Gods’ meager mercy. Even his own blood can’t be trusted.
Nevander would have a curt but reassuring explanation. This is a fae thing, or a royal thing. Nevander would also have bandages in his carryhold, and that healing elixir. A towel and a flask of water, a needle and thread. Hard toimagine Nevander looking less than perfect, with bruises and grubby torn clothes.
At least the cuts are shallow, the spilled blood more alarming than harmful. Nothing like the augray bite. That was just a few days ago, though it feels like months.
Seren uses his left sleeve to wipe the blood from his forehead as best he can, then shoves painfully to his feet. Time to find a stupid crown.
He pokes past weeds and fallen white flowers. Leaves stick to his bloody arms. His nose tickles with disturbed pollen, more distracting than the pain. No crowns on the ground. Of course this wouldn’t be easy. Seren keeps searching until he returns to the first broken tree. The jagged shape is unmistakable.
The crown is missing.
“Do you think this is funny?” Seren shouts—at Primrose, at the unicorn, at the perfect fake sky and the perfect fake trees.
Nobody answers, and Seren’s frustration sharpens to determination. He stoops and plucks a fallen flower.
This isn’t just a lesson. This is a test. Seren is supposed to prove himself, which means there’s a solution. Using his shirt as a basket, Seren gathers more flowers. Maybe he’ll find one if he searches long enough. He can still try that, if his next strategy gets him sliced up by evil flower petals.
When he has enough flowers, Seren kneels. Damp earth cools his knees as blossoms spill around him. Daisies, dahlias, more he can’t name. He wipes flaking blood onto his ruined trousers, then begins weaving the flowers.
Memories twist with each stem. Everyone in Wymond wears crowns for Midsummer. Flowers, ribbons, wheat stalks, whatever else they fancy. The tavernkeeper has aridiculous crown of tankards the children always try to steal. Chiyo always makes a wreath for Steadfast’s neck.
Those traditions will be new to Tansy when he finally returns. New and hopefully wonderful. Maybe Seren and Nevander can send Tansy back on a festival day, so Nevander can see it too.
Seren’s crown is fragile. He doesn’t have twine to reinforce it—another item to remember for his carryhold. But when Seren places the circlet on his head, it holds its shape.
It feels heavier than it should.
Rubbing more tacky blood from his hands, Seren returns to the path. The unicorn faces him, still as a statue. Petals waltz on the wind, a beautiful threat.
Stories about royalty always have coronations. Witnesses. Not handmade crowns. This probably won’t work, but Seren will let pain be the judge of that
“I have a crown,” Seren announces.
Petals rain harmlessly to the forest floor. The unicorn kneels, one foreleg after the other, and bows its head. Its voice echoes, more memory than sound.You pass the trial of Spring.
Braced to flee, Seren is slow to believe his success. His muscles unlock enough to touch the crown, which feels less fragile. Blossoms kiss his fingertips. Seren exhales shakily and walks forward.
Close up, the beast is translucent. Its mane drifts like wispy clouds.
Safe travels, Your Highness,the unicorn says.
The door in contrast looms imposing and solid. There’s no apparent doorknob, and Seren traces a carved knot. With barely a touch, the door swings open.
Blinding cold sweeps the meadow away.
Seren stands ankle-deep in snow. Icy wind claws his torn clothes, and the world is a blur of snowdrift and sky. Shock rattles him. He had assumed the door would lead to Summer.
Hugging himself doesn’t accomplish much. Seren turns, failing to find a clear landmark. The silver door is gone, and the wind rushes head-on from every direction.
And it carries a distant voice.
“Seren!”
Seren whips towards the sound. “Nevander!” he shouts back. The wind needles his throat. He can’t tell if he’s facing the right direction. “Where are you?”
No answer, save the indifferent storm.
Seren’s fists clench, fingernails digging heat into his palms. “Is he really here?” he demands of the sleet-white sky. “Or is this another trick?”