by
In every legend of Fairyland, the fairies have their own reasons for crossing the border…
Oliver has spent his life as the crown prince, preparing to rule but in no hurry to do so, enjoying life and taverns with Tirian, his fairy-companion and best friend. But when the traditional Vision Quest calls—and a dragon appears—Oliver finds himself facing difficult questions about heroism, sacrifice… and the emotions he’s discovering he has about Tir.
But Tirian has secrets of his own, about his purpose, his magic, his feelings for Oliver, and a prophecy that will change the fates of two kingdoms forever.
Preparations hardly occupied any time; the kingdom swirled with excitement for him. A Crown Prince, and a Vision Quest—about time, joked the Keeper of the Armory, and Oliver rolled eyes and accepted a sword—and a Happily Ever After. Ballads got sung. Women and men cooed happily over romance. Firelight crackled in hearths and homes. Oliver’s sisters both sent messages telling him it was his turn to do something with his life, and rather smugly reminding him that they didn’t have to go on quests to prove their worth, neither of them being the Heir.
Some Heirs, every once in a great while, might find neither a Prince nor a Princess in the Seeing Pool, instead achieving a Happily Ever After with only themselves, content that way. Oliver, mentally sorting through available aristocratic children of the bordering kingdoms, concluded that this might well be his own case. He made a list, and stared at it.
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Most of the appropriate age-group had either married or gotten betrothed already; at least one was far too young, and he was a hundred percent certain that the handsome eldest son of the Firezian royal family wasn’t interested in men, which wouldn’t necessarily preclude True Love but would make wedding-night consummation difficult. He tried physically turning his list around on the table in case that provided a clue. It did not.
Oliver himself could be flexible as far as gender—he hadn’t hopped into and out of beds as carelessly as Cedric, but then probably no one in the kingdom could compete with his little brother, and Ollie had been discreet both because he was the Heir and because he wanted to at least like the person he was bedding—and he was willing to consider a certain age range, but even so he couldn’t come up with any single eligible person of appropriate rank.
Certainly no one he felt a flicker of interest in.
Certainly no one who seemed to be in need of rescuing. Which ought to be the point of the Quest: proving his worth, and so on.
He ran his list by Tir in case he’d forgotten someone. Tir observed, “You’ve forgotten Princess Marguerite, down in Fleur-de-Lys, but she’s not eligible; you’re some sort of distant cousin, I believe.”
“Oh. Right.” He sighed melodramatically. Sprawled across the library divan. “I’m going to end this Quest alone with myself. Just me, forever.”
Tir, who’d been already occupying the divan, moved legs to let Oliver overact, and then plopped them atop Oliver’s own. Nothing unusual about this. Fifteen years of closeness, after all. “Terribly alone. Yes. I plainly am worth less than your furniture in this scenario.”
“Oh, you…” He waved a hand. “Of course you’re there. You don’t count.”
“Ah.” Tir picked up his book again. This one seemed to be another terrible sensation novel from the brand-new printing press over at the University, which had been invented by a group of students and consequently produced copies of both serious philosophical texts and gruesome melodramatic romance with startling enthusiasm. This cover appeared to show a ghost rising out of a well and a lady with six fingers standing atop a man’s body; Tir would probably claim, somewhat guiltily, that he was studying humanity. After several years, this had become a transparent excuse to vanish into dreadful over-the-top thrills. “Thank you for clarifying.”
Oliver poked him with a toe, which required some flexibility, though Tir didn’t seem impressed. “You know what I mean.”
“Actually I don’t.” Tirian’s tone was oddly defensive; Oliver frowned, confused, but in the next second got a headshake from that direction. “Never mind. Look, there’s no point to you worrying about it now. The Seeing Pool’ll show you whatever it shows you; we’ll find out what that is when we get there. For all we know there’s a long-lost Prince or Princess right under our noses, someone we’ve both forgotten, and your task’ll be to find him or her. Does that help?”
“Um. Yes?” He ought to say more. He knew he ought to say more. He didn’t know what else might belong in that reply. Tir was back behind decadent pages and buried in unlikely plot twists, and the silence stretched out enough to go from normal to prickly to unremarked.
It did help. He could set aside that worry for now. It’d come back later, but Tir was right and the vision of the Seeing Pool was never predictable in advance; no point in racking his brain.
As the pause extended, he figured out that Tir wasn’t going to say anything more; he got up after a minute and got his own book, an account of solitary explorer’s travels through the Northern Territories, but restlessness scratched under his skin like a task left undone when he glanced at that dark bent head. He didn’t know why.
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