Trials were old magic, drawing on Faerie’s heart. And Faerie, at its heart, could be distressingly inventive, especially with a clever judge.
Declan was a very clever judge.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Everil said, though he was certain this figment had taken the form of Bo’s brother. “Nor am I familiar with the expression. May I help you in some way?”
In Faerie, it was always safer to offer aid than accept it.
“I mean, this is probably the part where I try to lure you into the woods,” the figment said, head cocked. “But that sounds like a dumb idea on my part.”
“It would, indeed, be an ill use of both our time.”
“I’ll walk with you. You’ve got more than a little bit to get through.” The figment looked away, studying a path that stretched long and longer still, endless alder trees, waiting. “C’mon, let’s go. Just standing here staring at each other gives me the creeps.”
Very well. Everil started walking again. Therewouldbe an end. It was only a matter of continuing forward, whatever might intercede.
“You’re Bo’s brother, are you not?” If the figment wouldn’t answer an indirect question, Everil would ask a direct one. “Robin. I cannot see how you’d be served by impeding your brother’s bond.”
It wasn’t Robin. Not really. But it was easier to address the mask the magic wore than twist himself into knots, keeping shape separate from soul.
“Robin, yeah.” The man’s smile was a quick, thin thing. “I’m not here about breaking up your bond. You grow old and die against your will on your own time. Will me being cryptic or critical help any?”
“I think not,” Everil answered, trying not to let those words set hooks in his heart.
Grow old and die on your own time.Robin’s voice was just enough like Bo’s to twist the knife.
Selfish. He was being selfish. Hadn’t he said he would fight and die for Bo? Why should it strike so different, with that death a few centuries on? He should beglad of it.
Always so selfish, my love.
Robin ambled. Everil stood straight, his hands joined behind his back, eyes on the path.
“You know he’s kind of an asshole, right? A little pushy. Can be grabby. A teensy bit of a protective edge on him.” Another quick smile, there and gone. “Stubborn, too. Like toilet paper on a wet shoe. You could do better.”
“I believe you mistake the circumstances. ‘Do better’ implies I have some interest in courting. I don’t. It wasn’t my intention to pursue your brother. Only…” Everil licked his lips, tasting the memory of honey. “He is, as you say, pushy. Not to mention brash and vulgar.” And sweet. So very sweet. “I find it a charming combination.”
“Uh-huh.” Robin watched him sideways as they walked, all skeptical appraisal as the sky darkened above them. “I’d call BS on those things being charming, but you just claimed not to be interested in courting the dude I saw you tonsil deep in a few minutes ago. Maybe getting old changes definitions. Since you’re … what, halfway through life now? Officially.”
Eyes on the path. Keep walking forward. Look away and risk the path disappearing. Stop, and it may be impossible to start again. Everil slowed, though, and watched the figment sideways, his hand tightening on his own wrist.
“And Bo is now only at the start of his. Given all he risks, it seems a fair exchange. He’s too generous with himself, your brother.”
“You’d‘ve said the same thing about Nimai. Age doesn’t seem to have changed the type of guy you bond with. I suppose there’s something to be said for consistency.”
“I think Bo’d take it ill, your comparing him to Nimai.” Important to be polite, but Everil heard the hint of a snarl in his voice. “They are oil and water.”
Honey and smoke.
Robin laughed while the alder trees swayed to the sound, and the hard-packed earth gave way to gravel.
“Wait, really? Wow, okay, so it’s pretty obvious you have a type.” His laughter faded to that thin, quick smile. “Good with people, pushy, protective, stubborn, stuck on you, crass. Nimai talks pretty, but I’mfairlysure insinuating someone’s a temporary, if willing, hole is just as vulgar as using ‘fuck’ like it’s seasoning.”
The gravel seemed to catch at Everil’s feet, attempting to slow him. The branches caught at his hair.
Eyes on the path. Keep walking. Robin waswrong. That, at least, Everil was sure of.
“Do you know what Nimai said to me after we took our oaths?” Everil let the question hang for only a heartbeat. “He said he forgave me for embarrassing him. With what I wore. How I stood. The way I reacted when he touched me. How I tried to hold onto him.” Everil’s voice was flatly calm as he retreated into that safe, internal stillness. “He said he understood that I’d been indulged, and it takes time to break a wild horse. He promised to be patient.”
Nimai had been so very patient. Months of silences. Of Nimai’s iron grip on Everil’s soul, leaving him breathless and faded, reminding him to behave.
