She lifts a hand, and the goldwood bench rises from the pond. Streaming water, it settles into place.
The explanation is not an apology. No fae likes claiming fault or obligation.
Nevander marshals his emotions. Panic won’t help. He has his place in the court of Elladar. As Lord Guardian, his blades and wings are sworn to Haelwen’s service. The pain of another vow only binds him closer to his duty.
Haelwen has her place, too. She is the linchpin. As she fractures, Nevander’s task is to prepare.
Maybe today is the opportunity he needs. Her memories have been dark. She asked for her son.
“Your Majesty,” Nevander says quietly. “It’s been twenty-one years. Is that long enough?”
Haelwen turns again to the pond, where a wisp of light dances in the depths. The rippling glow reflects on her sharp features. “He must remain hidden.”
Frustration rails against Nevander’s sense of control. Two cruel oaths twist around his heart, warring with each other. Nevander cannot say he’s been to Wymond. He cannot say how unready the young man is.
All he can say is something that feels treasonous even to think.
“Please forgive me, Your Majesty.” Nevander salutes, fist to his heart. “But you may not have much time.”
They both know the truth. Haelwen is dying.
Yet she remains serene. “We are fae, Nevander. Time is all we have.”
Haelwen is dying. And perhaps she’s going mad.
3
A Blade Given Life
Nervesrattling,Serenclosesthe front door behind him. A satchel thuds against his back, holding everything he dares take. Saved wages, a change of clothes, and a day’s worth of travel rations. Just one book—Fearsome and Wondrous Histories of the Fae, because the boring bestiary is too thick.
A larger bag would tell neighbors Seren is traveling. He can’t let gossip reach his mother until it’s too late.
Seren has to break the chains of cowardice now. He’s a grown man, and he doesn’t need his parents’ permission to leave town. This morning is perfect. Edith is across town delivering herbs. Alard is seven days into his circuit. And Seren hasn’t felt that strange watchfulness since the footprints by the creek.
Seren meets eyes with the iron rabbit above the door.
“Don’t tell them,” Seren says quietly, fighting down unease. His parents’ anger won’t hurt him. He’ll be long gone by the time they realize he’s disobeyed.
Once the squalling blows over, they’ll be happy he’s gone.
Seren adjusts his satchel and sets off at a stroll. Possibilities fight for his attention. Alard’s up north by now, so Seren should head south to Bardill to buy a horse first.
From there he can ride to Forwick, which sounds big enough to get lost in. Seren can read and write, and he’s a fast rider. A city will have plenty of jobs, not like Wymond where everyone already has their place. Seren could run messages, wait tables, clean shops.
Maybe he could even make friends or fall in love. Or at least work up the courage to sleep with a man, despite the threat of unpredictable emotions.
It’ll be crowded, but Seren doesn’t mind crowds. Disappearing is easier the more people are around. That’s why he likes festivals so much, with all the distracting bonfires and music. Seren would never jump into the dancing circles, but he likes soaking up the revelry from the shadows.
Especially Midsummer, just two weeks past. The height of summer always turns Seren wistful. Long days give him more time to mull over unhappiness, and he needs the festival’s distraction.
Other towns have festivals, too. Maybe Midsummer will be even better someplace where nobody knows Seren, and he doesn’t have to spend every day dodging other people’s feelings.
Chiyo and Steadfast aren’t out this morning. That’s good, because Chiyo might tell Edith. But Seren wishes he could give Steadfast one last pat.
As Seren trudges on, he half-expects Edith to appear around every corner. Or Alard’s wagon will trundle back early. Grand arguments flash through Seren’s imagination. He’ll finally stand his ground, and he’ll storm out of Wymond regardless of his parents’ fury.
Silly dreams. He learned as a child not to make scenes.