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“So romantic,” Tir said, and kissed him. “My artist. In that case I won’t feel bad that my cousins gave you away. They would like copies, I think.”
“Sure. When we have free time again. But the original’s ours.”
“I like that,” Tir said. “Ours.”
Tirian and his mother looked alike in some ways and unalike in others: both tall and elegant, wood smoke and sky in slim vertical tapestries. Tir’s otherworldliness had been tempered by years with—and now an infusion of—humanity, and the rainwater of his eyes glimmered warm and playful; his mother’s gaze flickered between silver and opal, luminous, iridescent, opaque. She drew attention; she shone more real and present than any of them, somehow, as if sketched in ink versus ordinary pencil-dust.
She’d hesitated upon first seeing her son. Tir had as well—Ollie’d seen the painful uncertainty, the knowledge that they’d both changed in fifteen years apart, the knowledge that she and the soothsayers and the land itself had sent her son into a strange land to die, a sacrifice the magic had demanded.
But then Tir had taken a step forward and said, “Mother?” And she’d held out both arms. Tir had fallen into them.
Ollie had never imagined a Fairy Queen weeping. Made her more real in a different way. Closer to home.
The larger part of the Fairy Court had poured across the border; they’d been poised, listening, Tir said. Land-sense. Magic-sense. “They sort of…we sort of…it’s why I did it, you know. Left home, I mean, not saved you, I would’ve in any case—”
“Love you.”
“I love you. Forever.—so it’s the way we feel magic, prophecy, our world…the land tells us what it needs. You can choose not to listen, but…the kingdom won’t prosper. Like not listening to your truest advisors, who know the bones of the country. I could’ve not left, I could’ve said no, but the…the closest human word is soothsayers, the ones who interpret the magic best…they told me I needed to go. For our kingdom. What it said it needed. Which I think was a…” Tir considered terminology. “A moving out of isolation. An answer to those fears and rumors about fairy magic. A falling in love with humanity.”
“We’re a metaphor for political mergers?”
“Would you mind it if we were? But that’s how my mother and the Court got here so fast; they were just waiting to cross the border as soon as we, ah, fulfilled the prophecy. And now they’re busy covering the house with flowers.”
Ollie laughed. It was true; fairies tended to resonate with the land, and flowers and grasses and stray curling roses kept popping up in unexpected places. Despite winter weather, pumpkin vines had inexplicably produced new fruit, and yeast kept turning into bread, down in the village.
Tir tipped his head back against Ollie’s shoulder. They’d been sitting on the low window-bench in what’d been Oliver’s—now their shared—bedroom, accompanied by books and a sketchpad, hiding from the hordes of well-wishers that’d arrived in the library. This was the core of the other problem, one he’d not quite worked out how to address.
Tir went on, “We can help with that. There’s a charm to keep eager magic from being too eager. I can do it if—I know, I know, I shouldn’t, I should be resting.” He almost said this without flinching; Ollie knew he considered the loss of ninety-nine percent of his magic a worthwhile trade. “But I know how. Most of us do; it’s not a hard one. I could show anyone down in the village if they’ve got even a touch of fairy blood.”
Ollie chose words very carefully. “I’ll come with you if you want to teach them the theory.”
“But not the practice,” Tir agreed, wry and accepting, and made a face. “You can take notes for our library while I do that much, then. Or I’ll get Rae to do it instead of me. She likes showing off.”
Istrael, who Ollie guessed had been the favorite of those many cousins, had come running out of a knot of ribbon-bedecked outriders, punched Tir in the arm and said, “You died!” and then launched herself into his arms. She looked about twenty but was almost certainly older, had moonspun hair and nut-brown skin and jet-black eyes, and had given Ollie a stare that said he’d better be worthy of everything sacrificed on his behalf. Oliver, who agreed wholeheartedly about his unworthiness, thought he rather liked her.
Tir said she’d been the best at land-sense next to him, possessed the serpentine mind of a University-trained lawyer, and was likely the next heir presumptive in Fairy, assuming he himself had indeed died. Ollie had punched him lightly in the same spot and told him never to say that again, and then kissed him.
“Fine,” he said. “She’ll stop flirting with poor Cedric for an afternoon. Should we go up to dinner?”
“Poor Cedric, my left foot. He’s loving the attention. And it might not be a bad idea, the two of them, you know…”
“What? No. That’s terrifying. Stop.”
Wind blew a scatter of wild raindrops against window-glass, companionably. Oliver rested his head on top of Tir’s, and wondered whether they could use another blanket, or if they should be heading to the banquet hall for the evening’s meal, or if they could stay put here, contented.
“It’s honestly not a bad idea.” Tir twisted around to look at him, dislodging some of the comfort. “I’m thinking about the succession. Obviously you and I will have to adopt, not that that’s an issue.”
It wasn’t, or not much. Fairy inheritance tended to follow bloodlines but not always, and wedlock didn’t matter; Tir might’ve been disinherited if the land and the magic had sensed a need for a different leader, which of necessity made succession flexible on that side. And Bellemare’d had childless kings and queens before; official adoption had been and would be possible.
They were still working out the process of merging kingdoms. Ollie was about ready to throw books at the most pedantic traditionalists and council members. He and Tir could bloody well be co-rulers. Joint kings. Something. Tir was more patient, and better at all-day politics than he was.
And had recovered enough to play matchmaker, apparently.
“You think,” he summarized, “that you want my little brother and your favorite cousin to reproduce. Those two. Together.”
“Well, it’s one idea. It’s up to them, of course.”
“They’d take over the world. Two worlds. With weekly amateur theatrical parties.”
