16. The Trees Go Mad #2
“Spring had a unicorn wielding evil flower petals.” Seren lifts his bloodstained right arm, then seems to remember himself and releases Nevander. “I had to make a crown. You probably would have tried to fight the unicorn.”
The accusation is fair. “I would have tried to fight Winter, too.”
“I’d like to see you duel the wind.” Tired amusement softens Seren’s face. “I think this is the opposite of Winter. We have to wait.”
“For how long?” Nevander asks.
More amusement. “That isn’t the point.”
Nevander craves a deadline. An action point to plan around. But these trials aren’t meant for him. The griffon settles on its haunches, wings rising and falling with each slow breath.
A figment of a griffon, in a figment of Autumn.
“Spirits,” Nevander swears. “Of course we have to wait.”
Seren sighs. “What am I missing now?”
“Telain was the court of catalysts and creation.” Nevander touches the wilting petals of Seren’s crown. “Karsiel was the court of striving. Loria was the court of wisdom—and patience.”
“More symbols,” Seren says. “What is Elladar the court of?”
“Balance.”
Seren nods, reflective. Not nearly as nervous as he should be with a griffon looming nearby. “Right. You’ve said that before.”
“There’s a lot to remember.” Once again Nevander wishes they’d had more time before Haelwen’s death. He could have brought Seren home and turned him loose in the libraries. Watched him revel in histories and legends, learning the songs of his home realm, without the weight of a broken crown.
Nevander should fill this wait with useful action. “Let’s see if this griffon will permit us to sit. I’d like to bandage your arm.”
“If I sit, I may not stand up,” Seren says, but lowers himself to the ground anyway.
The griffon remains still.
Every instinct tells Nevander not to relax in front of an opponent. Resisting those instincts, he kneels at Seren’s side.
The griffon settles into a cat-like loaf. Its eyes lower to half-mast.
“May I?” Nevander asks, already touching Seren’s blood-stiff sleeve before realizing it.
Seren opens his mouth, then catches himself. “May you what?”
“Well learned,” Nevander says, and oh. He should praise Seren more. The way Seren’s eyes light up is entrancing. “May I examine your arm?”
“You may,” Seren allows, still pleased.
Nevander peels up the sleeve carefully. His anger at Primrose recedes to a dull throb. Still present, but productivity helps. Seren’s cuts are mostly shallow beneath the torn fabric. He barely flinches with movement.
These injuries shouldn’t have happened, but unlike the threats looming against Summer—the augray incursions, the mystery of Haelwen’s death—they’re something Nevander can fix.
Nevander pulls his healing elixir from his carryhold, along with a water flask and hand towel. “Remove your shirt. I have a spare.”
Seren glances between Nevander and the griffon, who remains motionless except for a gently waving tail. Not a threat. Yet Seren regards Nevander with the same trepidation.
Right. Seren was raised by humans, who tend to value modesty more than fae. Nevander should offer to turn away. Except Seren’s already wrenching his ruined shirt over his head.
“Do you have an entire storage cellar in that carryhold?” Seren asks, his hair askew in a halo. Beneath streaks of dried blood, his body balances lean muscle and softness. He hasn’t lived a life of leisure.
Meeting Seren’s golden eyes—both hesitant and defiant—feels even more vulnerable.
“Just the essentials.” Nevander reaches, and a folded shirt appears in his hand. He sets it on the carpet of leaves, then wets the hand towel. “Let me see your arm.”
Seren extends his arm again, this time bare except for streaks of blood.
Maintaining control, he only allows the barest weight to rest in Nevander’s hands.
Tension hums beneath gleaming pale skin.
At any moment, Nevander expects Seren to insist on cleaning the blood away himself, and Nevander will have no excuse to refuse him.
Instead, Seren relaxes. “You didn’t warn me my blood would sparkle.”
“I didn’t expect you to bleed again so soon,” Nevander says, reaching for Seren’s other arm.
Seren turns his wrist obligingly. Dampness highlights the faint shimmer. “I’ll try to avoid evil flower petals in the future. Does your blood glitter, too?” Seren laughs at himself. “Sorry. That was a strange question.”
“Don’t apologize lightly,” Nevander says, even though he’s growing to like Seren’s apologies. They’re not a sign of guilt, but consideration. Unfastening one gauntlet, Nevander adds, “I’m not bleeding, but I likely have some bruises from our feathered companion.”
Ten feet away, the griffon rests with its beak nestled on its talons. No considerate apologies there. Just an illusion real enough to leave an impact in Nevander’s flesh. Bruises mottle his forearm, already shimmering a deep purple.
Seren shifts closer, hair falling into his face. “May I?”
“May you what?” Nevander echoes, and by his smile, Seren catches the subtle tease. But before Seren can clarify, Nevander allows, “Go ahead.”
“You should be more careful.” Seren looks up through shadow-blue lashes. Delicate fingers trace Nevander’s bruises. “These trials are mine. I don’t like that you’re hurt.”
Nevander’s always careful, but no blade could match such reckless tenderness. No shield could deflect such dangerous caring. Nevander has no defense against his own sudden arousal.
“Nevander?” Seren asks, when he’s quiet too long.
Jerking away, Nevander hands over the elixir. “Use this on the worst wounds. It will work properly here.”
Seren sits back, closing off again. He must feel Nevander’s withdrawal—with ordinary empathy, if not magic. But it can’t be helped. Nevander doesn’t trust himself to tend Seren’s wounds without surrendering to this strange compulsion.
Not so strange. Seren is gorgeous. A heady blend of power and innocence. And Nevander has been obsessed with him for a very long time.
Except the obsession used to hurt. This doesn’t. Nevander doesn’t know what to do with that.
Orange leaves flutter on their slow descents. Autumn colors are usually a warning of decay and madness, but there’s beauty in this figment.
If the other realms never vanished, there would be three more courts of whims to contend with. Three more courts of enemies to protect Seren from. Or perhaps the other courts would prove useful distractions. Let Elladar’s high fae look outward for their vicious amusement.
Planning against hypothetical threats eases Nevander’s discomfort. He’s almost calm again when the griffon stands. Its sleek, slow movements no longer register as dangerous.
The griffon prowls into the dappled tree line. There it stops.
“It’s waiting for us,” Seren says, scrambling to his feet. “Here’s the elixir.”
“Keep it in your own carryhold,” Nevander says. Because he wants Seren to have it, not because he’s afraid of brushing Seren’s fingers.
Seren puts the elixir away, and smiles in delight when the carryhold magic works. He grabs the shirt next, thankfully. Nevander has spent decades in Elladar Palace. He shouldn’t find bare skin so distracting.
Yet the shirt only worsens matters. Too large, it flows halfway down Seren’s thighs. The unlaced collar threatens to slip from one shoulder, leaving a deep valley of exposed chest. The fine fabric hints at birdlike bones.
“Let’s go,” Seren says, leaving the shirt unlaced in his haste.
Nevander shakes himself into action. “Stay behind me just in case.”
Their strange procession is brief. The copper trees give way to a small clearing, and the griffon halts. Its wings spread in a glorious tapestry.
Then it vanishes in a swirl of magic. In its place stands a golden door, shaped with sinuous vines and feathers.
Seren steps forth, cautious. “Will there be one last trial, or is this the door home?” he asks loudly.
There’s no answer. Just the word home falling like a leaf in Nevander’s heart.
“One way to find out,” Seren mutters, reaching for the door.
Nevander takes hold of Seren’s wrist before remembering he’s trying not to touch him. But doorways between realms and pseudorealms are special circumstances. This isn’t inappropriate. Just a sensible precaution.
The door whispers open, and Autumn trees unravel into absence. A veil of nothingness brushes past, too quickly to react to. By the time Seren presses against Nevander’s side, they’re back in the royal library.
Primrose stands nearby, eyes glowing gold. She blinks, and her eyes are deep brown again. Did you enjoy the lesson?
“That’s not what I meant by teaching him magic,” Nevander says coldly.
Nor did I, Primrose says, unflinching. The lesson took shape according to the student. There would be no test if Seren hadn’t yearned to prove himself.
The lack of intention only deepens Nevander’s anger. Once more, Seren’s blood stains his hands. “You can test without harm.”
In this court? Primrose asks, to which Nevander has no reply.
Seren steps between them. “It’s all right.” His crown of flowers is gone, but a healing cut still decorates his brow. Nevander’s shirt still flows around him. With perfect, regal posture, he bows to Primrose. “Thank you. I learned a lot.”
Primrose sits back, clearly stunned. Oh, you are better behaved than Tansy.
Seren straightens with a riveting smile. Counting heartbeats, Nevander braces his mental shields.
He can’t let this desire bleed out.