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Oliver saw it too. Froze in place. Safe, at the moment, on flat grassy ground. “Did that just sprout up?”
“I thought I saw something earlier—that sparkle—but it was out of the way.” Tir glared at sand-spots. They glared right back, sneaky small disguised patches of earth that looked simple until touched. “There’s so much here.”
“Can we go around?”
“How much would you be willing to bet that it’ll magically erupt wherever we are?”
Oliver muttered a choice word or two under his breath.
Tir regarded the closest pool. Bent, picked up a pebble, tossed it that way.
The pebble hissed, and shimmered, and began to dissolve.
Ollie winced.
Tir said, “At least it sparkles, a bit. We can spot it.”
“Why doesn’t it burn through the ground…? Never mind. Not important.”
“I actually do have an answer to that.” Tir paused. “Let me think about how I can say…all right, let’s see. It’s…not precisely sentient, but aware. Like certain mushrooms.”
“I suddenly have questions about mushrooms.”
“My point is, it knows where to…” Tir stopped again, made a face, annoyingly pretty when exasperated by words and restrictions. “The way my magic, Fairy magic, works…oh, drat, how can I…the land—I mean the world, the air, every breath, like an extra sense…it knows what it…needs. What’s needed. Where everyone ought to be. Everyone including trees and stones and acid sand and the people you call fairies, which isn’t really right, by the way, because we’re all fairies, even if some of us look like rocks or salamanders. When I was sent—” He stopped, hissed softly, shook his head. “I can’t say that part. About the sand, though, it…knows where to be. Where it and the ground can survive. And also where it’s supposed to be, just now.”
“In our way.”
“One of your challenges.”
“What, making sure I know what sand looks like?”
Tir was looking at the vicious sparkles. “Making certain you’re paying attention. To your surroundings, the land…where you’re supposed to be…”
“And to you. You saw it first.”
Tir stopped studying Fairy-touched ground. “Knowing when to listen is an excellent quality in a future monarch.”
“You’re allowed to help, then?”
“Of course.”
“I just meant…” What had he meant? “If this’s my Quest, my future…most of my family’s done it without, y’know, help. Am I supposed to?”
Tir stared at him for a second, said, “No,” and swung around and started walking. Avoiding, neatly, patches of danger.
Oliver ran to catch up. “Did I say something wrong—? No, wait, never mind, I did. Of course you can help. You do.”
“You’re allowed friends. Companions. People who want to assist you. Also normally a good quality, in a monarch.”
“I don’t have that many friends—”
That made Tir freeze in place. The smoke-grey of his eyes held something like shock, finding Ollie’s face. “Of course you do. Everyone loves—”
“I’m good at art. I’m good at buying rounds in a tavern. I like people. In general. But not close.”
Tir opened his mouth, shut it, shook his head. “Oliver…”
“Siblings don’t count.”
