, Seren’s arms tighten around Nevander’s neck. Clinging. Not strangling. “What’s wrong?”
“The wards have tightened. Primrose is thorough. You could pass through, but I need a more public landing spot.” Nevander angles them higher. “I’ll pick the courtyard with the fewest people.”
“I would prefer zero people.” Seren pulls a less vulnerable excuse from his host of worries. “At least until I brush my hair again.”
“My choices are limited. There are courtiers,” Nevander says, using the same tone Wymond’s tavernkeeper uses for rats. “Stay by my side, Your Highness.”
The title must be a deliberate reminder. As Nevander banks, then slowly descends, Seren manages to peek at the palace below.
Pale stone towers rise above the trees, fluttering with banners and rippling lights.
The central keep sits in a maze of outer buildings and walls, like a jewel in its setting.
The structure is too intricate to be real.
Seren’s logical mind refuses to accept the spiraling gardens and waterfall bridges.
All of Wymond could fit inside the grounds with room to spare.
“Elladar Palace,” Nevander says. “The court of balance.”
Seren’s breath catches. “It’s beautiful.”
And in that moment, he feels completely in tune with Nevander. Forget landing. He’d rather keep flying, experiencing wonder after wonder, as Nevander holds him steady and shares this brilliant realm with him.
Instead, they descend past the forest of towers to a small courtyard. A pavilion shades one end, and lavender moss softens the tiny cobblestones. Nevander lands with barely a thud and waits a generous moment before setting Seren down.
Seren hits the cobblestones with a louder thud. That’s fine. He’s just glad not to collapse or vomit. Clinging to Nevander for balance, he looks up—to find a cluster of fae waiting beneath the pavilion’s shade. Dozens of bright eyes fix on Seren.
Several fae wear armor similar to Nevander’s. The rest wear a storm of elaborate silk. Gold jewelry drips from long ears. There’s a woman with lavender hair. A man with silver flowers climbing one bare brown arm.
Then the emotions strike.
The assault slices past any calluses Seren has built over the years. Surprise. Aggression. Greed. Desire. Incomplete glimpses, like lanterns flaring before being quickly shuttered, but never quick enough.
And Seren’s magic is unmistakable, a grasping hand pulling everything in, even when it hurts. Even when it threatens to unleash Seren’s own muzzled emotions.
His magic is stronger here. He can’t control it.
Seren moves under Nevander’s guidance. First a gentle push, then a stronger pull, as Seren’s limbs respond slowly.
“Make way,” Nevander calls out, which ignites the silence. Voices rise, overlapping, echoing the emotional cacophony.
“—the changeling—”
“—Lord Nevander—”
“—demand a meeting of the lords—”
“—humbly request an audience—”
“—Prince Calithel—”
“Idalia, the door,” Nevander barks.
Beyond the fae courtiers is a door, and a green-skinned woman moves to unbar it. The courtiers scatter enough for Nevander to lead Seren past them, but not far enough. Seren stumbles at a stone step, vision fogging. The magic is too much.
He meets the eyes of one courtier—the man with silver flowers around his arm. The fae appears startled, then unexpectedly sympathetic.
“Are we high fae or boarbears?” he scolds, whirling to face his fellows. “We wanted news. Now let’s gossip like civilized folk, before truth ruins the pleasure of speculation.”
Everyone withdraws, and Seren has space to breathe. One moment of clarity, before the woman called Idalia flings open the door. Nevander pulls Seren through, and the door slams shut.
“Are you all right?” Nevander asks, his voice urgent, his emotions as blessedly hidden as ever. “What happened?”
Seren opens his mouth to answer, then collapses.