32. A Wild Magic: Uther

                                    

                                              
Uther blinked rapidly—as if that would improve his hearing. The stag breathed in deep, heavy huffs, and its dark-pooled eyes were fixed on him. Uther squinted, cursing his uncle for not having better vision. He wanted to meet the stag's gaze, try to see if this was a spell, a trick, or if it was really his brother, Bjorn.

                          
His heart leapt into his throat. He wanted to see his brother again. They'd never properly said goodbye, as he'd been sequestered away from the sick and dying. You want this to be true, he thought. He wanted it too much...it was so tempting to think it...to believe it.
                          
His voice cracking, Uther said, "My brother is dead."

                          
"Aye, and this is the other world, where the dead can roam," the stag said, its voice rough and low.
                          
"And it's full of trick some fae," Brinn hissed, raising her sword to a guard position. Uther held out his hand to stay her anger.
                          
"Kin calls to kin, blood calls to blood, and I felt you come to the other world, brother, but it wasn't into...not into the place I had been. That was a better place than this. It was here, and I came to find you, and here you are, and I swear I'm looking on my uncle, but this place warps things."
                          
Uther swallowed, choking back his own hopes and gut twisting fears. He took a step forward, and Septimus whacked him in the knees with his staff. Uther yelped, jumping back into the circle.
                          
"Last time I remembered, Bjorn was human man—a dead one—and you're clearly fae. I'm a wizard, and I can feel it on you," Septimus snapped, barring Uther's path with his staff.
                          
"Septimus, what if he's—"
                          
"This is an obvious trap. Just because a bunch of fae made nice with you doesn't mean they're all going to be friendly, little helpers," Septimus said, glaring at the stag.
                          
The stag shifted its weight between its two cloven-hooved feet. It snorted and said, "He is right. To come here, I had to leave...leave a better place and take this form, but I did die a man. Brother, what has happened to you?"
                          
There was a prickling in the corner of Uther's eye. It really was Bjorn, he thought. His brother had traveled through death to find him. Blood calls to blood, kin calls to kin. That's what the stag had said...that's what his brother had said. He glared at Septimus and shoved his staff aside.
                          
Septimus lunged forward and grabbed his arm. Uther flung him off, shouting, "Get off me! I want to see my brother!"
                          
"It's a sarding trap! It's a trap, it's a trap! You'll believe anything is good, won't you? That it'll all just work out for you. This is how bloody Arniel cursed you!"
                          
Septimus's words were like a slap across his mind. Uther already had tears starting to well in his eye, but he refused to let himself cry now. Through clenched teeth, he said, "Go on, Septimus, tell me how you would've stopped him...tell me how you would've won the war."
                          
"I wouldn't have started it," Septimus hissed, but he'd gone another shade of pale.
                          
Uther gave Septimus a cold look. He said, "Of course not. Some of us have to do things, even though we're not ready. Do you think I wanted to rule? It was supposed to be Bjorn's throne. I wasn't the heir apparent. Until I was. It wasn't because I wanted it. It was because my brother was dead."
                          
A strong tug on his arm made Uther whirl around. Cyrus grabbed him and pointed at the ground, where he'd written MAKE HIM PROVE IT and gestured at the stag. Uther pursed his lips and gave a sharp nod. He turned towards the stag again and squared his shoulders, pointedly ignoring Septimus.
                          
"Three questions," Uther said, "and if you can answer them, I'll believe you. First, how many hunting dogs did you have?"
                          
"I didn't hunt with dogs. I had a falcon and rode while Cyrus ran ahead with his dogs. That's how I hunted," he said. Uther exhaled in relief. He glanced at Cyrus, who gave a curt nod. The nobles of the Moorelands were famous for their hounds, so Bjorn never bothered raising any himself.