Nevander straightens, pale with effort. “You used Summer magic.” His eyes are wide with awe that would be flattering under other circumstances.
“I tried.” Seren seizes Nevander’s arm to keep him upright. “Negotiations fell through.”
Maybe it’s still flattering, even when Nevander’s bleeding like this. The hole in his breastplate is too small for Seren to see much. He can’t tell how bad the wound is. But panicking won’t help.
“I told you to stay in the circle,” Nevander says, leaning into Seren’s support.
The pale feather is still crushed and sweat-damp in Seren’s fist. He scrapes it into a pocket so he can grab Nevander with both hands. “Too bad I’m not bound to obey you either.”
Nevander sighs. “I was dreading you realizing that.”
“Can you walk?” Seren asks.
Nevander fails to hide his wince, and more of his weight settles on Seren’s shoulder. “Yes.”
Seren’s just grateful Nevander permits the help, one shaky step at a time. Relief nearly fells Seren as they cross the mushrooms. He gets Nevander to the base of the great tree and eases him down to a cradle of roots.
Seren sits back, hands covered in blood, and breathes through the nausea. Walking should be a good sign. Except Seren’s seen farmers walk into Wymond with the most appalling injuries.
“Let me see.” Seren’s fingertips pause against embossed cuirass. “How do I take this off?”
“You don’t need to be this calm,” Nevander says, so reassuring it hurts. “I’m not dying. I just need…”
Seren pulls a glass bottle from his own carryhold. “I have an elixir. I just don’t know how to take your stupid armor off.”
Nevander’s laugh is choked. “When did you grab that?” he asks, fumbling at his shoulders. One click at a time, hidden clasps fall open.
“It’s yours. I kept it after Primrose’s haven.” Seren sets the elixir aside to ease the breastplate away. It’s lighter than it looks, but he still has to concentrate not to drop it on Nevander’s thigh. Would be just like him to sever an artery as he tried to fix someone. “I wanted to be prepared like you.”
“Funny.” Nevander freezes Seren with a touch. Bloodstained fingers against his cheekbone. “You’re the one thing I could never prepare for.”
Seren’s blood heats. “Everyone’s talking nonsense today. You, Midnight, Gevain… Are we safe in this circle?”
Nevander tenses at the names, then relaxes at the mention of danger. “This is the first mushroom circle Yarrow ever set. We renewed it year after year. Layers of magic. We’re safe.”
Blood soaks the green quilting, shockingly dark. Steeling his nerves, Seren grabs a knife from his carryhold. “I’m going to cut the fabric,” he warns, because pointing a knife at someone’s stomach would usually scare them. But Nevander doesn’t flinch at all. As Seren saws the quilting—more difficult than expected—he continues, “How can mushrooms keep him out, when the palace wards can’t?”
Nevander’s jaw tenses. Stress, or pain as Seren’s efforts tug at his wound. Or both. “I don’t know.”
The injury is better and worse than Seren expected. So small an opening, yet such sickening depth. “He said today that we had never spoken before.”
Nevander’s hand falls to Seren’s thigh. Tightens in pain, perhaps without him noticing. “So, one was an imposter.”
“Or a vision.” Seren’s bloodstained fingers slip on the elixir stopper. He wipes his hands on his exquisite trousers. “But something else occurs to me. Some fae have unique talents, right?”
“Your empathy,” Nevander says. “Haelwen’s memories.”
The bottle opens. Falling silent, Seren pours its entire contents onto Nevander’s stomach. Golden liquid shimmers when it meets blood, pooling upwards against gravity to gather in the wound.
Nevander’s breath catches, then eases. Seren breathes again too. Relief hovers dangerously behind his ribs.
“I just wonder,” Seren says, hushed, as if speaking louder might make it real. “Could a high fae have the power of lies?”
Nevander touches his chest as the elixir works. His color has already improved. “I don’t know. I never would have thought of that.” Nevander tries to sit upright. “I’ll ask Ritekeeper Jasper to consult the—”
“Down!” Seren holds Nevander by the shoulders, fond and frustrated and scared. “You still have a hole in your gut.”
Yet as the elixir knits Nevander’s flesh together, his expression hardens. Every trace of weakness blows away like dust, leaving only bright steel. “Whatever Midnight’s power, he shouldn’t have been here. Today’s journey wasn’t planned, and I told nobody our destination. Unless he can track you…” Nevander looks away. “Of course.”