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Malleus blinks into the unexpected snow glare, painfully bright on his night fae eyes. For a moment all he can process is the overwhelming expanse of white and the faint bite of cold on his exposed extremities. The scenery settles between watery-eyed blinks, cheerfully painted houses and dark evergreens emerging from the landscape. Malleus raises an eyebrow.
“Lilia,” he says evenly. “This does not appear to be Sage’s Island.”
“I took a detour,” Lilia says, a smile playing over his lips. He bumps a shoulder against Malleus’s side. “I’ve been trying to get you out of Briar Valley for years. I couldn’t let the first place you go be straight to school.”
Malleus shades his eyes, taking in the shape of the village nestled in the valley before them. “Where are we truly?”
“It’s called Harveston,” Lilia says. There’s a note of wistfulness in his voice that Malleus has only previously heard when Lilia speaks of Raverne and Maleanor. He glances sideways, surprised. Lilia doesn’t notice, appearing lost in his own thoughts. “It’s the first place I ever met humans who were kind and unafraid of me, even after learning I was fae.” Lilia’s eyes rove over the village. “It hasn’t changed too much, it seems.”
Malleus surveys the little cluster of buildings. It certainly doesn’t look very impressive, but then, he knows little about human habitation. Perhaps this is the height of their capabilities. Or perhaps there are wonders hiding underground or behind curtains of magic concealment. Or perhaps Lilia has brought him to a rural backwater that’s barely more than a cluster of houses in the mountains.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be a joke. Malleus feels a pang of anxiety thinking about the senate’s instructions that Lilia is to bring him straight to Sage’s Island for their meeting with the headmaster, confirm everything will be ready for Malleus to actually attend the school this coming spring, and come straight back to Briar Valley. There was no allowance given for detours.
“Lilia,” Malleus says, a note of warning in his voice. “If the senate decides you cannot be trusted to look after me at school after all…”
Lilia looks up at him finally, the fog of the past clearing from his eyes. “They won’t find out,” he says breezily, with far more confidence than Malleus feels in the matter, and flashes a grin. “Come on, Malleus, you need to see a little of the world! They grow the most delicious apples here, we have to at least eat a slice of pie before we leave.”
Malleus hesitates, but accedes to the hand tugging him along by the arm. “Very well,” he says. “Since it’s important to you.”
Harveston is small but lively, strung up with apple-shaped lanterns that reflect warm and orange off the snow. It’s warmer in town, with the press of buildings guarding against the gusty winds sweeping down from the mountains and a massive fire pit crackling in the town square. The scent of apples—fresh, baked, candied, stirred into stews and folded into pastries and pies—fills up the air until Malleus is almost dizzy with it. Men and women stop to chatter frequently, clearly well acquainted with most of the other folks in town. There are very few children about, but the ones they see scamper through the streets at alarming speeds. Malleus, reminded of the time Silver went running too quickly down a hill, lost his footing and skinned both knees so bloody that his pants were beyond salvaging, feels a surge of anxiety at the sight of these tiny humans carrying crates of apples or armfuls of firewood over uneven, icy cobblestones. They all seem so fragile to him, yet they move with confidence and sure-footedness, comfortable in their knowledge of every street and stone. Beside him, Lilia is enchanted. He beams at all of it, face alight in a way Malleus isn’t sure he’s ever seen before. He buys them apple pies and doesn’t even comment on what monstrosities he’d visit upon the recipe in attempting to recreate it, only savors the cinnamon-sweet filling and flaking pastry, licking the crumbs off his fingers.
“You must have liked this place quite a bit,” Malleus observes. “You seem very happy to be back.”
“I barely saw it last time,” Lilia says cheerfully. “I was caught in a blizzard and might have frozen to death had some very open-minded humans not come to my aid. I’m glad I’ve gotten the chance to return.”
“The humans are…staring,” Malleus observes. He’s gotten double takes at his horns from almost everyone, although no one has commented as yet, and all of them duck their heads and look away when they realize they’ve been caught looking. Lilia hums in acknowledgement. They’ve drifted over to a bench near the fire pit and sat down while they finished their pies. Lilia shifts over so they are pressed flush against one another and speaks softly.
“They will continue to stare,” he says. “Everyone will.”
“I know,” Malleus says. He does; it’s not as if he doesn’t get stares in Briar Valley as well. Being a dragon and the heir would be enough, without being one who slept for two centuries in his egg and emerged with the kind of magic fae haven’t seen in generations. Everyone at home still treats his existence as a tenuous, miraculous, uncertain thing, as if Malleus might vanish before their very eyes. He can only imagine how much stranger and more frightening his existence is to humans unaccustomed to fae.
He only wishes there was somewhere he didn’t have to be remarkable.
“Malleus, I want you to promise me something.”
Malleus looks down to where Lilia is tucked against his side. His eyes are on the fire, but one hand comes to rest over Malleus’s own.
“A promise is a dangerous thing to ask of a fae.”
“I know,” Lilia says. “I’m asking anyway.”
Malleus waits, breath steaming in the cold air.
“While we’re at that school, I want you to promise you’ll try to make friends.”
Malleus blinks. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t that. He twists slightly, trying to read Lilia’s expression, but Lilia is gazing at the fire with the focus of staring down his mortal enemy. He continues, not waiting for Malleus’s answer.
“It will be difficult. The students will be intimidated by you, frightened by your magic or the fact that you’re fae or that you’re a prince. They won’t understand you.”
“You don’t exactly make it sound appealing.”
“I know.” Lilia licks his lips. “It will be hard. But I want you to try anyway.”
The fire snaps in front of them, sending a spray of sparks upward. Malleus follows the drifting embers, winking out of their momentary gasp of existence one by one.
“May I ask why?” He keeps his voice light and curious. Lilia has never steered him wrong—well, not with anything that truly mattered, anyway—but the request seems odd. The whole conversation feels misplaced, in this cozy little village with the beginnings of an afternoon snow flurry drifting down around them and pastry crumbs still sticking to their jackets, where Malleus was never supposed to be.
“Because,” Lilia answers, “it’s the only way to get them to stop staring.” He presses harder against Malleus’s arm. “I want you to go out and experience the world, Malleus—I want you to meet people, get to know them, let them get to know you. I don’t—” His voice falters, just barely, a crack in his composure that Malleus would never have heard if he hadn’t known Lilia better than he knew anyone else. ”—want you to be lonely.”
“I’m not lonely,” Malleus lies. Lilia doesn’t dignify that with a response.
“The senate keeps you on a very short leash,” Lilia continues, “and after these years at school, I don’t know when you might be let off it again. But you need to see more of the world, Malleus.” He tilts his face up, snowflakes catching in his hair. “This tiny, unremarkable village contained the first humans to show me kindness. I could never, would never have imagined such people, in such a place, until I experienced it. Ah, I’m not explaining this well. But that’s rather the point: I can’t explain it. You’ll have to find it on your own.” His gaze finally shifts back towards Malleus. “The senate thinks itself omniscient. But the world is so much bigger and stranger than they think, and you’ll never really know that until you’re out there in the muck and dust of it all.”
“I have you to tell me about it,” Malleus says, but Lilia is shaking his head before he completes the sentence.
“It’s not the same. Besides, it isn’t just about that.” Lilia’s hand grips the top of Malleus’s. “Just promise me that you’ll try. Even though it will be hard and strange for you. I’ll help as much as I can, of course.”
“Friends,” Malleus muses. He hasn’t thought of his upcoming experimentation with Night Raven College in such terms. Human lives are so brief, the idea of befriending one seems strange. Sebek and Silver are one thing—their Night’s Blessings will extend their lifetimes beyond the normal human limitations, and being Lilia’s family makes them his family as well—but to befriend an ordinary human is not something Malleus can quite picture. He’d imagined himself observing, more than anything, learning a small something about humans and their world. It would be good preparation for diplomatic relations once he rules. Perhaps that is all Lilia is after, for Malleus to gain a deeper understanding of humans than he could simply by standing on the sidelines. That doesn’t sound like what he’s asking, though. Malleus looks down to where Lilia’s hand is gripping his wrist.
“You’re melancholy today.”
Lilia shakes his head slightly. “That’s not it,” he says. He brushes an especially large flake of snow off his eyebrow. “Well,” he amends, “maybe a little. But I’ve wanted to have this conversation ever since you received your letter.”
Malleus regards him for a long moment. Then he gently shifts his arm until Lilia loosens his grip, turns his hand up so their palms are flush and interlaces their fingers.
“I promise I shall try to make friends,” Malleus says. His voice is so grave it could be a joke, but there is an utter sincerity behind it that he knows Lilia will hear. “You have my word.” Lilia’s shoulders slump.
“Thank you,” he says. He squeezes Malleus’s hand. “I love you, my heart. I want you to be happy so very badly.”
“I know,” Malleus says. The pie they ate suddenly feels very thick in his throat. Sometimes I think you’re the only one who does, he doesn’t say. Lilia wouldn’t take it well, even if it’s true.
A moment of silence falls between them. Across the square, a snowball fight has broken out, first between three of four of the children, and progressively dragging the adults in it as well. Ensconced in the circle of the fire’s heat, with snow drifting down on their heads, and the rush of life around them, Malleus almost understands why Lilia brought them here.
Then Lilia shakes himself, pulls his hand loose, and hops to his feet. “Come on, then,” he says. “If we’re late to our meeting with the headmaster then the senate really will have my head and I’ll have to make Baur go to school in my place.”
In spite of himself, Malleus snorts. “I thought we were trying to avoid reigniting a war.”
Lilia grins at him, his vivaciousness restored. He spreads his arms wide as if to embrace the square, the glow of the apple lanterns reflecting off his pale face.
“Ah, Malleus. Surely even Baur could learn to fall in love with the world.”
Malleus, caving to some internal snap of sentimentality, catches one of Lilia’s outstretched hands and uses it to pull himself to his feet. He doesn’t let go, and after a moment Lilia’s fingers tentatively thread back through his.
“Maybe,” Malleus says. “But I don’t want anyone but you by my side.”
He almost regrets his words as some of the joy slips from Lilia’s face. Remembered griefs cloud his expression, ones Malleus has never been able to share—which has only ever made Lilia’s guilt worse. Lilia’s eyes move back to the fire, seeing something long lost to him. Malleus almost opens his mouth to apologize, except then Lilia squeezes his hand.
Malleus squeezes back, and pours all the words Lilia can’t stand to hear into it.