Page 34 of Prince of Flowers
“Are you just going to stand there gaping, or are you going to fucking help me?”
“Oh. You’re right. Sorry. Right.”
I set my grimoire aside and shuffled closer. Putting a magic shield around him had been the right thing to do. A fae of his power and stature was supposed to be hardier, more resistant to damage than the average human. But he could have ended up in worse shape if I hadn’t armored him with my essence.
“Sorry, Sylvain,” I said, really meaning it this time.
He didn’t acknowledge the apology, only clenching his teeth as he held back tears of pain. “I didn’t think these challenge grounds were going to be so bad. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I huffed as I got on my knees and into position. Whoa. I really needed to get some more cardio in. “To be fair, this is supposed to be the safest of the four elemental oriels. Imagine — gods, I think I’m cramping — imagine how bad the Oriel of Fire would be.”
“I don’t want to,” he said. “I’m still imagining how wonderful it would feel to put my fist in your face. Now hand me one of those potions that Bruna gave you. The red one.”
“You knew? You were checking out her plants. I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“I’m always paying attention. I’m serious, Locke, this really hurts. I demand that you unstopper one of those phials right now and pour it down my — ”
“Calm down.”
I placed my hand against his jaw, my fingers grazing his cheek. He blinked up at me, stunned into silence by the gesture, and by the stream of magic I was sending into his body.
A large part of being a summoner involved using magic to augment our eidolons, to strengthen or improve them in ways that only our special bonds would allow. It was how Evander and I could grant various enchantments to our respective winged minions of choice.
Regenerative magic fell under that umbrella as well, allowing summoners to sustain injured eidolons for longer periods of time, to keep them on the battlefield. Sylvain didn’t look like he was going anywhere, but I at least owed him the equivalent of a painkiller or two. He shut his eyes and leaned against the tree, a relieved sigh escaping through his lips.
“I can heal you a little, but I can’t heal myself. Not trying to be selfish, but I hope you don’t mind if I save the healing potion just in case. And I’m sorry I tricked you into getting angry with me again. All right?”
He rubbed the front of his arm, eyes still deliberately avoiding mine, lip turned up in a pout. “Just. Well. Some warning would be nice next time. All right?”
But then the pact wouldn’t have kicked in if I’d warned him. Would it? Hopefully there wouldn’t be a next time, and the two of us could start treating each other as allies, if not as friends. I clapped him on the shoulder.
“Promise.”
Maybe it was time we dealt with challenges the way summoners and eidolons were supposed to, with cooperation and trust. No more deception.
“And now that I feel better,” Sylvain said, leaving the end of the sentence hanging.
He sprang to his feet. I jerked away, already unsure I could take him in a fight. But the pact would protect me anyway, unless it had decided I’d been enough of a manipulative jerk and refused to continue repelling him with magic.
He stalked past me instead, sword in hand, eyes focused on dead old Hungry Henry. Teeth bared, he plunged his blade into the limp plant over and over again, grunting with every strike.
“Sylvain. Stop. It’s already dead.”
And then the corpse moved.
Sylvain leapt away even as I came closer, ready to tug on his wrist and really, actually take off running this time. But the flytrap wasn’t really moving. It started from the edges, its tendrils and the tips of its spines going brown, wilting at an alarming pace, so much so that the dried-out bits of it crackled as they broke off.
Within seconds the entire thing had gone bone-dry, brittle to the touch.
“Whoa. Was that supposed to happen? Wait, Sylvain. Don’t — ”
He prodded the strange husk with the end of his sword. The remains of the flytrap crumbled, the sound like the hoarse rasp of a dying man. The dust blew away with the wind. I stared at the ground disbelieving. It was gone, all of it. Disintegrated. I pointed at nothing.
“Okay. What the fuck just happened here?”
“The Withering,” Sylvain muttered.
I opened my mouth to ask the first of a barrage of questions, but the breeze picked up again. This time it was warmer, pleasant, and with it came a sigh, a moan, a whisper on the wind. Laughter came from above us. Sylvain brandished his sword. Like a fool I brandished my book.
