Lee’s trials

*Thalia* The King's eyes are exactly Lee's. That is my first clear thought as he walks toward us through the cheering crowd, with silver threaded through his hair and a green velvet coat that makes him look like he has personally appointed every tree in this forest to stand upright. The second is that I am filthy. Travel dirt sits under my nails. My hiking boots are caked with mud from the last stretch of path. My hair has escaped its braid in three different directions, green stripes and all, and the backpack on my shoulders looks as if it has been dragged through a hedge. Which, to be fair, it has. The street curves through the trees, cobbled with pale stone and lined by homes grown directly from enormous trunks. Windows glow amber behind leaves. Strings of tiny glass lamps sway from branches overhead. Every elf in sight is staring at us, though most of them are trying to disguise it as celebration. Lee stands close enough that his sleeve brushes mine. "Breathe," he says under his breath. "I am breathing." "You're doing it loudly." "That is because an entire city appears to have come out to inspect your questionable taste in girlfriends." His mouth twitches. The smile nearly reaches his eyes before something pulls it away again. King Fealor stops before us. He is taller than Lee by a few inches, broad through the shoulders despite the cane he carries in one hand. His beard is neatly trimmed, silver-white against warm brown skin. He studies me with open curiosity, then shifts his attention to Lee. For a second, neither of them says anything. The crowd's excitement softens around the silence. Then Fealor drops his cane against one arm and pulls Lee into an embrace hard enough to knock his curls over his forehead. "My boy," he says. Lee's arms come up a beat late. "Hello, Grandfather." It is not cold. It is not exactly warm, either. It feels practiced, as though they have been performing this reunion in their heads for years and neither is happy with the script. Fealor holds him at arm's length. "You are too thin." "I had a sandwich on the train." "A train sandwich. That is not food. That is an insult wrapped in paper." A few nearby elves laugh. Lee does too, because apparently this is what he does when people expect something from him. Then the King turns to me. "Thalia Maplebloom." I dip into what I hope is a respectful curtsy and what is probably a small accident involving my backpack. "Your Majesty." "No. Not that." He waves a hand. "I am surrounded by people who call me that all day. They make the word sound exhausting… Fealor will do." I straighten. "All right. Fealor." Lee makes a quiet noise beside me. The King's eyes brighten. "Yes, Lee?" "Grandfather," Lee says, and there is a warning in it. Fealor ignores him with the ease of long practice. He takes both my hands in his, his palms warm and dry. "I have heard you are studying at Yggdrasil. I have also heard you persuaded my grandson to go on some quest." "I didn't persuade him. He wanted to go." Lee looks toward the distant rooftops as though he might find a convenient roof to leap from. "Ah," Fealor says. "Then he has been more mysterious than usual." "I'm right here." "You have been right here for twenty-one years, Lyrian. I am allowed to speak around you." Someone snorts. I glance toward the sound and find a man standing a little behind the King's shoulder. He looks younger than Fealor but older than Lee, perhaps late forties by human standards, though elves could probably be any age they pleased and still have perfect cheekbones. His dark hair is braided close to his head, each braid bound with thin silver thread. His formal coat is charcoal grey, severe enough to make the afternoon seem improperly dressed. Prince Fileas… Lee’s uncle. His gaze lands on my backpack first. Then my boots. Then the green marks in my hair. I have seen people look at dryads like that before. Like we are a damp problem someone has tracked into a clean house. "Welcome to Eirawen," he says. His voice is smooth, careful. Every word arrives fully polished. "Thank you," I say. "I trust your journey was comfortable." "The bus driver sang show tunes for forty minutes," I tell him. "So I think comfort would be a generous word." A brief flicker crosses his face. Confusion, maybe. Or disapproval that I have answered a polite question with an actual answer. Fealor laughs loudly enough to send two bright-winged birds from a nearby roof. "Excellent," he says. "You will do well here." Fileas's smile holds. "Will she?" Lee's hand finds mine. His fingers are cool, his grip firmer than it needs to be. The crowd shifts. A little hush opens around us. I know that silence. I know the shape of people waiting to see whether you will make yourself smaller for them. The trees know too. Their roots press gently beneath the paving stones, a slow murmur against the soles of my feet. They are old here. Older than the city. Old enough to remember when the first elves asked them for shelter. I lift my chin. "I'm hoping to avoid doing well or badly until I've had a bath." Fealor laughs again. This time, a few others follow. Not everyone. Fileas inclines his head as if I have confirmed a suspicion he had already filed away. "Of course." A horn sounds from somewhere near the city gates, three low notes that vibrate through my ribs. Lee winces. "What is that?" I ask. "Welcome horns," he says. "They sound like somebody has died." "That is a fair criticism." The King hooks his cane over his forearm. "The people have waited all week for Lyrian's arrival. They deserve a proper welcome." "We walked through a corridor of fifty people screaming my name," Lee says. "That feels properly welcoming." "There were at least two hundred." "That is somehow worse." Fealor smiles at him, but I catch the change when he looks closely at Lee's face. His expression softens. His hand rises, as if he means to touch Lee's cheek, then falls back to his cane. "You are tired," he says. "We traveled since dawn," I say. Lee glances at me. There is gratitude in it, and something else. Relief, perhaps, that I have said it so he does not have to. "Then no feast tonight," Fealor declares. "A small supper in the family rooms. Tomorrow, we celebrate properly." Fileas's eyes sharpen. "Father, the household has prepared the south hall." "The south hall will survive disappointment." "It is not disappointment. It is a gathering of the council families. They have traveled in response to your summons." At that, Lee's shoulders tighten. I feel it through our joined hands. Fealor's expression hardens around the edges. "My grandson has traveled farther." "Lyrian understands duty." Lee's smile arrives with no warmth at all. "I've been told." The King's gaze flicks between them. Whatever sits beneath those words has been there a long time. Long enough that neither man bothers pretending it is new. Fealor claps a hand against Lee's shoulder. "Go. Rest. Thalia, you are in Lycian’s rooms, in the west bough." I am in his rooms. The word is innocent. The way Fileas's eyes shift makes it feel less so. Lee's thumb moves once over the back of my hand. "Grandfather, perhaps separate rooms would be simpler." I look at him. He is still smiling. His jaw is locked. For a moment, I think he is trying to protect me from gossip. Then the thought turns sour. Maybe he is protecting himself from the trouble I might cause him. Maybe I have crossed half the country to become a discreet little guest tucked neatly beside his room, close enough to be convenient and far enough to deny.