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He said, “Like you spend a lot of time in ravines?”
And Tir laughed, weightless and untroubled. “Maybe if you count the University archives. I swear some of those manuscript stacks haven’t been touched in centuries. It’s funny, though, if I try to push it, to really think about it, that headache…”
Oliver gathered rein. Carrot stopped. This meant that Sprite stopped too; Crown Prince and companion regarded each other for a minute. Wind flirted with unnaturally indigo-and-magenta rock-grass behind Tir’s head.
Tirian looked away first. “I know. I know what you’re saying. Not saying. You know my answer. Just—just don’t. Please.”
“You’re hurting,” Ollie said, “because you’re riding North with me.”
“It’s not like—”
“It isn’t?”
“It’s…hard to explain.”
“Try.”
“I know,” Tir said carefully, even gingerly, “what I’m supposed to do. And I…this feels like going home. Before I’ve done it. And that—”
“Oh,” Ollie said. “Oh. No. Stop. Nothing you’re not allowed to say,” and then they looked at each other for another second, until one corner of Tir’s mouth quirked up. “I’m okay. It’s just…a reminder. From—from the magic. Land-sense. It won’t matter; we won’t be going into Fairy proper.”
“I’ll believe you,” Ollie told him, “if you tell me that again. Right now. Honestly.”
“I am being honest, you turnip.” Tir was smiling, crooked, but his eyes were serious. Graveness; gravestones, that grey. Ollie swatted that thought down. “I don’t lie to you, Oliver. It’ll hurt a little, and it won’t get much worse, and I can live with it for now. It’ll go away after we’re done.”
“You’ll let me know,” Ollie said.
“Of course.”
“Then…” He bit his lip, wavered: a pebble making a choice. Could be an avalanche. Might not. No way to know. And he had a traditional quest to complete, and Tir had…also a quest. Of some sort. A mission. “If you’re sure.”
Tir gave him the most affronted look Oliver’d seen on anyone not a palace cat. He had to laugh. “Fine. But you’ll tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I just said—”
“Not only when it gets worse. Check in with me. Talk to me. Did you call me a turnip?”
“I’ve called you worse before. I’m all right, I promise.” Wind tugged a strand of black hair across grey eyes; Tir tucked it back, and made even that motion exquisite: ruffled as silk, as water, a fairy framed by ravine walls and cinnamon rock-roses. “Still going to beat you to that stream, up ahead…”
“That’s not a fair start!” Oliver yelled at his vanishing back, and took off after.
Tir and Sprite won. This was not a surprise.
They stopped playing around after a while, settling into a long journey’s pace. They wouldn’t go as far as the border, despite the Northern Wild also settling in around them. Strangeness in the knots and whorls of tree-bark. Near-faces. A kind of invisible presence, heavy and curious and bright, lying like a gaze between shoulder blades.
Towns and villages dwindled and became thimble-sized outposts and ultimately faded out altogether; the far Northern air became difficult for humans to survive in, at least not without being changed. Like the plants, Oliver mused, glancing at a particularly verdant clump of unnaturally sparkly sage. Fairyland protecting itself. Tir could breathe fine in the human kingdoms; this was not exactly equitable.
He ran over folklore, family history, research and expectations, in his mind. Sometimes aloud; Tir listened and contributed details when he forgot them. Preparations. Plans.
The Seeing Pool tended to move around, though it stayed on the human side of the dividing line, and it liked to protect itself. The Vision Quest, while traditional and mostly a formality these days, was and always had been a true quest; Oliver could be injured or maimed, and in a rare few cases Crown Princes or Princesses had even died, so it’d be a proper test of wits and strength and commitment, the idea being that these were good qualities for an Heir.
There’d be three obstacles, traditionally; three was a tidy number, stable as tripods, as telescope legs, as an artist’s easel. The obstacles weren’t always the same, though some repeats had turned up. Tir suggested that the magic tended to throw what it thought the Heir could or needed to handle.
“Maybe,” Oliver said, “I can wave a paintbrush at it. A pencil.”
“You’re good with a sword,” Tir agreed.
“Against our weapons-master, sure. In practice-yards.” Bellemare hadn’t been involved in external conflict for centuries. Too much nervousness about the odd unknown quantity to the North; too much demand for luxury goods moving South; too many strategic marriages and treaties, such that any diplomatic squabbling generally turned out to be a result of someone’s aunt not having been sent a thank-you note for the silver wedding-teapot. Even the Civil War, that internal conflict, had faded; everyone liked peace and comfort too much, and the kingdom was prospering.
