21. Wingbeats and Magic
Wingbeats and Magic
Nevander should never have allowed this audience. Throwing Gevain from the palace would be merciful, though perhaps keeping him in sight is safer. Discreetly disposing of him would be safest, but people would notice. Nevander can’t spark unrest at this critical juncture in Seren’s—
“Let’s have lunch in the garden,” Seren says lightly, hopping to his feet. “One of the gardens, anyway. How many gardens does the palace have?”
The question jolts Nevander from his rumination.
“More than fifty, less than a hundred, depending on how you define a garden.” A greenhouse would work best for lunch.
Somewhere Nevander can shelter Seren from intruders.
Except the tower greenhouse wasn’t safe.
“Rooms and gardens also move sometimes.”
“How magical,” Seren remarks. The southern door opens at their approach, and Seren stops short. “Do the doors usually open on their own?”
Nevander would be entranced if he wasn’t so furious. “Perhaps the palace begins to remember its prince.”
Seren walks ahead through marble halls. He’s beginning to learn the palace in turn. When he glances over his shoulder, his golden eyes are bright as lanterns. “What does marriage entail among the fae?”
Barely dimmed embers reignite. Nevander locks himself down until the mental armor chafes beneath his skin. “Too many promises. Obligations in the guise of romance.”
“Just like human marriage.” Seren turns a corner and pauses, taking in the chamber.
A wide crossroads, corners softened by whispering waterfalls. They once glowed bright with Haelwen’s captive memories. Now they glow more softly. Nevander had never noticed the luminous moss behind the falls.
“What could Gevain hope to achieve?” Seren asks, drawing close to a waterfall. The moss illuminates stray strands of hair. The tips of his eyelashes.
“Power and influence.” Nevander dislikes these thoughtful questions. “You must not consider this.”
“I’m not considering marriage,” Seren says sharply. “I just want to understand why Gevain would propose it—or carefully avoid proposing it.”
The way Seren steps back and forth from the subject throws Nevander off balance. He’s forgetting his place. Or worse, resenting his place. Putting Seren on the throne means exposing him to other people’s schemes.
Too many eyes will covet Seren’s delicate strength.
“Besides,” Seren adds. “I don’t find it attractive to curse a servant to a year of silence.”
Too many clawed fingers will dig into his kindness.
“A year of silence is a gentle consequence,” Nevander says, “as these things go.”
Seren winces. “I thought you might say that.”
Nevander should conceal his desire to rip Gevain’s throat out, a far bloodier silencing.
“Marriage is usually temporary. A few years or decades, depending on the agreement. There are no magical effects beyond the binding power of each spouse’s promises.
Fae might marry for love without the commitment of a lifebond.
Or to entrap mortals and lesser creatures.
Or for political reasons, among the high fae. ”
Seren touches the waterfall. Liquid ripples, disturbed but unbroken. “How are you so good at this?”
Nevander isn’t used to being so off balance. Yet a strange familiarity echoes the water. “Your Highness?”
“Restraint. Hiding.” Droplets cling like gems to Seren’s fingers. “Let me feel it.”
“What do you want to feel?” Nevander asks, even though he knows the answer. Because Seren’s attention is dangerously fascinating.
Seren scatters the droplets. Drawing closer, he has to look up to meet Nevander’s gaze, but his presence is subtly overwhelming. “Whatever boils beneath that stern face. You hide so well, but it’s still there, isn’t it?”
“I’m not angry at you,” Nevander says—a mistake. Confirmation, if incomplete. Blame the inches vanishing between them. A delusion blooms that Seren can slip past Nevander’s shields after all. That Seren tastes Nevander’s desire, and his next step will end in a kiss.
Seren smiles, and that familiarity crystallizes. “Show me anyway.”
He guides a conversation as deftly as his mother. Except he’s even better at knocking Nevander off balance. That deceptive innocence, that intoxicating sense of wonder. Enough to make one forget that despite his youth, Seren understands manipulation. He was raised by liars, after all.
Thank the spirits Nevander hasn’t sworn obedience.
“No,” Nevander says.
The refusal doesn’t seem to bother Seren. “Too personal?”
Yes. But more importantly— “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Seren touches Nevander’s chest. “I can’t feel this, but I still don’t like seeing you upset.” He jerks back, flustered. “Not that you have to be happy all the time. I mean, that sounds nice, but forcing happiness isn’t healthy. I don’t want to control you—your emotions.”
That correction could mean nothing, or everything. Nevander touches the wet fingerprints left on his armor, imagining traces of Seren’s shimmering skin. “You should fear the reverse—that I’m controlling you.”
Seren tilts his head. “How many audiences have you declined on my behalf?”
Thirteen. “None worth mentioning.”
“I would have accepted them all,” Seren says. “Which is precisely why you should filter them for me.”
“That gives me a lot of power,” Nevander says.
“Does that put you at risk?” Seren asks, which isn’t the point.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Nevander says. He’s never been afraid of risking himself.
“Then I’m fine with it.” Wistfulness softens Seren’s face. “Haelwen never gave up much power, did she?”
The very concept sits uncomfortably. “She kept herself above everyone.”
“I don’t want to rule like her,” Seren says. “She sounds lonely.”
The prince’s empathy is an unexpected blade.
Kindness honed to a razor’s edge. Seren extends it even to the mother who hid him away, the queen who ruined Nevander’s vow.
Resentment would be fair, and Seren feels that too.
But compassion is his driving force, even though he’s seen more of Elladar’s shadows than its wonders.
Nevander keeps meaning to change that, but the timing is never right. Maybe he should stop planning the perfect day and seize a moment. Any moment.
Now.
Nevander extends his hand. “May I take you somewhere?”
Seren should ask where. When. Instead, he takes Nevander’s hand. “Yes.”
Nevander could detour to the armory to select a transport talisman. But in that delay, he might reconsider the wisdom of this venture. Leading Seren down gold and marble hallways, Nevander chooses from the talismans already in his carryhold.
He does pause to tell Idalia they’re leaving intentionally. A missing prince would rightly cause panic. Then he whisks Seren upwards, to a high balcony open to the golden afternoon. The railing is low, designed for launches and landings.
“Are we flying again?” Seren asks nervously, though his grasp doesn’t falter.
“Just until we clear the wards.” Nevander plucks a talisman from his carryhold.
The paper is so heavy and soft it feels like fabric, covered in golden runes.
A week’s worth of work from a skilled enchanter, to be used only for important travels.
Like this. Nevander hands it to Seren. “When I say so, tear this in half.”
Seren inspects it, not as thoroughly as usual. His gaze keeps darting to Nevander. “All right.”
Nevander inhales, and the breath tingles between his shoulder blades.
He exhales, and his wings unfurl with a whisper.
Not crowding the balcony, built wide for this purpose.
Instead, Seren’s the one who seems to take up space, leaning closer, captivated.
Like Nevander is far more wondrous than the talisman.
“Your wings will be much more impressive,” Nevander says, embarrassed by how much he enjoys the attention.
“Maybe.” Seren steps into Nevander’s offered arm. “That doesn’t make yours any less.”
Making this flight at Seren’s side would be a dream. But Nevander’s glad Seren hasn’t come into his full power yet. Just for this moment, when he gets to lift Seren into his arms. And for this, stepping onto the railing, and leaping into the air.
Nevander didn’t properly enjoy their last flight. Now, his wings strain joyfully with the welcome weight. Seren clutches Nevander’s shoulders, and his gasp tickles Nevander’s throat. Hair streams past their faces as wingbeats and magic lift them higher.
He wants to show Seren the wonders of Summer, but he can’t deny this is a selfish venture.
Magical boundaries brush past like a dry waterfall. “Was that the wards?” Seren asks beneath Nevander’s jaw.
“You’re getting good at this,” Nevander says. “You can tear the talisman now.”
“You flatter me,” Seren accuses, though he doesn’t sound displeased.
Nevander’s so distracted by the warmth in Seren’s voice, he forgets he hasn’t yet explained the talisman. Not until the paper tears, and magic sparks.
The landscape changes. Instead of the shimmering palace, swathes of gray forest ripple below. Specks of blue and green dance among the silver trees.
Seren claws painfully behind Nevander’s neck. “Gods’ mercy, gods’ spite, gods’ twisted fucking humor!”
“You’re all right,” Nevander soothes.
“Am I?” Seren’s grip tightens. “What happened?”
Nevander angles his wings, drifting slowly downward. “We used a teleportation talisman. We’re above Spiritwood. Not as drastic as hopping realms, and you were fine with that.”
“Was I?” Seren demands.
Nevander laughs. He can’t help it. Seren squeaks again, even though nothing has happened except Nevander’s laughter, and tucks his face against Nevander’s neck.
Spirits. No armor could defend against that. Nevander needs to land before he does something presumptuous.
“Do you want to visit the village or the woods?” Nevander asks. “I can glamor us in the village.”
“Let’s start with the woods,” Seren says, as Nevander hoped. He doesn’t want to share.
Nevander descends slowly, so as not to startle Seren, not to selfishly prolong their entangled flight. Instead of visual landmarks, he follows movement and sound. This twist of fog. That singing brook. Decades of joyful memories.
Past an opening in the leafy canopy is a cavernous meadow.
A single great tree presides, its branches like vaulted ceiling beams. The swaying lattice of silver leaves transmutes sunlight into moonlight.
Rich earth and dry grasses deepen the bouquet of floral scents.
A stream curves to the south—out of sight, obscured by a short cliff in turn obscured by thickets.
It mirrors the curve of the nearest leyline.
Nestled in the tree is a small cabin, currently dark and hard to see.
Tension eases from Nevander’s jaw as his boots touch earth. His wings hover, half-furled, as he reluctantly sets Seren down. His reward for letting go is Seren’s hand on his arm, briefly, finding balance.
Seren turns, his eyes the brightest stars in the silvered clearing. “This looks like your haven.”
Nevander shrugs his wings away, assessing the meadow for danger. Nothing more than the usual snareplants and snakeberries. “This is where I spent my youth. The best parts of it, anyway. Yarrow, Valerian, and I built that tree house.”
“What tree house?” Seren asks, squinting.
“I’ll show you.” A buzzing hum choruses from the south. Nevander knew they would come, curious as they are. “Soon. First, we have company.”
Colorful lights blink between the trees. Green, blue, gold, and more, dozens of them dance closer.
“Fireflies?” Seren asks.
“Pixies,” Nevander answers, nostalgia tugging a smile. “Don’t worry. They’re friendly.”
Seren starts. “All the stories say pixies are terrible troublemakers.”
“That too. But they’re friendly about it.”
Then the dancing swarm is upon them. Seren’s yelp of surprise softens into a wondering gasp.
Rainbow lights brighten his face. Each pixie is the length of a hand, with darting dragonfly wings.
Their tiny faces look much like high fae, except for the needle-sharp teeth.
Plumes of pixie dust trail through spins and loops.
“Who is this?” one asks in a tiny voice.
“Is it Nevander?” another continues.
“Where have you been?” says a third. Or the first again—it’s hard to tell.
“I’ve been at court,” Nevander says, an incomplete answer. But the pixies aren’t truly asking. They’re accusing. Cheerfully.
More pixies chirp. “Isn’t the night lovely?”
“Aren’t we lovelier?”
“Who is this?”
Seren jumps as one swoops under his arm. “Do you only speak in questions?”
“Do we?” the pixies chorus. “Do we? Do we?”
“They can speak in statements,” Nevander says. “This swarm just started the question thing fifty years ago, and they’ve kept it up to be annoying.”
A green pixie hovers, sticking out his tongue. “Isn’t he rude? Aren’t we lovely?”
“Can I lie?” Nevander asks, grinning.
“Can he lie?” one echoes, and the others take it up. “Can he lie? Can he lie?”
Seren’s laugh sweetens the aggravating chorus. “Oh, they’re delightful. Harmony would love them—or hate them.” He reaches with an open palm, and a violet pixie alights. She wears a dress of frilly rose petals, and she peers up at Seren’s face.
Another pixie shoves her away, before being shoved in turn. The swarm commences a playful fight over the throne of Seren’s palm.
Having Seren here feels strange. Just as vulnerable as bringing Seren into Nevander’s haven.
The Spiritwood clearing holds so many memories, as if Nevander’s younger self still walks here.
Idealistic. Daring. Before his fateful vow.
Spiritwood is real, and Seren has been Nevander’s hidden dream for so long. An imaginary prince.
But Seren is here and now, all the more beautiful with wonder in his eyes.
“That’s enough,” Nevander says, brushing a trio of pixies from Seren’s hand.
“Isn’t he rude?” the pixie accuses, and his brethren take up the echo.
Seren inspects his fingers. “Does this dust do anything?”
“Besides getting everywhere?” Nevander lifts Seren’s hand for inspection. “It’s harmless on its own but can be used for enchantments.”
He blows the dust from Seren’s hand, careful to avoid his face. Seren’s fingers tighten, and his cheeks seem to flush pink. That must be from the pixie light.
The alternative flows like wine through Nevander’s veins. He needs something, anything to do besides drowning in the gold of Seren’s eyes.
“Yarrow and I used to spar here,” Nevander says, ignoring the pixies. “Would you like to learn swordplay?”
Seren’s face is still pink. “All right.”
Moments later, Nevander realizes his mistake. This lesson will be disastrous for his composure.