The Hidden Fae Prince (Princes of Elladar #1)

1. The Iron Rabbit

The Iron Rabbit

A watchful presence chills the back of Seren’s neck.

His shoulders tense beneath his patched linen shirt, and he grips the basket tighter.

Nobody is following him from the market.

He can tell. People don’t follow someone without wanting something, and Seren knows when people want something from him.

But logic doesn’t reassure his instincts. Two houses from home, Seren can’t stand it anymore. He whirls to find—

Chiyo tending her garden, her old dog basking at her side. The southern edge of the village is peaceful in the midsummer heat.

Seren relaxes, feeling foolish. That sensation of being watched has been coming and going for weeks without any evidence. It must be ordinary nerves twisting his stomach. He’s always been too sensitive. Anticipation and dread are getting the better of him.

Tomorrow’s the day.

As Seren continues, the dog lumbers over. She’s a retired herding dog, and she doesn’t move as quickly anymore. Seren lingers for her to catch up.

“Nothing for you today, Steadfast,” Seren says, lifting his basket out of the way.

Steadfast sits, head cocked, ever hopeful. Seren sinks his free hand into the shaggy fur beneath her chin. That’s her favorite spot for scritches.

Animals are so much easier than people.

Chiyo stands up, stretching. Her topknot of black hair bobs with the movement. “Why does she like you so much?”

“Are you saying I’m not likeable?” Seren asks with a grin.

“Maybe I am,” Chiyo retorts. But the radiating fondness says she isn’t.

Seren likes talking to Chiyo, even if she’s twice his age. She moved into the village when her husband took the vacancy at the chapel. Seren’s always nervous meeting strangers, but Chiyo is kind and tends to think well of people. She’s hardly ever annoyed with Seren.

“Is that a new apron?” Seren asks. “That green is lovely on you.”

Chiyo waves her trowel in mock threat. “You say that about every color, silly boy.”

Her happiness blooms. Seren basks as they continue chatting, like Steadfast soaking in the morning sun.

Alard calls him manipulative, but Seren doesn’t see the harm in complimenting people. He just needs people to like him. It hurts too much otherwise. Alard doesn’t know Seren’s a freak.

Ever since he was young, Seren has felt other people’s emotions towards him. A heightened, maddening sense of empathy. Whether his friends and neighbors are secretly glad or annoyed or angry at him, despite their outward expressions.

Seren knew to hide his empathy, even as a child. Wymond is a quiet village. A peaceful village. Disruptions get ostracized—like the miller’s son, a few years older than Seren, with the unlucky eye.

Another emotion creeps through Seren’s conversation with Chiyo. A curtain twitches from the cottage behind her. Swallowing down nausea, Seren bids Chiyo farewell. He gives Steadfast one last scritch, then hastens away.

Chiyo’s husband leads Wymond’s All Gods chapel. A dependable, affable pillar of the community. His lustful craving makes Seren’s skin crawl.

The man is faithful to Chiyo, as far as Seren knows. Any rumors otherwise would race through a village this small. His avid desire wouldn’t hurt anyone, if Seren couldn’t sense things he shouldn’t.

Seren forces a deep breath. After tomorrow, he won’t have to worry about that anymore.

Trellises of herbs and rows of vegetables divide Seren’s front yard into a neat maze. The main cottage is two stories, with a thatched roof. A black iron rabbit hangs over the door to keep out the fae. Seren freezes at the doorstep.

A quiet crack, like a dry leaf broken underfoot. But there’s nobody else in the yard.

It must be a squirrel or mouse. Or Seren’s overactive paranoia. He shakes off the feeling of being watched and crosses beneath the iron rabbit.

The cottage is empty, but the back door is open. Edith must be working in the backyard. Maybe that’s what Seren heard, with some trick of acoustics. Feeling foolish again, Seren puts away the milk and eggs, then returns the change to the jar behind the flour.

Before closing the jar, Seren hesitates. Then he pockets two coppers. The price of eggs fluctuates enough that Edith won’t notice, and Seren will need the money.

Stomach fluttering, Seren heads out again.

Alard’s workshop is a separate building, so cooking smoke doesn’t damage his wares. The travel cart parks alongside. Seren looks upon the well-worn cart with fresh affection. Tomorrow, it will carry him away from here.

The workshop door is propped open. Tamping down his eagerness, Seren knocks on the doorframe.

“Sorry if I’m late,” Seren says, inhaling the scent of ink and paper.

One large worktable dominates the single room. Two walls of storage cupboards are stuffed to bursting with old books, new paper, and other supplies. The other walls boast expensive glass windows, letting in plenty of light.

Seren’s father looks up from trimming his quills. Alard is a quiet, gruff man, with a coarse beard Seren’s never been able to match. “Not much work today. I finished copying the tavern’s records. You can check that over.”

He returns to his quills, squinting in concentration. His words are friendly enough, but resentment chills the workshop.

Colder than usual. Seren rubs his hands dry with a handkerchief as he composes himself, then sits with the record books. Maybe the surge of resentment isn’t a bad sign. Maybe Alard just didn’t get much sleep.

The life of a traveling scribe has always sounded magical.

Alard journeys from village to village, crossing forests and bridges all over the county, with his treasure trove of words.

Mostly he transcribes letters and documents for people who can’t write well enough themselves.

Sometimes he buys and sells books, especially damaged ones he can fix up.

Seren’s own small collection comes from stock Alard couldn’t sell. A water-damaged book of fae stories. An odd compilation of religious poems and seafood recipes. A bestiary that was too boring for anyone to buy—no unicorns or griffons. Everyone already knows what squirrels look like.

When Alard is home, he lets Seren help. Seren’s penmanship isn’t good, but he can check copied documents for errors, or read letters to recipients if needed.

But Alard’s never let Seren join him on his circuit until now.

Either because he can’t stand Seren’s company in such close quarters, or because he fears exactly what Seren plans.

Tomorrow, Seren leaves Wymond for the first time. Hopefully for good. He’s saved up enough money. Once he’s in Forwick or Bardill, he can buy a horse and go anywhere. Surely horse dealers in Forwick aren’t afraid of Edith.

Seren flips through the tavern records. The new copy is an unbound stack of parchment. The original is bound in threadbare blue cloth and smells like ale and grease. Seren’s surprised the tavernkeeper let it out of her sight. She’s been tracking some expensive tabs for decades.

No errors on the first page, or the second. Seren reviews the third page three times without processing a word. His fingers are numb with his father’s resentment. Something’s wrong.

“When do we leave tomorrow?” Seren asks, trying to sound casual.

Stubbornness sets Alard’s jaw. “I’m leaving at dawn.”

Seren’s stomach drops. “You said I could ride along.”

“I’m just doing my short round,” Alard says, squinting at his perfectly trimmed quills. “I won’t need help.”

The betrayal shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. “You promised,” Seren says, sharper than he should, jumping to his feet.

Alard’s anger is an icy lash beneath his reserved exterior. “I said maybe, but it wasn’t set in stone.”

The lies spring easily from his lips, as if he can revise history just like that. Seren vividly remembers his own relief just a week ago when Alard said he’d take Seren along. When he promised not to tell—

“You told her.”

“Of course I did,” Alard says, like he’s forgotten that promise too. He offers a rueful smile. “Look, maybe it’ll work out next time. I’ll try to talk her around.”

A new emotion blazes into the workshop, just before a woman snaps from the doorway. “You’ll talk me around, will you?”

Seren turns, hurt and cornered.

Edith clutches her gardening gloves in one white-knuckled hand.

Her face is pink with the morning’s work, her hair matted with sweat at her temples.

Dark blond, nearly brown, the same color as Seren’s.

They share the same blue eyes too, but that’s the extent of their resemblance.

Summer has tanned and freckled both his parents, while the sun never seems to touch Seren.

Without looking at Seren, Edith continues. “Stop filling the boy’s head with nonsense. I won’t change my mind.”

Seren trembles beneath the weight of his mother’s emotions. He forces out an argument. “Father’s only going on his short round. That’s barely a week.”

Never mind Seren’s plan to stray from that path.

“I won’t have you leaving the village,” Edith says, her voice steely calm. “Traveling is too dangerous—and you expect me to handle everything here, with both of you gone?” She takes a deep breath and exhales into a smile. “I’m about to make lunch. Come in and eat.”

Her smile is sweet. Believable. It’s not her fault Seren feels the truth behind it.

Edith’s was the first strange emotion Seren sensed as a child. Cold and hot edges. Like swallowing snow and fire. Seren thought it was his own emotion at first, but when he asked Edith, she started to cry. The harder she cried, the more Seren hurt. He never asked again.

“I’m not hungry,” Seren says. “Please, Mother, I’ll barely be—”

He reels with his mistake. The hot-cold-sharp surge at the word mother.

“Enough,” Edith says, turning away. “Come have lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Seren repeats, and runs.

He learned young that Edith’s hot-cold-sharp emotion was loathing. It took him longer to learn that most mothers don’t loathe their children. Nor do fathers.

Unfairness burns behind Seren’s eyes. He runs past the wood pile, the shed, the guided chaos of Edith’s herb garden. Roots and flowers meant to help people. As the village apothecary, Edith seems to care about everyone except her own son.

She should be happy to see the back of him. Even if she didn’t hate him. Most villagers Seren’s age are picking up a profession and preparing to marry. Living at home at twenty-one is common enough. Sabotaging any attempt to leave isn’t.

A low wooden fence separates the garden from the forest’s edge. Seren fumbles with the latch. Failing, he hops the fence instead.

As he sprints past billows of unkempt dandelions, the sense of observation returns. An unseen gaze whispers like feathers against Seren’s bare face. He runs through it until he feels alone again.

Seren finally stops at the bank of the little creek.

Four feet across and barely two feet deep.

He could cross. Riding along with Alard was a good plan, but Seren has two good legs.

He can hike west through the woods until he reaches the Lord’s Road, then head south.

Find a town, then a job, and make a quiet life somewhere that doesn’t hurt.

He would cross, except his hands tremble too much to unlace his boots.

Green and gold flashes across the creek, like a cloak swirling behind a tree.

“Who’s there?” Seren yells, temper fraying. “Show yourself!”

He’s oversensitive. Overreacting. At any moment, one of the village brats will jump out, and Seren will feel ridiculous for being so skittish. Yet the only answer is the running creek.

Seren relaxes, drained. Nobody’s there, and Seren’s going mad.

That’s fine. Just one more thing to hide in a village where gossip runs like a goose on fire.

He slumps to a seat on the soft, damp creekside.

Better to calm down before he returns for lunch, where Edith will pretend nothing happened, and Seren will try to pretend the same.

Then Seren looks down, and fear skips between his heartbeats.

In the dark, damp earth, there are footprints.