Lee’s trials

Something is wrong

*Thalia*

Fealor gives him an impatient look. "Simpler for whom?"

"Everyone," Lee says.

"That is usually a sign it will be dull."

"Fealor," I say.

Both men look at me.

The King's brows lift.

I can feel heat creeping into my face, and I hate that it does. I have spent most of my life around people who believe my roots should make me graceful, patient, silent. Trees endure. Trees do not make scenes in royal chambers.

But trees also break stone.

"I'd like my own room," I say. "If that's all right."

Lee turns toward me fully.

It is a small thing. A room. A door that locks. A place to unpack my clothes without wondering which servant will report the shape of my sleepwear to a prince who cuts his pie like he is disciplining it.

Still, the space between Lee and me changes.

Fealor studies me. Then he nods once.

"Of course. The west bough has a room facing the river. It was my son’s, years ago. It has been unused, but the staff will prepare it."

Fileas's gaze flickers again. Something careful passes across his face at the mention of the King's son… not him, Lee’s father.

Lee goes still.

I regret asking, though I do not take it back.

The King appears not to notice. Or he notices and decides to bulldoze straight through, which may be worse.

"Come," he says. "I will show you the way myself. It has been far too long since I have had the chance to escape my own reception committee."

"You are the reception committee," Fileas says.

"Yes, and I find myself overbearing."

A startled laugh slips out of me.

Fealor offers me his arm with great ceremony. "Lady Maplebloom."

I take it. The King smells faintly of cedar smoke and honey. His cane taps against the pale stones as he leads us beneath an archway grown from braided roots.

Lee walks on my other side, silent.

Behind us, Fileas remains in the street.

I feel his attention between my shoulder blades until the curve of the path hides him.

Eirawen is more beautiful once the crowd thins. That makes it harder to hate the feeling settling in my stomach.

The city rises in layers around living trunks. Some homes are built into the trees, balconies curling from bark like leaves. Others sit on platforms joined by bridges of pale wood. Water runs in narrow channels along the streets, clear enough to show smooth blue stones on the bottom. Children race beside it, their bright clothes flashing between adults.

A girl with pointed ears and a crown of orange flowers stops dead when she sees Lee.

"Prince Lyrian!"

Lee's face changes. The guarded line around his mouth eases.

"Hello, Pippa."

She beams. "You remembered."

"You stole three of my honey cakes at the harvest feast."

"I was seven."

"You were very efficient."

Her mother looks mortified. Pippa looks delighted.

Fealor bends toward her. "And has efficiency improved with age?"

"Yes," she says solemnly. "I can take four now."

The King nods as though she has presented a military strategy. "Terrifying."

By the time we move on, Lee is smiling for real.

I watch him greet an old florist, a pair of young guards, an elderly elf selling spiced nuts from a wooden cart. He knows their names. He asks after stiff knees and new babies and a brother's exam results. He accepts a small paper cone of sugared nuts from the vendor, then passes it to me without taking one himself.

"You don't like them?" I ask.

"I love them."

I looks at them, "Then why are you giving them away?"

"Because you have been very brave."

"I asked for a room."

"Exactly. Heroic."

I take one anyway. It is warm and sticky with cinnamon.

"You look different here," I say quietly.

The smile fades, though he tries to keep it. "Do I?"

"Like you're wearing clothes that don't fit."

He looks ahead.

A group of elves in formal green robes crosses the bridge above us. Their conversation stops when they see us. One woman stares openly at my hair, then says something to the man beside her in a language I do not know.

I do not need translation to recognize the tone.

Lee hears it too. His posture shifts.

"Say it again," he calls up in english.

The woman freezes.

The man catches her elbow. "Your Highness, we meant no offense."

"Then you have an unusual method of showing it."

I touch Lee's wrist. Under my fingers, his pulse beats hard.

The couple hurries on.

He watches them go, blue eyes bright with anger.

"I'm fine," I say, because it is the easiest lie I have.

"I know." His voice is low. "That doesn't make them less rude."

The words should comfort me. Instead, they land strangely. He will defend me from strangers in the street. He will not tell me what waits for us in his own family.

I let go of his wrist.

"Lee."

He glances at me.

"Your uncle doesn't like me."

He gives a short laugh. "My uncle doesn't like weather, soup, puppies or people who breathe near paperwork."

"Does he like you?"

The question seems to catch him somewhere tender. He looks away toward the water channel.

"He likes order," he says after a moment. "I'm not usually part of it."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"No," he says. "It wasn't."

The King stops beside a broad staircase spiraling around the trunk of a tree so massive I cannot see its upper branches. He turns, frowning slightly.

"Are you two coming, or have you decided to take up residence beside the drainage?"

"We were admiring it," Lee says.

"You were arguing," Fealor replies.

"Family resemblance," I say before I can stop myself.

The King's face opens in surprise, then he laughs. Lee gives me a look that says he is both horrified and impressed.

"Up," Fealor says. "Before the roots decide to keep you."

The staircase is alive under my feet. Not moving exactly, but warm. The tree's slow awareness brushes against mine as I climb, curious about the dryad with city dust on her boots. I lay my palm against the inner wall.

Hello, I think.

A faint shiver moves through the bark.

Lee notices. "Does it answer you?"

"Sort of."

"Can you ask it whether it likes me?"

The tree gives another small tremor, this one distinctly amused.

"It thinks you talk too much," I tell him.

"That is devastating. I have always wanted tree approval."

"You should have brought it flowers."

"I am dating a dryad. I thought that covered it."

I laugh, and the sound surprises me. For a few steps, the city feels less like an audience and more like a place I might learn.

Then the King stumbles.

It happens so quickly that at first I think his cane has caught in a knot of wood. His body jerks forward. The cane clatters down the steps. Lee moves before I have drawn breath, catching Fealor under the arms.

"Grandfather."

Fealor's face has gone grey.

His eyes are open, but unfocused. One hand presses against the center of his chest. His breath comes in thin, sharp pulls.

"Fealor?" I crouch beside him.

He tries to wave us away. "I am all right."

"You are on the stairs," Lee says. His voice has changed. The lightness is gone from it completely. "Don't move."

"I have climbed these stairs since before you were born… before your father was born."

"And I'd like you to do it again tomorrow."

The King's mouth tightens. Sweat shines at his temples.

Footsteps pound below. Two guards appear, then a woman in pale blue robes pushing through them with an expression that makes everyone immediately get out of her way.

"Move," she says.

Lee does. Barely.

The healer kneels beside Fealor, puts two fingers to his throat, then closes her eyes. Silver light spills from her fingertips.

The tree under my knees seems to recoil.

A cold pressure runs through the trunk, down into the roots, deep beneath the city. It feels wrong. Not like illness from age or exhaustion. This is something tangled, something that has wound itself around the King's heartbeat and pulled tight.

I look up sharply.

The healer's face is carefully blank.

"What is it?" Lee asks.

"Overexertion," she says. "He needs rest."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the answer I can give in public."

Lee's expression turns dangerous. I have never seen that look on him before. It is not loud. It is worse than loud.

Fealor catches his sleeve.

"Lyrian," he says, each syllable dragged up with effort. "No fuss."

"No fuss?" Lee's laugh is thin. "You nearly fell down a tree."

"A dignified death."

"You are not dying."

The King looks at him then, really looks. Something passes across his face. Fear, perhaps. Or apology.

Before he can say anything, the healer's silver light flares.

Fealor gasps.

All sound around us disappears beneath the hard rush of my own blood.

The healer jerks her hands away. Her eyes are wide.

"What?" Lee demands.

She looks toward the guards, toward the servants gathering below, toward the open spiral of stairs where half the city could see.

"Get him inside," she says. "Now."

Lee lifts his grandfather without waiting for help. Fealor is not a frail man, but Lee holds him with frightening ease, one arm beneath his knees and the other braced behind his back.

The King grips Lee's coat.

"Do not let him," he whispers.

Lee bends close. "Who?"

But Fealor's eyes close.

The healer barks instructions. Guards scatter. A servant grabs the fallen cane. The city below carries on with its bright afternoon, unaware that something has just gone terribly wrong above their heads.

I stand slowly.

My hand remains against the tree.

Beneath its bark, the roots tremble.