15. The Realms of Fae
The Realms of Fae
“Nevander?” Seren shouts, whirling. Meadowgrass whispers around his calves, and blossoming trees blur into the distance. “Primrose?”
Only birdsong answers. The melody is eerie, without source or direction.
Seren jumps at a figure—but it’s only a broken tree, jagged shards of wood softened by moss. Fighting for calm, Seren twists the new carryhold around his finger. If only he’d put something useful in it, but he hardly expected to be transported… wherever this is.
Not Wymond, or any place in the mortal realm. The trees are too strange, with smooth, iridescent bark. Spikes of bell-like pink flowers rise nearly as tall as Seren, and they chime out of tune with the wind.
The place is unmistakably fae, but not Summer. Seren isn’t sure how, but he’s certain he’s not home.
Unless this isn’t real.
He agreed to a demonstration. The teacher must be present in some capacity. Seren picks through the meadow. The broken tree is the most jarring thing in sight, so he may as well start there.
“I suppose this is my fault for agreeing so quickly,” Seren says aloud. He has practice sounding cheerful and confident. “Nevander probably thinks I’m an idiot. But now that I’m here, we should get started.”
Something gleams atop the broken tree. A crown made of pale iridescent metal. Pink, purple, and green shift along the surface, and no moss has grown over it. Seren reaches, but before he can touch it, drifting petals skirl past. A voice rises with them.
Myria is a constellation of realms, each separate yet dancing together. Primrose’s words echo from the broken tree, then dart across the meadow. Prima, the realm of mortals. Elsewhere, which slithers between the rest.
Seren follows her voice to a hulking, bear-like boulder. Another crown gleams on its craggy head.
The realm of dreams. The realms of fae.
“Is this one of the other realms?” Seren asks, piecing things together. The meadow looks like the mural. “Is this Spring?”
A memory of Spring, Primrose replies through the boulder. You are in my haven.
Nevander explained havens as a magical private room. This is a lot bigger than a room. Seren wishes Nevander were here now. Frustrating shields and all.
“Does that mean it’s a vision?” Seren asks. “Or is it real?”
Primrose’s laugh arcs away from the boulder. You speak as though visions and reality are two different things.
Maybe Seren hasn’t left. Maybe his body stands in the library, eyes glazed over. Except exhaustion lingers with physical force. The breeze tickles his blue hair, and the scent of flowers pools in his lungs. His shoulder hurts beneath the scars.
“Whatever it is, I want out,” Seren says, though that truth is incomplete.
He does want out. He isn’t powerful or brave enough for this. But he wants to learn. This is his history, too.
A bird lands on the boulder in a startle of feathers. Sleek black, with orange wings. A tiny crown balances on its head. You aren’t trapped, says Primrose-the-bird. You just have to walk through the door.
So, this is a test. Seren needs to approach this analytically. He wades through the long grass towards the meadow’s edge. Circling, he searches for anything out of place. Fae love their puzzles and metaphors.
Close up, the tree bark is even glossier. Like dark glass over a solid core. Seren can’t look far into the forest before the trees blur together. Either fog, or the boundaries of Primrose’s haven.
No sign of a door.
The bird swoops after him, lecturing. Prima and the fae realms are neighbors. They learned their meager magic from us. We learned the shapes of their beasts, the symbols of their roots and vines.
Flurrying petals coalesce into a small, hunched shape.
A monkey drops to the ground, with a dark mane of fur and another iridescent crown.
But the four fae realms were closer than neighbors, Primrose-the-monkey says, voice still rumbling deep as the bear.
She darts away, and the crown tumbles down.
Power rose and fell between them. Summer to Autumn to Winter to Spring to Summer to Autumn—
The chant continues. The crown waits patiently in the grass.
—to Winter to Spring to Summer—
Seren edges closer. Maybe this is the key. He kneels to grasp the crown, then sees another five feet away.
—to Autumn to Winter to Spring—
Seren moves to the second crown. Beyond it lies a third, perched atop a moss-covered stone.
—to Summer to Autumn to Winter—
The trail of crowns leads to a gap in the trees, where a dirt path unfurls. A silver door stands twenty feet away. Carved knotwork decorates the surface.
Primrose’s chant breaks off.
A shimmering white horse steps from the hushed forest. It wears no crown, only a spiraling horn of the same iridescent hues. The horn looks sharp.
“Primrose?” Seren asks.
The unicorn’s answer arrives in birdsong and rustling flowers. The voice is new. Only royalty may pass.
“I’m a prince.” Saying so feels ridiculous. “At least, I’m supposed to be.”
You have no crown.
Seren lifts his chin. “I’m still a prince,” he says, and walks forward.
The path is narrow, and the unicorn doesn’t move. Seren will have to edge carefully around the beast, or detour into the tree line. This may be a vision, but he still shouldn’t cause offense by shoving past.
Delicate pink petals swirl around Seren—razor sharp.
Surprise, then pain chases him back. Seren flings his arms up to protect his eyes and throat. The swarm follows, biting into his back. His forearms. A petal kisses his temple. Blood spills down his face before he feels the cut.
Scrambling, Seren searches for a branch or rock. Something to fight with, even though fighting a swarm of flower petals seems hopeless. He needs a weapon or shield.
But as soon as he leaves the path, the petals fall away. Seren lowers his arms. His scarred shoulder screams in belated protest. The nicks and cuts are a constellation of smaller hurts.
The unicorn stands unmoved before the silver door.
You have no crown.
Fucking literal-minded fae beasts. “A crown. Fine. Wait right there. Don’t vanish or move the door or any other fae trickery, all right?”
Don’t show weakness. Sound angry, not plaintive, even as self-pity wells like the blood from his wounds. Seren examines his right arm, which took the worst of the swarming petals. Blood soaks his sleeve like a long red glove.
Except his blood shouldn’t be this dark a red. It shouldn’t shimmer in the false Spring light.
Gods’ meager mercy. Even his own blood can’t be trusted.
Nevander would have a curt but reassuring explanation.
This is a fae thing, or a royal thing. Nevander would also have bandages in his carryhold, and that healing elixir.
A towel and a flask of water, a needle and thread.
Hard to imagine Nevander looking less than perfect, with bruises and grubby torn clothes.
At least the cuts are shallow, the spilled blood more alarming than harmful. Nothing like the augray bite. That was just a few days ago, though it feels like months.
Seren uses his left sleeve to wipe the blood from his forehead as best he can, then shoves painfully to his feet. Time to find a stupid crown.
He pokes past weeds and fallen white flowers.
Leaves stick to his bloody arms. His nose tickles with disturbed pollen, more distracting than the pain.
No crowns on the ground. Of course this wouldn’t be easy.
Seren keeps searching until he returns to the first broken tree. The jagged shape is unmistakable.
The crown is missing.
“Do you think this is funny?” Seren shouts—at Primrose, at the unicorn, at the perfect fake sky and the perfect fake trees.
Nobody answers, and Seren’s frustration sharpens to determination. He stoops and plucks a fallen flower.
This isn’t just a lesson. This is a test. Seren is supposed to prove himself, which means there’s a solution.
Using his shirt as a basket, Seren gathers more flowers.
Maybe he’ll find one if he searches long enough.
He can still try that, if his next strategy gets him sliced up by evil flower petals.
When he has enough flowers, Seren kneels. Damp earth cools his knees as blossoms spill around him. Daisies, dahlias, more he can’t name. He wipes flaking blood onto his ruined trousers, then begins weaving the flowers.
Memories twist with each stem. Everyone in Wymond wears crowns for Midsummer. Flowers, ribbons, wheat stalks, whatever else they fancy. The tavernkeeper has a ridiculous crown of tankards the children always try to steal. Chiyo always makes a wreath for Steadfast’s neck.
Those traditions will be new to Tansy when he finally returns. New and hopefully wonderful. Maybe Seren and Nevander can send Tansy back on a festival day, so Nevander can see it too.
Seren’s crown is fragile. He doesn’t have twine to reinforce it—another item to remember for his carryhold. But when Seren places the circlet on his head, it holds its shape.
It feels heavier than it should.
Rubbing more tacky blood from his hands, Seren returns to the path. The unicorn faces him, still as a statue. Petals waltz on the wind, a beautiful threat.
Stories about royalty always have coronations. Witnesses. Not handmade crowns. This probably won’t work, but Seren will let pain be the judge of that
“I have a crown,” Seren announces.
Petals rain harmlessly to the forest floor. The unicorn kneels, one foreleg after the other, and bows its head. Its voice echoes, more memory than sound. You pass the trial of Spring.
Braced to flee, Seren is slow to believe his success. His muscles unlock enough to touch the crown, which feels less fragile. Blossoms kiss his fingertips. Seren exhales shakily and walks forward.
Close up, the beast is translucent. Its mane drifts like wispy clouds.
Safe travels, Your Highness, the unicorn says.
The door in contrast looms imposing and solid. There’s no apparent doorknob, and Seren traces a carved knot. With barely a touch, the door swings open.
Blinding cold sweeps the meadow away.
Seren stands ankle-deep in snow. Icy wind claws his torn clothes, and the world is a blur of snowdrift and sky. Shock rattles him. He had assumed the door would lead to Summer.
Hugging himself doesn’t accomplish much. Seren turns, failing to find a clear landmark. The silver door is gone, and the wind rushes head-on from every direction.
And it carries a distant voice.
“Seren!”
Seren whips towards the sound. “Nevander!” he shouts back. The wind needles his throat. He can’t tell if he’s facing the right direction. “Where are you?”
No answer, save the indifferent storm.
Seren’s fists clench, fingernails digging heat into his palms. “Is he really here?” he demands of the sleet-white sky. “Or is this another trick?”
The wind carries Primrose’s answer clearly. Not from an object or animal this time—simply a voice perched on Seren’s shoulder. Your Lord Guardian proved most insistent. Her amusement is too warm for the blizzard. He waits at the next door.
Snow lashes Seren’s face. He wipes the moisture from his brow before it freezes, yet it isn’t the cold that shakes him.
He hadn’t thought Nevander would follow. He’s too used to being alone, even in a crowd of emotions.
The only emotions in this snowy wasteland are Seren’s own. He shouldn’t indulge in them, especially the desperate relief. Nevander may be here, but Seren still has to find the door.
Everywhere looks the same. The only place Seren knows the door isn’t is right here. So, he hugs himself tight and trudges forward.
Primrose’s voice follows, continuing the lesson. The fae realms were fully wild until the First Queen harnessed the magic of Summer. She crowned herself and brought balance to the realm, softening its wildness with care and consequences.
Seren squints against the wind. Maybe the other way—put the wind to his back—
The First Queen founded Elladar, the Court of Summer, and the realm and its people flourished. Others followed her example, until each fae realm had a court, and each court had a monarch.
Everywhere Seren turns, the wind lashes his face. No true wind would chase with such focus. Seren can’t escape it, and that realization comes with grim relief. Lean into the wind. Press forward. The harsher the cold, the closer he is.
You have glimpsed Telain, Primrose says. You walk now through a shadow of Karsiel.
The flower crown rests heavily in his frosted hair. Maybe it’s already blown away, and Seren only feels a phantom weight. “Next is Autumn, right?” Seren asks through chattering teeth.
Loria, Primrose answers, and the wind claws harder, until Seren has to close his eyes. You’ve reached the door.
Moving each heavy limb takes so much concentration, Seren must have misheard her. Yet he stumbles, falling to one knee, in a biting absence of pressure. Nothing shoves him back. Seren rubs his eyes with numb fingers.
Thirty feet away stands a gleaming copper door. Beside it waits a tall figure, clad in gray and gold leather. Lights dance around his hands.
“Already?” Seren asks, shoving to his feet. “That was too easy.”
Primrose’s answer echoes with wistful sadness. The trick was walking into the wind. It seems that comes easily for you.
At their voices, the gray-clad figure whips around. Seren’s vision blurs, and the next moment, he’s surrounded by solid warmth. A strong body blocks the wind, and gauntleted hands clasp his face.
“Are you all right?” Nevander asks, low and urgent and here. “You’re so cold.”
Angry. Not at Seren.
“Are your eyes blue or green?” Seren asks, dizzy.
The question seems important. Nevander’s eyes are so impossibly bright. But instead, Nevander grasps Seren’s hands. “You’re hurt.”
Seren regrets that Primrose taught him to control his empathy. That Nevander’s own control is so perfect. Seren would have liked to feel this anger.
“I’m fine,” Seren says, which means it’s true. He laughs, giddy. “I really am fine.”
“You’d better be,” Nevander growls, and hugs him close.
Hopefully the wind is loud enough to cover Seren’s squeak.