6. The Realm Between Realms
The Realm Between Realms
Seren steps from worn floorboards through cascading light. His feet land in grassy soil. New sensations buffet him. The meadowgrass smells too sweet and bold, and before them a raucous festival illuminates the night. Music lilts from instruments he’s never heard.
Only Nevander’s firm grasp keeps Seren upright.
They stand between a dark forest and wide clearing. Lanterns dance like fireflies above a sprawl of tents. A massive tree reigns over the center, crowned with a multi-story treehouse.
Seren yanks around. Just to look at the gateway, not to flee for Wymond. Probably. Gods, his resolve is fragile. But the portal winks out, leaving only the framework of two slender trees.
No last glimpse of his childhood bedroom.
“Is this Elladar?” Seren asks—then gasps, as he finally looks up.
Past the branches, past the dancing lanterns, the sky is wrong. No stars, and the clouds swirl in impossible shapes. Shimmering ribbons and rolling mountains of sky. Beautiful. Frightening. Whatever Seren yearns for, it isn’t this.
“We aren’t home yet.” Nevander lightens his grip on Seren’s upper arm but doesn’t let go. “This is Elsewhere, the realm between realms. It’s grown livelier of late.”
Nevander sounds almost annoyed about the latter part. The idea of the fae warrior shying from parties is reassuringly ordinary. Seren can’t dwell on that, because he’s too relieved this isn’t Elladar.
He isn’t ready to meet his mother. Or his father—but Nevander only spoke of Seren’s mother. That’s the sort of question Seren needs answered before he crashes into the fae court.
If his fae mother loathes him too… He’ll deal with that then. As long as he can bring Tansy back.
“How far is the journey?” Seren asks, gathering himself.
“A single step,” Nevander answers, alarmingly, before he clarifies. “But we’ll stay in Elsewhere at least a night, so I can prepare you for court. Stay close.” Nevander guides Seren forward, his grip light but demanding. “We need somewhere private to talk.”
Seren stumbles along. His instinct is to rush to catch up, but Nevander walks at his pace. “Wouldn’t the woods be more private than the party?”
“The trees can be better listeners than people. I’d take you to my haven if we were home, but I can’t access it from here.” Nevander grimaces faintly. “I’ll need to ask an old friend to arrange a place for us.”
“What’s a haven?” Seren asks. That wasn’t in Fearsome and Wondrous Histories of the Fae. Which he left behind. That’s easier to be upset about than Nevander’s casual use of the word ‘home.’
“Think of it as a private room you can step into with a thought,” Nevander explains. “The magic requires practice, so don’t worry if it takes you years to create yours.”
Creating havens is far from Seren’s list of worries. “This friend of yours, are they fae?” Seren asks—a stupid question. Surely all Nevander’s friends must be fae.
“Yarrow is wild fae,” Nevander answers, like that’s an important distinction.
They reach the gathering before Seren can ask more.
The ever-shifting lights are disorienting.
Lanterns of gold, white, and green soar among the tents.
Bright silk banners, trimmed and tasselled in clashing colors, ripple with movement.
They remind Seren of the traveling carnival that stops in Wymond every spring, except nobody is a performer. Or everyone is.
Seren presses close to Nevander, the only familiar creature in sight.
Nevander guides Seren in a wide berth around a fire-juggling woman, who looks ordinary, except that she isn’t juggling torches.
Simply balls of pure fire. Three fae lounge under the nearest awning, passing around lute, panpipes, and a gilded drinking horn.
Somehow the flow of music never breaks as they take turns playing and drinking.
The three aren’t as shimmery as Nevander, but their features are too sharp, their eyes too bright to be human.
The nearest has skin so cool-toned it’s almost blue, and her hair is tangled with river weeds. Strumming the lute, she meets Seren’s eyes. Curiosity plucks the strings of Seren’s soul, followed by cruel playfulness.
Seren reels. He thought his empathy didn’t work on fae. And now he’s in a crowd of them.
Emotions strike like darts. A man dressed in roses pauses his acrobatics with a hint of that same curiosity—this time followed by lust. A fae of indeterminate gender and flamboyant orange hair sends their annoyance.
Sharp teeth. Devouring greed.
Seren staggers under the terrible new sensation. A whimper catches in his throat. He casts around for the source of—
Nevander yanks him under an empty awning. Gentle music muffles the cacophony.
“What’s wrong, Your Highness?” Nevander says urgently. His focus is breathtaking, yet blessedly empty of emotion.
“Someone wants to eat me,” Seren says, still stunned.
“Who?” Nevander demands, finally releasing Seren’s arm. His right hand extends, poised, as if ready to call his sword.
Oh, gods. Nevander’s immediate belief is not reassuring. For once, Seren would rather be dismissed as silly. Of course nobody would want to eat him.
“I don’t know who. I can just… feel it.” Seren’s too tired to hide his truths right now. “I have this awful talent. I can sense whatever emotions people feel towards me.”
Nevander’s jaw tenses. “Does this empathy work on everyone?”
Seren’s urge for honesty forces clarification. “Everyone except for you, and I don’t know why.”
“Do you still feel the hunger?” Nevander asks, relaxing slightly.
“No.” Seren hugs himself, relieved. “Nobody’s paying attention to me now.”
Nevander’s hand lowers. “Some high fae have special gifts, especially those of royal blood. Queen Haelwen has a knack for memory. Your empathy will serve you well in court, but you should shield for tonight, even if you’re tired.”
Seren bristles at the tone. Like Nevander’s instructing a clueless novice. Even though—or especially because—that’s what Seren is. “What do you mean, shield?”
“Spirits,” Nevander swears. For one moment, his frustration is so clear on his face, Seren imagines the taste of it. Then it smoothes away, leaving only stern control. “I’ll teach you later. For now, wear this. You look too human, and that’s drawing people’s attention.”
Green-gray fabric spills from nowhere. Nevander eases the cloak around Seren’s shoulders, and it’s warm as if left in the sun.
“Where do you keep all these things?” Seren asks. Nevander may hate Seren’s cluelessness, but the only way to solve that is to learn more.
“In a carryhold,” Nevander explains, fastening the clasp at Seren’s throat. “That’s a storage enchantment. Mine is a ring, as many are.”
Seren barely hears the explanation. After fastening the cloak, Nevander gently pulls the hood over Seren’s head. His hands fall away quickly, yet his touch lingers at Seren’s throat.
The physical contact itself isn’t strange. It’s how naturally Nevander touches him. Like the fae warrior has every right to follow Seren, to pull him through a crowd, to wrap a cloak around him.
“There’s Yarrow,” Nevander says.
“Where?” Seren asks.
But the fae striding closer is impossible to miss.
Other fae part before him, some bowing. He’s the tallest man Seren’s ever seen, and the curving bronze horns make him appear even taller.
His hair is pure white, long, and billowing.
White paint decorates his bare chest and shoulders, the rough swirls bright against his tanned skin.
Yarrow’s broad smile is for Nevander first. Then he notices Seren with controlled curiosity. Nothing intrusive. The sensations are fainter than the other fae here. Maybe Yarrow knows how to shield, however that works, just not as well as Nevander.
“Back again already?” Yarrow booms, ducking under the awning. His horns brush the tasseled edge. “We’ll get you partying soon enough.” He peers closer, frowning in exaggerated suspicion. “Really, Lord Nevander? I thought abducting humans was my thing.”
“I’m not—” Seren cuts himself off. He shouldn’t talk so carelessly in front of strange fae. He isn’t human, maybe. He isn’t abducted, either. Probably.
If Seren had resisted, would Nevander have taken him anyway?
“We need a place to stay for the night,” Nevander says, placing a hand on Seren’s back. Protective, or caging him in. “In private.”
Yarrow laughs, disbelieving. “Are you my friend Nevander or a shapestealer? Because I could have sworn you said…” The humor drains from his face. “Wait. Is this him?”
Oh, no. Seren didn’t expect people to know about him.
“Keep this discreet,” Nevander says. “Seren, this is Yarrow, Lord of Elsewhere. Yarrow, this is—”
“Seren?”
A new figure bursts under the awning, and his shout echoes with shocked delight. He’s the first human Seren’s seen in Elsewhere. A crown of white flowers gleams in his dark hair, and his eyes are instantly recognizable. The right is ordinary brown. The left is unnatural bright gold.
Fae-touched. Dangerous.
Familiar.
“And this is my lifebond,” Yarrow says fondly. “The cleverer and more adorable of Elsewhere’s lords.”
“Folly?” Seren says, astonished.
He must be going mad with exhaustion. He’s hallucinating the miller’s son, who lived two houses down.
The one who ran away and joined a carnival.
They were never close—Folly was years older and the village outcast. His eye was impossible to hide, unlike Seren’s empathy magic.
Seren avoided Folly too, he’s ashamed to remember.
Edith told him to stay away from Folly, and Seren needed to keep Edith happy.
Seren hardly recognizes Folly now. The shy village outcast would never wear those billowing red silk trousers, gold knee-high boots—and nothing else. Paint swirls around his bare chest and arms, just like the bronze-horned fae currently pressing a kiss into his dark curls.
Yes. Seren is going mad.
“What are you doing here?” Seren asks.
“One meets fascinating people in the carnival,” Folly says, leaning into the kiss. “But that story is far too long to tell.”