Hetta had a horrible sinking feeling that she knew where this tale was leading, but she said nothing.
“At the time, I was oblivious to politics, and the war, though ever-present, seemed a distant thing. But I was summoned by my father and informed that I was to wed Princess Sunnika, daughter of DuskRose’s queen. I was ambivalent about the match, but I resolved to do my best to honour ThousandSpire and the newly brokered peace. I vowed to marry Sunnika.”
Hetta felt suddenly cold. Outside, the sunset washed the landscape with gold, but the warmth didn’t penetrate her father’s study. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as she waited for Wyn to continue. But he stared at nothing, lost in memory. Once more, she closed the distance between them and put a hand to his arm. He gave a start but didn’t pull away. She could see it now, the fae prince lurking under his skin—that hint of something wild and alien she’d glimpsed flashes of before. She wondered if he was hiding beneath the same glamour as Gwendelfear, whether when it fell his eyes too would fill with colour, his hair and skin shift to some unnatural green shade.
Wyn stared down at her hand on his arm. “My father had finally found a use for me. Though he was outwardly compliant, he planned to have me murdered and frame DuskRose for my death, thus providing a neat excuse to continue the feud. Even the High King couldn’t force peace under such circumstances. A retainer found out about the plan and warned me. I ran. I did not know what else to do. And once I had run, the honour of both courts rested on retrieving me, to punish me. Nowhere in Faerie was safe for me. And then I thought…the Court of Falling Stars, the faeland in mortal hands.”
“But if Stariel counts as part of Faerie, why would—oh, the boundary,” Hetta said in sudden realisation. “That’s what you were trying to tell me before. Stariel has a border that you need permission to cross, not because it’s an estate but because it’s a faeland?”
Wyn smiled. It was the first proper smile she’d seen from him since Gwendelfear had confronted him. “Yes. The Mortal Realm has been something of a blind spot for the fae since our interaction with it has grown so very limited. And FallingStar has been so long in mortal hands that it is considered more mortal than fae. It was a risk to come here. As I said—a technicality that I only dared try because I so desperately needed sanctuary. But the High King’s law did not stop me crossing over, so I assumed my technicality had held up. Then I had only to gain your father’s permission to remain hidden within the protection of its borders.”
“But because there is no Lord of Stariel at present, the boundary that protected you before is no longer there?”
Wyn shook his head. “The boundary is still there, just weaker. Greater fae will be able to pass unhindered. The lesser fae will need permission to cross, unless they forfeit their powers at the border, but at present any Valstar will do. Gregory must have let Gwendelfear in. I imagine she was sent on something of a scouting mission when the Iron Law was revoked, after Lord Henry’s death, on the off-chance of gaining some kind of advantage over FallingStar. I do not think she knew I was here.”
“Speaking of Gwendelfear, what in Pyrania’s name are we to do with her? I can’t keep her locked in the dungeons forever.”
“I suppose not. For one thing, Gregory would probably object to it. And,” he added thoughtfully, “probably Lady Sybil would not like it either. It would likely offend her sense of propriety.” Wyn had always had a tendency towards levity when shaken, but Hetta didn’t laugh, still struggling to come to terms with this abrupt expansion of the world. Wyn visibly reined himself in.
“There is a spell I know. A spell of forgetting. If we wait until nightfall, I cast it, and we take Gwendelfear back to her bed, in the morning she will wake with no memory of today and—hopefully—not realise that she has lost a day.”
Hetta blinked at him. She’d never heard of that sort of magic outside of tales. But then, the fae were something from tales. “That sounds rather risky, letting her go. Won’t she still recognise you if she sees you again?”
Wyn’s expression had smoothed, revealing nothing of his feelings. “I am wondering if I should leave you. Leave Stariel, that is. Though I do not think Gwendelfear was here for me, her presence here and the weakening boundaries mean I will endanger you.”
“If you think you can run away at such a time and leave me to deal with fairies and fake Stones and plots and bothersome relatives, then I am disowning you on the spot. Stop talking such idiocy and help me.”
It hadn’t escaped her notice that the kind of magic Wyn knew had deeply troubling implications, though she was trying very hard not to think of them. Preventing people from speaking? Making them forget? He’d been hardly more than a child when he left Faerie—what kind of people would teach such magic to a child? What kind of child would need such magic?
Gwendelfear’s blue, flower-pupiled eyes kept surfacing in her mind, and she couldn’t help imagining Wyn with the same. She almost wished he would reveal his full nature. Surely the reality of it couldn’t be worse that what she envisaged? But what if it was?
Still, she was dissatisfied with Wyn’s plan, beyond the risk it posed. Abruptly she realised why. “I’m not comfortable hiding that creature in my household with my family oblivious to the danger she may pose to them.”
Wyn nodded unhappily. “I confess I do not like it much myself. But between the two of us, we can keep an eye on her.”
“No,” Hetta said. “You’ve just been telling me that deceit and secrets are fae nature, and that’s hardly a recommendation to resort to such methods. I think we should tell my family what’s at stake.”
If she’d slapped Wyn, he couldn’t have looked more taken aback or more thoroughly disgusted with himself.
“You’re right. Of course you’re right. And you have a fae in the dungeon to prove it.” He groaned and put his head in his hands. Then he made an active effort to shake his moment of temper away. He smiled weakly at her. “I am a fool.”
An insight struck her. Was this what he meant when he said he had been ‘careful’ growing up? That he’d learnt to douse his temper before it could ever really begin to take hold? That he must always present this cheerful, mild-natured appearance? Empathy swelled, and she found herself reaching out to grip both his shoulders.
“You don’t have to swallow your emotions down like that,” she told him fiercely. “It’s me!”
“Of course, my Star,” he said meekly, a smile twitching at his lips.
She knew he was teasing her to hide his fluster, so she shook him a little. It had about as much effect as shaking a tree, except that trees weren’t warm enough that she could feel it even through his coat beneath her fingertips. His smile broadened, and his eyes warmed with some deeper emotion. It wasn’t a fae look; it was a very male look. She swallowed and stepped back, flustered now as well.
“I can’t say I relish the thought of telling Aunt Sybil that fairies may or may not want to take over Stariel,” Hetta said in an attempt to redirect the subject to less unsettling waters. “But it’s not fair to keep her in ignorance when doing so may leave her vulnerable, even to spare myself the unpleasant task of appearing to be a lunatic.”
“Hetta,” said Wyn slowly. “I don’t think you should tell them you’re not the Lord of Stariel. You’ll have a difficult time getting them to grasp this fae business, but you’ll manage it because, unwanted and unexpected as your appointment was, it gives you authority over them. They will not like it, but they will listen to you. If you admit you’re not the lord, they will be leaderless, since there’s no way to replace you without the Star Stone.”
Hetta was forced to agree with his logic. “Fine. Let’s go tell the Valstars they should believe in fairies.”
23
Fairy Tales
The Valstars, by birth and by marriage, bore a striking resemblance to a mob when assembled in Carnelian Hall—the largest room in the house—even with many of the family having left after the Choosing. Only the youngest membe
rs of the clan had been barred from the meeting. Little Laurel protested loudly that it wasn’t fair, that there was something interesting happening, and that she wanted to know what it was, but Aunt Sybil shushed her so ferociously that she allowed herself to be bundled out of the room in sullen silence.
Hetta had never been one for giving speeches, but she’d watched Bradfield give them frequently enough to improvise. Of course, Bradfield’s speeches had been mainly given to inspire good performances. Without thinking, Hetta caught herself taking on something of the theatre director’s pomposity.
“I have called you all here to tell you something highly unusual and, in fact, unbelievable. Once I have explained myself further, I have no doubt that you’ll all want proof of my assertions, so I say now that I have it and that you may all see it once I have laid out the facts of the case to you. I do this in the hope of preventing interruptions.” Hetta met each of her relatives’ eyes for emphasis. It probably wouldn’t prevent them from interrupting, but there was no harm in trying.
Marius frowned and jerked his head in a fierce negative when she met his eyes. He thought this was about the lordship and the Star Stone. Wyn was trying his best to be unobtrusive at the back of the room. So far, no one had questioned his presence there. He wasn’t using glamour to achieve that, was he? She didn’t think so—there was no hint of that odd stormy atmosphere from when he’d used it before—but it was an uneasy thought nonetheless. He gave a resigned smile when her attention passed over him.
“I’m afraid that the lady we have been hosting these past few days is something of an imposter,” she said.
Gregory made a sudden, indignant movement, but Jack spoke before he could.
“You mean Miss Gwen,” Jack said calmly. The tiniest trace of amusement threaded through his next words. “I don’t think many of us would be shocked to learn her name isn’t Smith.”
There was a wordless murmur of agreement from several family members, and Lady Phoebe spoke. “It’s all highly irregular, but one cannot help pity the poor girl.”
Gregory gave his mother an approving glance and once again would have spoken, but Hetta held out a hand to forestall him.
“No, Jack, as you’ve pointed out, I think we all know that Smith is an assumed name. I initially thought it was for her own peace of mind that she wouldn’t tell us where she fled from. I was mistaken, however. She came to us with the intention of deliberate deception. I’m afraid Miss Gwen is not the innocent girl that she appears.”
Aunt Sybil was nodding along to these words as if they confirmed her every suspicion, but her bobbing motion abruptly cut off at Hetta’s next words. “She isn’t a girl at all. She is not, in fact, human. She is fae, one of the fair folk.”
A deep, profound silence fell, but Hetta had suffered much worse silences in the recent past. There had been far more people in the crowd at the Standing Stones, and she’d been far less prepared then. So she stood straight and unapologetic, letting the silence spill out, trying to give the impression that she was merely allowing everyone time to absorb her words before continuing.
“I thought as much,” Grandmamma said cheerfully.
As if her words had granted permission, the room abruptly broke into incoherency, the general gist of which was disbelief. Hetta didn’t attempt to reply to any of the demands flung at her. She waited as calmly as she could, though her heart beat rapidly and her stomach tied itself into knots. It took some time, but eventually, for lack of new material, her relatives simmered down again and looked expectantly at her.
“This evening, Miss Gwen—or rather, Gwendelfear, as her true name is—revealed her true form to Wyn and me and made a number of threats against this house. We…restrained her and attempted to ascertain why she was here, but she refused to say any more. This is why I’m telling you about it. We can’t let her go free until we understand what her purpose was in coming here and if it poses a danger to us. But I can’t conceal such a threat from you.”
Aunt Sybil pinned Wyn with her grey-eyed gaze. “What nonsense is this, Mr Tempest?”
“It’s true, what my Star says. Gwendelfear is fae. I saw it also,” Wyn said quietly. He shot Hetta a faintly puzzled look. Even from this distance she could read the tension in him and knew he was waiting to be revealed for what he was.
Aunt Sybil’s mouth thinned, but to Hetta’s surprise she merely said, “Let’s see the girl then.”
Everyone took their lead from Aunt Sybil, although mainly they bore the appearance of people humouring a lunatic as they traipsed down to the lower levels. Except for Jack, who looked very thoughtful indeed.
There was something inherently comical about the long line of Valstars making their way to the old dungeon. They couldn’t all fit in the narrow space at the bottom of the stairs, and a natural hierarchy formed, roughly from oldest to youngest, with a few exceptions. Gregory defiantly pushed his way to the front, standing with Aunt Sybil and Jack. Hetta ignored him.
Gwendelfear was much as they had left her, but Hetta found her horror at Gwendelfear’s strange appearance had dissipated. After all, while it might be startling, green-tinged skin and pointed ears weren’t exactly frightening. There was even a strange beauty to her wide, flower-pupiled blue eyes, once you got used to them. The greens and yellows of her hair made Hetta think of summer grass. Was Wyn’s hair like that, under his glamour?
But her family reacted to Gwendelfear much as Hetta had at first confrontation and recoiled. Hetta was pushed towards pity for the fae. It couldn’t be pleasant to be looked at with undisguised revulsion. But if Gwendelfear minded, she didn’t let it show. She kept silent throughout, her eyes burning with malice in her otherwise expressionless face.
When each and every age-appropriate Valstar had seen what there was to be seen, Hetta led the way back to Carnelian Hall. The cacophony of earlier had been replaced with dazed silence.
“Well,” said Grandmamma briskly. “We can’t keep the girl in the dungeon forever, fae or no. What are we to do with her?”
Hetta exchanged a look with Wyn.
“How,” said Aunt Sybil slowly, “can we take the girl’s appearance as proof when we know there is one here capable of casting illusions?” She’d been leaning against the mantelpiece for support, a kind of blank incredulity in her features, but as she spoke, her voice became firmer, her expression more assured.
Hetta’s hands balled into fists. Wyn straightened, a flicker of anger clear for a split second before he damped it down. He opened his mouth to speak, and Hetta tried to think of some way to prevent him, but assistance came from a wholly unexpected source.
“The fae are real, Mother,” Jack said quietly but clearly into the tense silence. “Lord Henry knew it as well. And, moreover, while Hetta can no doubt cast excellent illusions, I’m at a loss to know why she would want to do so in Miss Smith’s case.” He gave Hetta a faint, edged smile.
Aunt Sybil looked as if she’d just swallowed something very nasty. Her mouth compressed into a tight line, but she merely said, “I see.”
Hetta was left with a complicated mix of emotions—relief being foremost amongst them, but beneath that, surprise. Jack, of all people, knew the fae were real? But then, Wyn had already said that her father had known, so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he’d told his probable successor.
“There’s the Tower Room,” Jack suggested softly. When everyone looked at him, he shrugged. “Hetta is right—we have to know what this fairy girl came here for. The Tower Room’s secure, but much more suitable than the dungeon. I didn’t even know there were still shackles down there.” He raised his eyebrows at Hetta. “Very resourceful, but rather barbaric, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” she said quickly, too astonished to argue.
24
Confessions
Wyn went to move Gwendelfear to the Tower Room, and Hetta summoned Jack and Marius up to her study. Grandmamma invited herself along to this discussion, saying matter-of-factly, “You’ll be needi
ng my help in making the anti-fae talismans.” Hetta found herself accepting this unexpected proclamation with a kind of amused resignation. If life at Stariel continued like this, she would become practically impossible to discompose.
Her study—or rather, her father’s study, Hetta reminded herself—seemed much smaller with four people of taller-than-average height contained within it. “How foolish of me,” she remarked as she entered with Grandmamma. “We should have convened in one of the sitting rooms. This is an impractical meeting room for four of us.”
“Never mind that,” Jack said. He had been leaning against the wall beside the window, but he straightened as Hetta came in, expression thunderous. “I can bloody well stand—” He caught sight of his grandmother behind Hetta and abruptly lost momentum. “Ah—Grandmamma. Forgive me.” He flushed.
Grandmamma gave him a look of mild reproof. “I’m not made of glass, Jonathan, and if I were, it would take more than your daintily spoken oaths to upset me. Why, I’ve heard stronger swearing from milkmaids!”
Jack grimaced but didn’t argue with her. Grandmamma, chastisement delivered, seated herself in the stiff leather visitor’s chair next to the desk. Marius had risen from his perch on the settee under the window at their entrance but sank back onto it as Grandmamma waved at him impatiently.
Hetta closed the door and took a few seconds to compose herself as she did so. She was conscious of a strange tension within herself. She wasn’t usually inclined towards deception, but for a fleeting moment she wished she didn’t have to reveal her lordship as false. Partly this wish stemmed from the entirely natural desire to avoid the awkwardness that would follow. But beneath that superficial reluctance was another, deeper reason. For so long her life and her achievements had been quietly ignored by her family, and she was self-aware enough to admit, at least privately, that there was some satisfaction to be had from them being forced to acknowledge her.
The Lord of Stariel Page 15