Page 22 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Seren clutches his chest, curling in on himself.
“Calithel,” Nevander says, unthinking. His sword appears by instinct in his right hand. “Your Highness.”
Then a cold, fragile wind steals through Nevander’s spirit. Like a breath of Autumn. At the same time, Yarrow swears. Cries break from distant tents.
“Are you hurt?” Nevander asks urgently, lifting Seren’s chin.
And so he witnesses the glamour’s crumbling.
Like clouds vanishing to reveal stars, the false gives way to the true. Sharp cheekbones shimmer in Elsewhere’s strange light. Blond-brown hair deepens to a shadowed blue, and rounded ears lengthen into points.
Seren’s eyes blink from blue to brilliant gold. Realization strikes Nevander like a sword to the stomach.
“What’s happening?” Seren whispers, his fear painful.
Nevander would give anything to shield Seren from this. “The changeling spell is broken. Which means Queen Haelwen is dead.”
8
A Cruel Trick
MagicshiversthroughSeren.The very sensation he sought to grasp is now unmistakable. It choruses with emotion. Shock and fear from Yarrow. Anxiety from Folly. Nothing from Nevander except pure attention. His touch burns beneath Seren’s chin.
Blue dances in Seren’s peripheral vision. His own emotions are distant. Like he waits on a bridge between known and unknown, and staying between is safer.
“My mother?” Seren says, and oh, he shouldn’t speak. Each small word drags the feelings closer. “But I didn’t meet her.”
Nevander’s hand falls away, leaving cold behind. “I am sorry, Your Highness. I should not have delayed us.”
Folly rushes over. “How do you know? Maybe she just broke the spell.”
Seren hates him unreasonably for the hope.
“Not this spell,” Nevander says, visibly shaken.
Stern-faced, Yarrow clasps Folly’s shoulder. “We felt it. All of us born in Summer. The whole realm and all its wayward travelers felt her death.”
This must be a lie. A cruel trick. Seren’s mother cannot die before he meets her.
Except after twenty-one years lived with liars—Alard’s knee doesn’t hurt that bad—Edith’s almost done with her card game—the blacksmith is only friends with the tavernkeeper’s husband, nothing more—the barmaid doesn’t know who shorted their tab—Seren’s parents love him—
Now Seren must suffer the truth instead.
“What happened?” Folly is saying.
“I don’t know,” Nevander answers, gathering himself. “She’s been very sick, but I thought we had more time.”
Seren can’t break down in this unfamiliar realm. He can’t speak of the queen he never met. She’s far away. He inhales the fragrant air, and that blue sways at the edge of his vision again. Seren reaches, half expecting some strange fae insect to evade his grasp. Instead, he catches a strand of hair.
When he tugs it, the pain pricks his own scalp.
“My hair is blue,” Seren says blankly. Yes. This is easier.
“There’s more.” Folly comes alive, and with a performer’s flourish extends a hand to Yarrow. “Fetch me my soothsaying mirror.”
“No magic,” Nevander warns, as if Folly is a threat.
Folly simply shrugs as Yarrow produces the mirror. “It’s an ordinary mirror. I just call it that when I pretend to tell fortunes. Here.”
