The Lord of Stariel

by A J Lancaster

  The small amount of chatter there had been ceased as the moonlight began to inch across the circle. Eventually it touched the Stone, which lit up in iridescent blues and purples, and Aunt Sybil strode forward purposefully. She walked the circle clockwise in a spiral, ending at the Stone, and placed both her hands upon it. Hetta felt a wave of relief pass through the assembled gatherers when nothing happened.

  Uncle Percival seemed utterly relaxed as he took his turn next, grinning around at his assembled relations as he too placed his hands on the stone to no effect.

  “Ah, well,” he said, shrugging as he made his way over to Aunt Sybil. There was a little ripple of amusement, stemming more from a desire to break the increasing tension than from humour. Aunt Maude’s passage was more reverent than her older siblings’—she was exactly the sort of person to come up with a ceremony like this in the first place—but she was equally unsuccessful. The rest of Lord Valstar’s generation of relatives’ turns were perfunctory. They knew they wouldn’t be chosen.

  And then it was time for the next generation of Valstars. It seemed to take forever for cousin Cecily to take her turn, stroking delicate fingers along the surface of the Stone. She took her place beside her mother and turned to give Marius an encouraging smile.

  Marius’s face was deathly white as he made his way in the spiral towards the Stone. Hetta held her breath as he reached out in a rapid motion, barely touching its surface. But the result was clear—it didn’t respond. He stared at it for a long moment, swaying slightly. For a breath, Hetta worried that he’d faint with the sudden release of tension, but he collected himself and made his way on unsteady legs to where his older relatives waited. Cecily put a hand briefly on his shoulder when he reached her, but he shook it off like a horse dislodging a fly, not looking at anyone.

  Hetta couldn’t help shooting a glance at Jack. He ignored the many eyes on him, keeping his face impassive, but his colour was high.

  Hetta could feel the impatience amongst her relatives now that the conclusion seemed settled. She picked her way through the circle towards the Star Stone. The ritual took place atop a low hill above a wide field, and despite the mass of interested parties spread below and around her, she felt suddenly alone beneath the silver light of the moon, the stars glittering above. Her cumbersome, long-sleeved white robe added to the surrealism, making it difficult to maintain her serious expression, but she managed it by making herself repeat the names for the different branches of illusion silently as she walked.

  Chronillism, spatillism, phraenosion, pyrocracy, kinecism… How was Bradfield, the director, getting on without her? Was the new show getting the good reviews it needed to succeed, with whatever slapdash illusionist he could beg, borrow, or steal covering for her?

  She reached the Stone and placed her hands matter-of-factly on its surface, her thoughts miles away from Stariel.

  The iridescence of the stone exploded outwards, flooding the circle in blue light. Stars glittered, and golden flames roared up around the circle.

  The effects lasted for perhaps half a minute, during which Hetta could do nothing but stand there, hands still on the Stone, frozen in shock, thinking of nothing at all.

  There was a deep, profound silence. It spread like a pool from the innermost circle outwards, until it included all the gathered servants, villagers, tenants, and neighbouring nobility. It wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was an intense, aggressive silence, intently focused on one person—her. She thought wildly of the glare of the stage lights.

  Whispers broke out in the outer ranks, hissing in the still night air. None of the Valstars had yet moved, stunned into immobility. It was her cousin Caroline who broke the silence.

  “All hail the new Lord of Stariel! Lord Henrietta!” she cried, her voice pitched to carry over the field. The assembled villagers picked up her cue and echoed it back, but the cries sounded weak and lacklustre.

  Jack had gone white and red with rage and disbelief, but at this he turned, pushed his way out of the crowd, and stalked out of sight. Aunt Sybil’s face was livid.

  It fell to Grandmamma to arrange the remainder of the ritual, since the rest of the older generation of Valstars remained rooted to the spot.

  Hetta hardly noticed. She looked around helplessly. Marius wouldn’t meet her eyes, and the rest of her cousins shuffled their feet, awkward and unwilling to risk Aunt Sybil’s wrath. Again, Caroline was the exception, striding forward and steadying her with a hand to one shoulder.

  “Just breathe,” she said in a low tone. “Everything will be fine.” Hetta rather doubted that, but she took her cousin’s advice nonetheless.

  Suddenly Wyn was at her elbow, and she turned to find him crawling with wild energy, hair pure silver under the starlight.

  “My Star,” Wyn said quietly, bowing his head. It was an old form of address for the Lord of Stariel, but Hetta was oddly grateful for it at that moment. He smiled at her, a much gentler smile than his normal wicked grin. “Your people await. You know the words?” It steadied her, and she swallowed, nodding and turning her gaze towards the crowd.

  The oath words had been imprinted on her memory—as they were for all the Valstars—so long ago that she found herself speaking them without taking in anything of their meaning. She might still have been reciting spell names. Everything felt very far away. The air had become thick, so that to lift each limb or even open her mouth to speak required a firm effort. She found herself reaching for Stariel. It was there as it had always been: deep, vast, sluggish. Maybe it was the shock, or maybe it needed time to click into place, but her land-sense didn’t feel any different than before.

  The rest of the evening was a blur. She had no recollection of moving through the crowd, or leaving the stone circle, or of the journey back to Stariel House. She didn’t remember anything except suddenly finding herself once again in her yellowing childhood bedroom and clinging to her blankets as if they were the last real thing left in the world.

  9

  Morning Coffee

  The sun was still below the horizon when Henrietta Isadore Valstar, First of Her Name, Defender of Starwater, Lord of Stariel, woke and stared up at her bedroom ceiling. It was still dark, but outside, the countryside was quietly waking, the sounds still a jarring difference from her boarding house in Meridon.

  Stariel had chosen, and that made Hetta the new Lord of Stariel.

  The ceiling’s peeling plaster whorls seemed inappropriately mundane given the circumstances. She traced the familiar patterns above, very tempted to believe last night’s happenings a dream, but knowing they weren’t.

  She reached out towards Stariel with her land-sense again. Shouldn’t she sense something different now? That was the only part of her changed status that held any appeal—the chance to explore new magic—but she couldn’t feel any more or less than usual. Maybe it just took time for the bond between land and lord to fully form.

  She didn’t want to think about any of the other implications of her new title, but it was difficult to avoid. She would need to let her landlady know she was giving up her lease and retrieve her belongings from her boarding house in Meridon. Hetta had, most unfortunately, just paid the next two months’ rent. Her lips quirked in pained amusement. And Bradfield; she would have to tell him his illusionist wouldn’t be coming back. That realisation was like swallowing a whole bottle of vinegar.

  Perhaps she could go back to Meridon, just for a few weeks, to finish out the show’s run? But she rejected the idea with a pang even as it occurred to her. It would be impossible to leave Stariel for such a length of time so soon after the Choosing.

  It was hard to accept these things, even harder at six o’clock in the morning in the cold and dark. She wanted to shout at someone, but there was no point. How could you argue with something as vast and inhuman as the land itself?

  Trying to shake off the spiralling depression, she rose and dressed. Not ten minutes later, she let herself out of the quiet house and into the terraced garden, trea
ding cautiously across the paving stones. The morning was still and cold and clear, ice crystals glittering in the pre-dawn light.

  She looked towards Starwater and considered walking down to its glassy waters, but she had on only her slippers, and the ground was heavy with frost. White spread out as far as the eye could see. Hetta’s breath plumed in the air as she tucked her hands inside her coat and pondered the strange twists of fate.

  Dawn in Stariel was at once a slow and sudden affair. Starwater nestled between mountain ranges, so it was quite light by the time the sun rose above the far range, suddenly flooding the valley below with brilliant gold and reflecting off the waters in a dazzling display.

  By the time the sun was fully up, Hetta was no further in her thoughts. She knew there were things she needed to organise, but she felt a strong reluctance to begin. Denial seemed very attractive right now, except that she’d never been good at that. But even her deep core of pragmatism felt as fragile as cracked glass, and she hugged her arms around herself, as if she could hold it forcibly together.

  The sound of the side door swinging open made her turn. Wyn stood there, holding a tray upon which rested a gently steaming metal pot and two cups. The smell wafted towards her, and a wave of homesickness washed over her.

  “Is that coffee, you marvellous creature? I thought there wasn’t any in the house.” She took a step towards him, drawn by the smell.

  Wyn smiled, bringing the tray over to the outdoor table and setting out the cups. “I took the liberty of ordering some when you came back. You’ve written of your love affair with the stuff frequently enough. I’ll admit the timing of it seems fortuitous.”

  “I love you,” Hetta said fervently as he poured.

  His mouth twitched, but when he looked up, his expression was oddly intent. “I may stay, then?”

  “Of course you may stay and take coffee with me, my friend.” She gestured at the two cups. “But I think you rather anticipated my answer, so I don’t know why you bothered to ask.”

  “No,” Wyn clarified. “May I stay at Stariel?”

  Hetta blinked at him, looking for some sign of levity, but he seemed in earnest. Eventually she said, “Why are you asking me this?”

  Wyn pursed his lips. “You’re Lord Valstar now.”

  Hetta twisted her cup in her hands. “I suppose I am, but what makes you think you need seek my permission to stay?” She tried to follow his mind’s path but couldn’t.

  “Nonetheless, I do seek it.”

  “Then of course you have it,” she said briskly.

  Wyn smiled, and his odd intensity drained away. “Excellent.” He poured the coffee and sat down. “It would be terribly inconvenient to have to leave.”

  “For you or us?” Hetta said with a laugh. “Since you’re serving as housekeeper and butler both, as I understand it, since Mabel retired.”

  Wyn shrugged. “House manager, technically, but butler does well enough for everyday use.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sipping her coffee. It grounded her, this small reminder of Meridon. She wrapped her fingers around the cup and let it warm her hands, the bitter-smooth taste lingering on her tongue.

  A comfortable silence fell between them, and the world narrowed into the crisp isolation of the early morning, the steam of the coffee pot and its rich, nutty scent, and the first chirpings of the waking birds.

  Then Wyn spoke. “Will you run, Hetta?”

  He did not look at her but stared instead out towards Starwater. His tone had not been one of accusation; he had said the words mildly, as if merely inquiring whether she would prefer toast or cereal for breakfast.

  “I want to,” Hetta admitted, also choosing to avoid the intimacy of facing him. It was easier to admit her fears to the vast landscape. Again, she searched for her land-sense, trying to detect some deeper layer than had been there before, but there was no sudden epiphany to be had. If anything, Stariel seemed to be…waiting. Hetta sighed. “What am I supposed to do? I know nothing about estate management. The people of Stariel know me only as the rebellious daughter who left long ago. I’ve no claim to their loyalty. Sweet Mother Eostre only knows where the accounts stand—I certainly don’t. And everyone sees me as a usurper. Jack couldn’t even face me last night.”

  “Some of these things might be rectified.”

  “Yes,” Hetta agreed unhappily. She swirled the dregs of her cup. “This isn’t how I imagined my homecoming.”

  “You did imagine it, though?”

  Hetta considered the question with a frown. “I don’t know. I love my life in Meridon, but it has always felt, not precisely temporary, but…” She struggled to find the words. She gestured out towards the hills and forests and glittering lake. “There’s a permanence to this place that’s hard to deny. It was, I have to admit, comforting to know that it was here, that there were Valstars in Stariel, though I might not be among them.”

  “That it was there for you to come back to,” Wyn suggested.

  “Yes.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, but Wyn’s words had loosened some of the tension in her. She knew that there were things she ought to be asking Wyn in his capacity as house manager; things that he ought to be asking her. Yet he stayed silent, and she was grateful for it.

  Eventually Wyn began packing up the tray. “I’d best get back. It’s the first frost this morning.” He gestured out towards the white lawns.

  It took Hetta a second to remember what this meant. “Oh. Sloe Day—do we still do that?”

  “Indeed we do.” He smiled fondly. “We’ll have the village children turning up with their baskets by lunchtime, once the sun has dried off the frost.”

  “I used to love that tradition.” Sloe berries were traditionally picked from the hedgerows after the first frost, to sweeten the flavour. They were then used to make everything from sloe gin to chutney. “What’s the going rate these days? I remember once making half a crown in a particularly fruitful year.”

  “Oh you do, do you?” Wyn said, raising his eyebrows. “And was this all on your lonesome? Was there not, perhaps, an impressionable youth involved whom you persuaded to do a lot of running hither and thither to aid your attempt?”

  “I cannot say I remember any such thing,” Hetta said primly. “But I’m sure you picked plenty of sloe berries in your time too.” She reached out to pat his arm consolingly. She’d meant it teasingly, but Wyn looked up and there was a snap of connection, the gesture suddenly more intimate. He inhaled sharply. A sense of fierce otherness clung to him like faint elektricity, and she could feel the warmth of his body through his sleeve. The idea that this wild, beautiful man and the mild-mannered head of staff and the old, comfortable friend of her youth were one and the same person had never seemed more absurd.

  Wyn turned his face away and the connection shattered. He rose, nodded in acknowledgement, and left without speaking.

  Careful, she cautioned herself as she watched his tall form disappear. He is technically your employee now as well as your friend.

  Hetta continued to sit, reluctant to make her way back into the house and start the day. There would be unpleasant scenes to face. She tried to be productive and think of which of her illusionist friends might be free and willing to work with Bradfield, but the attempt left her unutterably depressed. She didn’t want him to replace her, didn’t want to call him and break the news. As long as she put off calling him, a little pocket of the world still existed that hadn’t been completely turned upside down.

  Distraction came from an unexpected source. The dull thudding of hoofbeats sounded from the forest, and as Hetta watched, a horse and rider appeared. Then the shape resolved itself into two riders on one horse: one fair-haired, one dark. Hetta frowned, trying to make out who it was. As they drew closer, she realised that it was her younger brother Gregory, accompanied by a strange young woman.

  10

  A New Arrival

  Hetta stood and made her way down the small set of
steps that opened onto the front lawn from the higher terrace but didn’t step onto the grass, conscious of her slippers. She waved and saw Gregory start, making his horse sidle. Gregory quickly controlled it and rode towards Hetta. When he drew close, he dismounted and offered a hand to the girl who’d been seated behind him. He handed her down with the kind of reverence one usually reserves for expensive china. Here’s the source of the calf-love then, Hetta identified, suppressing the urge to smile.

  The mysterious girl wasn’t far removed from Gregory in age, and she was entirely, effortlessly lovely. At the theatre, Hetta would have conjured something like her to play the beautiful ingenue, except an illusion that faultless wouldn’t be convincing. She had heavenly blue eyes, large and guileless, and dark ringlets, which curled charmingly around her angelic countenance. The top of her head barely reached up to Gregory’s shoulder.

  Well, this small goddess certainly explained Gregory’s infatuation, but why in the nine heavens had he brought her here at this hour? Her jewellery and the cut and fabric of her dress suggested she wasn’t a village girl. Where had she come from?

  The girl seemed to feel the full force of the moment’s awkwardness, for she curtsied and stammered:

  “P-p-please don’t be angry, my lady. Indeed, I don’t wish to trespass, only Mr Valstar here was so kind and…” Her voice grew steadily more inaudible and she trailed off, biting her lip and staring at Hetta’s feet.

  Hetta looked enquiringly at Gregory, who flushed, but said aggressively, “I told Gwen—I mean, Miss, er, Smith—that she’d be safe here.”

  “You must forgive me,” Hetta said, valiantly keeping her voice from quivering at the melodrama being enacted in front of her. “But I am quite lost. I take it you are Miss Smith?” She smiled reassuringly at the girl, who stole a furtive look up at her but couldn’t seem to keep her eyes raised. Miss ‘Smith’—if that was her name, which Hetta rather doubted—coloured prettily and said confusedly: