Seren freezes. ‘Your Highness’ isn’t much better than ‘Calithel.’
Nevander takes Seren by the elbow, and with his free hand touches an amulet at his throat. A doorway gleams into being. Taller than Nevander, wide enough for two. Beyond is a garden of stars, a sky full of flowers, an ocean of sunlight.
Terrified and resolute, Seren steps through.
6
The Realm Between Realms
Serenstepsfromwornfloorboards 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 inFearsome 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.
