by AJ Lancaster
Copyright © 2021 by AJ Lancaster
All rights reserved.
978-0-473-53926-9 (e-book)
978-0-473-53925-2 (Paperback)
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design © Jennifer Zemanek/Seedlings Design Studio
Created with Vellum
To everyone trying to finish a long-term project. But mostly to me, for finishing this one.
Contents
I. A Brewing Storm
1. An Ominous Plant
2. Letters and Invitations
3. River Experiments
4. Real Estate Issues
5. Difficult Questions
6. Storms
7. Minor Elektrical Charges
8. Embroidered Dragonflies
9. Angsting in the Night
10. Younger Brothers
11. Illustrious Ancestors
12. Older Brothers
13. Full Moon
14. The Heartstone
15. Tracking
16. Visitors
17. A Delicate Situation
18. The Rose Gate
II. To Faerie
19. The Court of Dusken Roses
20. The Throne of Thorns
21. The Butterfly Gate
22. The Greenhouse
23. The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week
24. Miscellaneous Faerie Encounters
25. The Wild Hunt
26. Unexpected Dukes
27. The Tower
28. Beneath the Waves
29. Lord Arran
30. Feathers
31. Further Experiments
32. The Sea Gate
III. And Back
33. Cold Visitors
34. Blood and Stone
35. Marmalade
36. The Earl of Wolver
37. Naming Conventions
38. Wings in the Library
39. Compulsion
40. Inheritance
41. Household Management
42. The Call of Blood to Blood
43. Infamous
44. Greymark
45. The Northern Lords Conclave
46. A Most Inconvenient Kidnapping
47. The Maelstrom's Gift
48. Faerie Princesses
49. Nymwen
50. The Last Stormdancer
51. The Gate Behind the Throne
52. The High King of Faerie
53. Oberyn
54. The Meridon Ball
55. A Royal Wedding
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by AJ Lancaster
Part I
A Brewing Storm
1
An Ominous Plant
Wyn arrived precisely on time, but there was no sign of either train or package as he drew the pony cart to a halt, the sudden cease of hoofbeats leaving a hollow absence in the still morning. Fog clung low to the ground, and the dark train tracks disappeared into blankness on either side of the platform. His instincts prickled at the sheer ominousness.
Weather isn’t an omen, not here in the Mortal Realm, he reminded himself. Fog was a perfectly natural phenomenon, the result of damp spring weather and ground-air temperature differentials. Not at all dangerous. But his sense of oncoming doom refused to abate in the face of this excellent logic. Instead, his magic shivered in restless patterns under his skin, as if it knew something he did not, and a faint hint of petrichor hung in the air. He pushed it down, as he had been doing so often lately, smoothing his thumbs over the leather of the reins to steady himself.
The horse snorted, as if it sensed his unease. Or perhaps it merely objected to his proximity. Harder to fool animals than humans; Stariel’s horses had always known there was something wrong with his scent, and it tended to put them a little on edge even though they were accustomed to him.
Out of habit, he checked the sky. A pointless action, even if it hadn’t been obscured by fog, for the moon had set hours ago. Not that he needed to check its phase in any case; he already knew there were still five days left until the moon reached full.
He shook his head at his own foolishness and climbed down, leaving the pony cart hitched. As he approached Stariel Station, the billowing grey clouds drew eerie shapes around the straight lines of the station.
Small scuffling noises came from the platform, and he leaned on his leysight to identify the person hidden in the shadow of the ticket office. The sudden awareness made him suck in a breath, not because of the man’s identity—unsurprisingly, the stationmaster, Mr Billington—but because of the heady combination of leysight with land-sense. He still wasn’t used to that, the way the faeland—his faeland, now—surrendered information so freely.
This is my home now. As always, an uneven murmur of joy and guilt accompanied the thought, the latter beating a name in the hollow beneath his sternum: Cat, Cat, Cat.
Cat, who was trapped because of him.
He called out to the man as he came onto the platform, not wishing to startle him. “Good morning, Mr Billington.”
“Morning, Mr Tempest,” the stationmaster responded cheerfully without turning from the door. There was a snick of the lock tumbling, and the stationmaster froze as if his own words had only just caught up with his ears. His shoulders hunched. “I mean, Your Highness.”
There was an edge in his tone, halfway between accusation and question. It was the first time the two of them had interacted since Wyn’s identity had come to light—reasonable for the man to be cautious of him, even if it stung a little.
What exactly did Wyn want to achieve here? He could play the coolly distant royal, if needed. Would Hetta want that of him? His heart twisted, worry and wonder twining in equal measure. A few weeks ago, before the world had tilted on its axis and shaken every priority into realignment, he would have known the answer to be a firm negative; Hetta wasn’t a woman with much concern for rank. Now…would there be some advantage in it for her, if he made sure everyone acknowledged his title? An advantage for their child?
Child. The word slid through his mind like ice-water, and he shied from it, mustering a friendly smile for the stationmaster. When in doubt, appear harmless.
“Ah—I see my reputation precedes me.” Wyn wrinkled his nose. “But the formal address is unnecessary. It seems foolish to stand on ceremony, given the length of our acquaintance. And given that you once yelled at me for raiding your plum tree.” That had been Hetta’s idea, not his, years ago, before she’d left Stariel.
The stationmaster’s expression softened. It was difficult to mistrust someone you’d seen young and sticky with fruit stains. “You and every other youth in the county. Including her lordship, if I remember correctly.” He coloured faintly, and Wyn knew he was wondering about Wyn’s relationship with Stariel’s lord.
Wyn and Hetta hadn’t yet publicly announced an engagement, but they’d unofficially announced their intentions to Hetta’s family, and the Valstars weren’t exactly discreet, though he couldn’t truly blame them in this instance. All of Prydein knew there was something between Hetta and him now.
“They were very superior plums,” he said diplomatically.
“Aye, and still are. This year’s crop looks set to be the best we’ve ever had.” Mr Billington smiled, but there was still a tension to him, and he examined the space behind Wyn as if expecting wings to sprout. You’d know if I were in my fae form, Wyn always felt like telling people. Wings weren’t exactly
discreet, and neither were horns.
I haven’t changed, Wyn wanted to say. Not fundamentally. I’m still just Mr Tempest, good-natured steward, practically human, and certainly nothing to fear. But he couldn’t pretend things were the same as they’d always been. All Prydein now knew who and what he was. There could be no more pretending.
“Don’t let me keep you,” he said instead, gesturing at the ticket office. “I am merely awaiting the arrival of some seed barley.” And the other package, of course, but best not to draw attention to that.
“The train’s running late,” Mr Billington said, unnecessarily. He grimaced at the fog. “Not surprising, really. It’s the slick tracks as much as the visibility. Probably be another ten minutes at least.” He let himself into the ticket office. “You’re welcome to come in and wait out of the chill, if you’d like…sir,” he said cautiously, waiting for Wyn’s reaction to the address.
Wyn didn’t particularly feel the cold, but he recognised a peace offering when he saw one.
“Thank you.” He ducked into the small space even though in truth, he would have preferred to spend the time pacing the length of the platform. A restlessness had hold of him this morning, and his feathers itched under his skin. But continuing to settle the stationmaster’s anxieties was a better use of ten minutes than brooding. He rifled through his memories.
“Tell me, how goes your Johnny?” he asked. “He must be nearly finished with his apprenticeship?” Johnny was the stationmaster’s nephew, and he and his wife doted on the young man. He’d taken an apprenticeship with a cabinetmaker down in Alverness, or so Wyn had heard.
The stationmaster grinned. “Only six months more, he reckons,” he said, and the ten minutes passed quickly as he spoke of his nephew’s accomplishments, his career prospects, and the sweetheart he was apparently courting. Warmth kindled in Wyn’s heart, the reminder of domestic successes and concerns a pleasant one.
Mr Billington eyed him sidelong. “We’ve told him he needs to finish his apprenticeship before he asks the lass, though—otherwise how will he afford to keep a wife?”
“Sound advice,” Wyn said, deliberately disingenuous. Can I afford to keep a wife? The question briefly amused him, having never considered it from that angle before—it was a very mortal construct.
“Of course, we’ve told him he must have care for the girl’s reputation, in the meantime.”
Oh dear. Well, on the one hand, he couldn’t fault someone for caring about Hetta’s good name. On the other, the judgement in the stationmaster’s expression rankled, since Wyn would have liked very much to announce an official engagement to all and sundry—but the obstacles preventing him from doing so weren’t ones that he could explain in casual conversation.
Firstly, Hetta’s queen is expecting me to return to the capital in the role of King of Ten Thousand Spires before she announces our engagement—and that is no longer possible. Secondly, my own High King needs to grant me permission to marry a mortal—and my godparent still hasn’t returned with word of how to find him, and they told me not to summon them until full moon if they didn’t return earlier.
Fortunately, the long, mournful blare of the train horn saved him from finding a more sensible response.
“Ah, there she is, eleven minutes late,” the stationmaster said, glancing at the clock with something like satisfaction at his earlier prediction. They both left the ticket office to watch the train roll in.
The engine drew to a halt with a slow grind of brakes, the weight of the iron warping the leylines in a way that made all Wyn’s muscles tense. He forced them to relax. Iron resisted fae magic, but it wasn’t painful. Why should it bother him so much this morning? Perhaps it was only that he was already on edge, and the fog made the train’s emergence vaguely menacing, its lights creating narrow beams in the white.
The train attendants moved briskly, throwing open the doors to the luggage carriage and ferrying the mailbag and other items marked for delivery onto the platform. The attendants closed the doors and hopped back aboard, while the stationmaster walked the length of the train and blew his whistle to sound the all-clear. The train began to move again, pulling away into the fogbank.
Wyn was scanning for the package of books he’d come for among the train’s leavings when his gaze fell on a small pot plant next to the seed barley. The stationmaster made some remark, but he didn’t hear it over the sudden thunder of his pulse. The stunted, leafless stick of thorns was only a few inches high, black as pitch, but it seemed to suck in what little light there was.
No.
No, it couldn’t be what it looked like, not here, not now, not sitting in the perfect ordinariness of Stariel Station like a viper. He leaned on his leysight and blinked against the glare of the plant’s magic. His instincts hadn’t been quite as ill-informed as he’d told them. Maybe stormdancers have more foresight than I thought.
Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to blast the cursed plant with a lightning bolt. A stiff envelope was tied to the black stem, and as he leant down to examine it, a taste of cherries and beeswax bloomed on the back of his tongue. He knew the signature and wished he did not.
Tearing the envelope free, he stared down at the mocking words written in Princess Sunnika’s hand: I am calling in my debt, Prince Hallowyn.
2
Letters and Invitations
Hetta touched the end of her pen to her mouth and frowned down at the unfinished letter in front of her. Unfinished was being generous, as so far she’d only gotten as far as:
Dear Lord Arran,
We have not been introduced, but you have no doubt heard of my ascension to Lord of Stariel.
An inane beginning, since of course the Chair of the Northern Lords Conclave knew who she was. She looked down towards the lake for inspiration, but the waters were hidden by the billowing fog, making it seem as if the terrace where she sat was adrift in a vast cloud. Pulling her woollen wrap around herself more firmly, she drummed her fingers on the wrought-iron table. A more sensible person might’ve sat inside on a day like today, but she’d felt too restless to be cooped up by walls.
Now, assuming Lord Arran wasn’t so old-fashioned that the mere act of an unmarried, unrelated woman writing to him turned him irrevocably against her, how exactly did one phrase the thing? What she wanted to say was simply: you’d better jolly well ratify my membership on the Conclave. I don’t have the patience for this nonsense, not when I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Or, more humiliatingly, Please, I really need this. So far I’ve managed to make a mess of lordship on nearly every front, and I can’t afford another. Not when I’m running out of time.
She placed a hand on her abdomen, still as flat as it had been the last time she checked five minutes ago. Was the gesture an impulse that affected all women in her condition? Or only those paranoid about being discovered?
Giving herself a shake, she began to pen a watered-down version of her sentiments, though the result made her wrinkle her nose. She wasn’t a watered-down or apologetic woman, and she didn’t want Lord Arran to believe her one. But did it matter what Lord Arran thought of her character, if he supported her on the Conclave? Once her membership was ratified, they couldn’t exactly un-ratify it; as far as she knew, membership was lifelong. There’d be plenty of opportunity for tactlessness later, after she’d proved herself to all the naysayers. Out-of-wedlock pregnancy, malicious gossip, and rocky start to lordship notwithstanding.
Still, the resulting insipid letter left her with a sour taste in her mouth. With a sigh, she signed and sealed it before she could change her mind, put it firmly in the ‘done’ pile, and surveyed the rest of the papers spread before her. News next, she decided. At least keeping track of what was going on outside the estate didn’t require any pretence from her, even if it was likely to be similarly exasperating.
Some minutes later, a familiar spark burned bright in her awareness. “You know,” she said without looking up, “I think we might be losing our in
famy. There’s no mention of you in today’s paper, although one of the letter writers claims ‘fae monsters’ ate three of his sheep.” She raised her head. Wyn was padding over the damp stones, silent as a cat, carrying a stunted pot plant in one hand. “Are there fae that eat sheep?”
“I am partial to lamb myself,” he said, straight-faced. “But yes, there are any number of lowfae that might eat sheep, though I don’t know if they’re at fault in this instance. Sheep are entirely capable of getting themselves into trouble without the need for any fae intervention.”
Lifting the teapot, she poured him a cup of the green tea he preferred. Steam coiled in the cold air.
“And how is our seed barley that you were so keen to fetch yourself this morning?” They both knew it wasn’t barley that had sent him out.
“The books arrived,” he answered, slightly sheepish. “I’ve put them in my office.”
“You know I will set the books on fire if you treat them as an ironbound set of rules that I have to abide by,” she warned. Wyn had tendencies. He’d mostly been keeping them in check, but she wasn’t going to live with nine months of him trying to coddle her, which he would do if she gave him the least encouragement.