“She hasn’t been well recently.” Nevander looks away as if hiding something. “And this is my duty. You should rest, Cali—”
He cuts himself off, but the name still burns like an iron nail.
Calithel.
So Nevander’s been thinking the wrong name all night. He doesn’t see Seren at all. Just his queen’s changeling son. Just his duty. Seren doesn’t want to rely on Nevander, but the realization is strangely disappointing.
“Are you going to sleep, too?” Seren unslings his satchel, wincing with the movement. He keeps forgetting his new scars. “Or are you going to watch me all night?”
Nevander moves to a window. The magic lights dim behind him. “I’ll sleep. And keep watch.”
Infuriating. Seren doesn’t bother pressing for the truth. Unlacing his boots is a better use of his remaining energy.
Nevander’s blankness is impossible. Seren hadn’t realized how much he used his empathy as a crutch. He’s used to adapting his behavior to keep others happy. To keep them from hating him.
Edith and Alard must be frantic by now. Not because they miss Seren, but because Seren is their only hope of getting their real son back.
A child for a child. Fae stories are full of bargains.
With Seren’s luck, Queen Haelwen will hate him too. Except perhaps she feels the same as Edith and Alard. Missing Seren all these years. Grieving the separation she wrought herself.
Maybe she loves him. Whatever that feels like.
7
Make No Promises
DaybreakinElsewhereisdisconcerting. There’s no sun to rise; rather the entire sky slowly lightens. As dawn creeps into the cottage, revealing every mismatched scrap of fabric, Nevander sits by his sleeping prince and meditates.
Shielding isn’t a conscious practice outside of combat, when an enemy might reach for his mind. It’s instinct. Habit. But Calithel’s talent is empathy. Nevander must secure his spirit so he doesn’t harm his charge.
Or reveal too much of himself.
Light gilds Calithel’s sleeping face. The neckline of his shirt falls open, and the silvery scar is a rebuke.
No, not Calithel. Nevander’s prince wants to be called Seren, and that’s easy to remember with his light brown hair and rounded ears. Seren isn’t the figment of a prince livingin Nevander’s imagination. He isn’t a child to shadow or a leader to obey. He’s a stranger curled up on a sofa, cheek squished against the woven cushions.
Still Nevander’s to protect. This was supposed to be the easy part. He never expected the responsibility to feel so insurmountable.
Calithel’s—Seren’s nose wrinkles, and his breath lightens. Fascination almost holds Nevander in place, but he silently moves to the window. Then the door, surveying the little room for the dozenth time. No danger from the hearth with its dancing squirrel statuettes. Nor the yard, where the mushroom circle’s nocturnal glow has faded.
Each small movement echoes. The couch cushions shift. A breath hitches. “Gods’ mercy, this was real,” Seren mutters. He even swears like a human.
Nevander takes the words as an excuse to turn. “Do you believe in them?”
Seren rubs his eyes. “In who?”
“The human gods.”
Seren stares blankly, then reaches for his boots. “No, it’s just a thing to say when you stub your toe, or you’ve been abducted by the fae.”
“That’s good,” Nevander says, which wins him another blank stare.
“Why is that good?”
A royal heir beholden to human myths would be a scandal. But more than that… “There are no human chapels in Elladar. The faith would prove lonely.”
Seren finishes lacing his boots. Despite his rumpled clothes and shadowed eyes, he looks sharper, less shocked,than the night before. “That's a heavy conversation before breakfast. Do you have a comb?”
