Her smile is sweet. Believable. It’s not her fault Seren feels the truth behind it.
Edith’s was the first strange emotion Seren sensed as a child. Cold and hot edges. Like swallowing snow and fire. Seren thought it was his own emotion at first, but when he asked Edith, she started to cry. The harder she cried, the more Seren hurt. He never asked again.
“I’m not hungry,” Seren says. “Please, Mother, I’ll barely be—”
He reels with his mistake. The hot-cold-sharp surge at the wordmother.
“Enough,” Edith says, turning away. “Come have lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” Seren repeats, and runs.
He learned young that Edith’s hot-cold-sharp emotion was loathing. It took him longer to learn that most mothers don’t loathe their children. Nor do fathers.
Unfairness burns behind Seren’s eyes. He runs past the wood pile, the shed, the guided chaos of Edith’s herb garden. Roots and flowers meant to help people. As the village apothecary, Edith seems to care about everyone except her own son.
She should be happy to see the back of him. Even if she didn’t hate him. Most villagers Seren’s age are picking up a profession and preparing to marry. Living at home at twenty-one is common enough. Sabotaging any attempt to leave isn’t.
A low wooden fence separates the garden from the forest’s edge. Seren fumbles with the latch. Failing, he hops the fence instead.
As he sprints past billows of unkempt dandelions, the sense of observation returns. An unseen gaze whispers like feathers against Seren’s bare face. He runs through it until he feels alone again.
Seren finally stops at the bank of the little creek. Four feet across and barely two feet deep. He could cross. Riding along with Alard was a good plan, but Seren has two good legs. He can hike west through the woods until he reaches the Lord’s Road, then head south. Find a town, then a job, and make a quiet life somewhere that doesn’t hurt.
He would cross, except his hands tremble too much to unlace his boots.
Green and gold flashes across the creek, like a cloak swirling behind a tree.
“Who’s there?” Seren yells, temper fraying. “Show yourself!”
He’s oversensitive. Overreacting. At any moment, one of the village brats will jump out, and Seren will feel ridiculous for being so skittish. Yet the only answer is the running creek.
Seren relaxes, drained. Nobody’s there, and Seren’s going mad. That’s fine. Just one more thing to hide in a village where gossip runs like a goose on fire. He slumps to a seat on the soft, damp creekside. Better to calm down before he returns for lunch, where Edith will pretend nothing happened, and Seren will try to pretend the same.
Then Seren looks down, and fear skips between his heartbeats.
In the dark, damp earth, there are footprints.
2
Thorns Dig Deep
Nevandersecureshisglamouras the young man leaps to his feet. The urge to answer beats erratic wings against his ribs. But Nevander is long accustomed to controlling himself, and already he risks too much.
It’s worth it, for the loosening of thorns around his heart. The oath that only settles at Calithel’s side.
Silent and invisible, Nevander approaches until only the shallow creek separates them. Two more steps, and he could touch Calithel with a gauntleted hand. This is the clearest look Nevander’s ever managed.
Calithel stands frozen, searching, like a startled rabbit. Even after all these visits, his face still looks foreign. His features are too round, pale complexion too dull. His eyes are clear blue instead of Summer gold.
The humans call him Seren.
A Summer Prince should wear silk and flowers instead of threadbare linen. He should command the zenith revels, confident and joyful, instead of trembling at footprints. Five foot seven and slender—the resemblance is there, but Nevander has never seen Haelwen look frightened.
Yet some of the prince’s power has awakened. He senses Nevander’s presence despite the glamour.
Perhaps that’s the changeling spell faltering, not Calithel’s ability growing. Or perhaps Nevander’s own grasp of glamour has loosened. He’s no stranger to control, but he can’t shake the shadow of foreboding.
This boy is far too weak to face his fate.
