The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  Hetta found she’d risen by instinct, but before she could move, there was a shimmer and a small naked boy scrambled out of the fountain, dripping wet. Hetta wasn’t very good at estimating children’s ages, but he looked younger than Cecily’s twin girls, maybe four years old or so? He caught her looking and froze, his cat ears flattening against his skull.

  “Hello,” she said. She’d never seen a fae child before.

  “Hello.” His tail curled nervously around his waist.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

  He continued to stare, looking her up and down as if sure she must be hiding extra appendages somewhere. “You’re a human.”

  “Yes.” The boy’s open curiosity was easier to bear than the court’s hostile scrutiny, but it still made her feel oddly self-conscious.

  He took a few steps closer. “I heard humans can say things that aren’t true.”

  She sank back down onto the bench and patted the seat next to her. Taking this invitation, he scampered over to her and perched beside her. His dark eyes were wide as he studied her, as if he found her features as unusual as she did the fae’s. There were streaks of bright purple in his hair.

  What lie could she tell a child, in this place where anything and everything might or mightn’t be true? She held out a hand. “I have six fingers.”

  He blinked and then counted slowly. “You don’t!”

  “I don’t have six fingers,” she agreed.

  His mouth fell open. “Wow.” His eyes gleamed. “Say something else!”

  “You’re much, much taller than I am. Practically a giant,” she said promptly, which sent him into a fit of delighted giggles.

  “Akiyonn!” Princess Sunnika said sharply, stepping out of the shadows. “You should not be here.”

  The boy jumped up, and the expression he turned on the princess was one Hetta recognised very well, because it had a lot in keeping with her smaller cousins when they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

  “I just wanted to see the human.”

  “Go back to your room or I will take you there myself by the scruff of your neck.” Her words were low and furious, but Hetta got the strong impression Princess Sunnika was afraid rather than angry.

  The boy huffed, but there was another shimmer and the leopard cub was back. He looked up at the princess plaintively, but she only narrowed her eyes at him until he slunk away.

  “Who was that?” Hetta asked.

  Princess Sunnika was still frowning in the direction the cub had taken. “Prince Akiyonn. My cousin’s child.” She nodded at the statue. “That is his father’s likeness.”

  Princess Sunnika contemplated the statue of her dead cousin with more dispassion than Hetta could’ve mustered in her place. The prince Rakken and Catsmere had killed had had a child? But it had been more than ten years ago; the boy hadn’t seemed old enough. Was that because fae children aged differently, or because time in Faerie passed differently? Regardless, it made it worse, to know the boy she’d just met was fatherless because of people she knew personally.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Are you?” Princess Sunnika turned to face her. “You did not know him.”

  “I’d be sorry that anyone’s relative was dead or that any child was fatherless.” Did that really need to be said? Apparently it did, because Hetta caught a hint of surprise crossing the princess’s expression. “Where’s Wyn?”

  “Dancing,” Princess Sunnika said. “He holds the court’s attention.”

  He holds the court’s attention. “If you wanted to speak to me privately, you could’ve just asked.”

  Princess Sunnika’s ears flicked this way and that, and she gave the courtyard a thorough examination. Then she stepped closer and said quietly, “You would be within your rights to demand custody of Gwendelfear as recompense for her attack on your consort.”

  Hetta frowned. “Is she here?”

  “It is your right,” Princess Sunnika repeated carefully.

  Hetta could think of few things she wanted less than a fae prisoner, especially Gwendelfear. Gwendelfear had found Wyn unconscious in Meridon and imprisoned him. Wyn might be willing to let bygones be bygones—his stance was that he and the lesser fae were even now, since he’d imprisoned her at Stariel first—but Hetta remembered the cold dread of thinking Wyn might be dead.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary—” she began, but Princess Sunnika cut her off, her dark eyes blazing.

  “I will owe you a favour, Lord Valstar.”

  Hetta frowned. “You don’t want Gwendelfear here? Why?”

  “She is being punished.” No emotion in her smooth, perfect face.

  Hetta tried to work that one out. Princess Sunnika had seemed furious when she’d found out what Gwendelfear had done, so why did she care now that she was being punished for the transgression? Unless that’s why she’d been so angry in the first place.

  “You care about Gwendelfear’s welfare?” Hetta hazarded.

  Princess Sunnika’s ears flicked restlessly again. “I owe a duty of care to all my handmaidens.”

  “What does ‘punished’ mean?” Hetta asked with some trepidation. Princess Sunnika didn’t answer, just looked at her steadily, and that was an answer in itself. Horror coiled low and cold in her stomach. “But you’re a princess—”

  “My aunt,” Princess Sunnika said, every word precise as cut glass, “is anxious that DuskRose’s relationship with the mortal world is not jeopardised. Gwendelfear is being punished for interfering. My aunt is a wise and powerful ruler.” The words were a warning.

  Hetta resolved to appreciate her family more in future.

  “I will—” She closed her mouth. She’d been about to say she’d take the lesser fae then, fine, but that wasn’t how things were done in Faerie, was it? “As it so happens, I could do with a favour.”

  20

  The Throne of Thorns

  Wyn fought his way through the ballroom, trying to find Hetta’s distinctive signature in the riot of foreign magic. The crowds parted before him with hostile resistance, wanting to obstruct his path but unwilling to risk touching a stormdancer. His dance partner had certainly made no attempt to conceal their revulsion. They hadn’t been able to refuse their princess’ command, but they’d dropped Wyn’s hand like a snake when the dance ended.

  This is the court I would have been part of if I’d married Sunnika. His feathers tightened against his spine. This is where I would’ve died, if Lamorkin hadn’t warned me.

  His path took him to the refreshments table, and he helped himself to two glasses of sparkling melon juice. That should ward off any more ‘helpful’ attempts from Sunnika to pair him up with more members of her court. Storms shivered through his feathers, and he was grateful for the court’s wary distance. He hadn’t shocked the DuskRose dancer before, but it had been a close thing.

  Where was Hetta? None of DuskRose would dare break guestright, not after Sunnika’s show of support. He should be grateful for that, but other more urgent emotions swamped any such feeling, his magic roiling. Calm. He had to maintain calm, or at least the appearance of it. The fae here wouldn’t be forgiving of any sign of weakness, and it would reflect badly on Hetta if her consort couldn’t control himself.

  There. A faint, tantalising hint of Hetta’s magic. Clinging grimly to the hint of coffee and pine, he let everything else fade into the background.

  He found Hetta sitting on a stone bench in a smaller courtyard off the main dance floor. She was alone.

  “Have you seen the princess?” he asked. Sunnika hadn’t directly said that she wanted to speak to Hetta privately, but he’d caught the message well enough. It was the only reason he’d accepted the second dance, assuming that Queen Tayarenn’s attention would follow him rather than her niece.

  “Yes.” She frowned, and he offered her a glass, his instincts screaming with the need to fold his arms around her. But it wouldn’t keep her saf
e, not here. At least the heartstone appeared to be doing its job. The slightly higher elektrical charge around her was mild enough that only a skilled stormdancer sorcerer or someone as familiar with Hetta’s aura as Wyn would notice it. And I am the only stormdancer here.

  “The good news is I’ve found a way to get to what we want,” she said, accepting the drink. He didn’t miss the careful way she phrased her words, conscious of eavesdroppers.

  Reaching out with his leysight, he found the invisible watchers who’d followed him from the ballroom. Instinctively, he flared out his power in a warning pulse. I am a Prince Royale and you will not spy on me. They skittered away.

  He came back to himself with a jolt and cursed. Now, more than ever, he needed to keep a tight rein on his instincts, not give in to every passing aggressive impulse! Although at least now no one was listening to them. Or rather, no one except potentially Tayarenn. The back of his neck itched with DuskRose’s magic. He couldn’t tell if the faeland’s weight upon them meant anything, but he’d never been able to tell in ThousandSpire when his father was listening in either.

  “And the bad news?”

  Her lips curved. “We may be getting a houseguest.”

  Wyn paused, trying to pull the threads into something that made sense, but before he’d assembled them, a much larger distraction drew his attention, the presence ringing through the court like a gong.

  Hetta’s eyes widened. “What’s that?”

  “Queen Tayarenn. She’s here.”

  Hetta wrinkled her nose at the archway that led back to the ballroom. “I suppose we have to go back in there.”

  “We could go to the Gate now.” No, they couldn’t. They hadn’t yet secured anything that would count as DuskRose’s approval, even from the most technical of standpoints, and if they went missing now, they were certain to draw the queen’s attention. Better to try for the Butterfly Gate later. But he didn’t want to return to that ballroom. He felt…tainted, as if the court’s distaste had marked him somehow, and the thought of Hetta walking amidst that…

  But Sunnika teleported into the courtyard before he could make any unwise decisions.

  “Allow me to present you to my aunt.”

  Wyn exchanged a helpless glance with Hetta. She sighed and got up.

  Queen Tayarenn wasn’t shielding her presence, and walking into the ballroom felt not unlike nearing a forest fire. Her power woke uncomfortable comparisons to his father. Heresy, he thought with amusement, to compare the Spires to DuskRose.

  Wyn had survived his upbringing in ThousandSpire largely by fading into the background whenever possible, and so the impulse to do the exact opposite here caught him by surprise. Power swelled up without prompting, and his wings twitched, preparing to flare in challenge. He dropped Hetta’s hand and winched in his feathers, aborting the motion before it could begin, shocked at his own recklessness. Tayarenn would know what that gesture meant, from a stormdancer.

  Hetta shot him a puzzled look that shifted quickly to concern, but he shook his head. DuskRose mustn’t know how precarious his control was. He drew in a long breath as they walked through the archway and the crowd parted smoothly, leaving a clear path between them and the dais.

  Tayarenn sat straight and regal on her throne, which had a highly distinctive appearance. The Throne of Thorns, Wyn had heard it called, the name whispered with an undercurrent of fear. It looked remarkably like a half conker shell. The base of it was green, the shape subtly curved and softly padded on the inside, but long spikes in a multitude of metallic hues protruded from the outer surface. Something about the spikes unsettled him, but he didn’t have time to examine the thought before Tayarenn’s gaze fell upon them.

  Wyn had met the Queen of Dusken Roses once before, on the day of his engagement to Sunnika. Her appearance remained the same now as then: perfect fae beauty; smooth, waist-length black-and-pink-striped hair and fur of the same pattern, like the warning stripes of an exotic wasp. But one thing had changed: her power. Oh, it still sank heavily against him, but now it seemed muted, like calm waters instead of storm surge. And now—unlike then—he found he could hold her gaze. He puzzled at it, unsure what effect Tayarenn was trying for by muting her magic so.

  His father’s power had been muted as well, the last time Wyn had seen him before his death. But that had been because Wyn’s broken oath—the oath that also bound ThousandSpire—had weakened King Aeros. Had Tayarenn broken an oath as well?

  Or perhaps I’ve merely grown stronger. The thought startled him enough that he briefly lost his grip on his churning magic. It burst forth from its leash, sizzling over his skin, filling the air with storms and spice. Tayarenn’s eyes widened before he wrenched the surge back under control again. If only he dared change back to his mortal shape—it blunted the worst of the magic.

  He couldn’t apologise for the lapse. DuskRose couldn’t know how tenuous his control was, not least because they might seek to provoke him into breaking guestright. So he straightened and pretended nothing had happened when they stopped in front of the throne. Let her think he’d meant to do that. Better ill-mannered than lacking control.

  “Prince Hallowyn Tempestren.” Tayarenn emphasised his name, putting a little curl of threat into it. Wyn couldn’t really blame her, not after his display.

  “Your Majesty.” His bow was absolutely correct for a royalfae greeting a faelord.

  “Lord Valstar. I am pleased you accepted my invitation.”

  Interesting—she didn’t try the same trick on Hetta. That was a good sign. Would Hetta catch that nuance? There were so many pieces of fae protocol, and he hadn’t had time to explain them all to her.

  Hetta swept a deep curtsey but didn’t wait for permission to rise as she’d done when they’d met Queen Matilda in the mortal capital.

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Hetta said. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but why did you?”

  Tayarenn laughed, the spikes glimmering in the light from the floating lanterns. “I’d almost forgotten the bluntness of mortals,” she mused. “DuskRose is anxious to re-establish ties to the Mortal Realm, and you are lord of a mortal faeland. There is much we could offer you, if we were allies.” Her tone softened and she leaned forward, her manner conciliatory. “It can be an isolating experience, being bonded to a faeland. I could offer advice from my own experiences.” She absently stroked one of the spikes near her hands.

  Wyn should’ve been paying close attention to Tayarenn’s words, but he realised what was bothering him about the spikes. They weren’t spikes. They were horns.

  Stormdancer horns.

  Hetta said something polite and wary to the queen, but he couldn’t hear it over the buzzing in his ears. He was too busy counting. No two horns were identical, which meant each represented a different person. Some were eerily familiar, and an icy knot formed in his chest as he drew up old, old memories of people he’d known in ThousandSpire’s court.

  Tayarenn’s mouth curled slightly at the corner as she caught his reaction. His power thrashed; he wanted to summon lightning, wanted to do anything to wipe that expression from her face. Think of Hetta, and the Gate! They’d never survive breaking guestright, not in the centre of Queen Tayarenn’s court, and they’d never get to use DuskRose’s Gate to Deeper Faerie if Wyn got himself thrown out.

  He was a prince who’d grown up in one of the most powerful and deadly courts of Faerie. He could control his reactions and his powers—would control them, even if the years in Stariel had left him out of practice. He let expression melt from his face, ice crystallising around his rage.

  Would Tayarenn have gotten rid of that throne, if I married Sunnika? He somehow doubted it.

  “And what exactly do you mean ‘ally with’?” Hetta was asking. She put a hand on his arm. Stormwinds, let her not realise what Tayarenn is sitting on.

  “The relationship between any two courts is a complicated thing, Lord Valstar, and a formal alliance is worth little if no trust accompanies it.” Ta
yarenn rested one hand delicately on a golden horn, her claws extending to click softly against the metal surface. It took all he had not to flinch at the sound.

  “And how do you propose to build trust? I was under the impression that Faerie wasn’t a trusting sort of place.”

  “You are acquainted with only narrow parts of Faerie. Ask your consort how alliances are built. Or perhaps don’t, since his experience lies in breaking ties.”

  “In that case, aren’t you glad not to be my in-law?” Wyn said.

  Hetta went into a sudden coughing fit.

  Tayarenn wasn’t amused. “Yes,” she said coldly. “I am.”

  “How fortunate,” Wyn said, with the same bland pleasantness that had served him well many times over the years. “For as it happens, so am I.”

  Hetta’s coughing fit subsided as she sobered, reading the currents between him and Tayarenn uncertainly. He was being too aggressive, and it wasn’t helpful. He ran back over Tayarenn’s words, trying to sift her meaning. Alliances. What did she want?

  “I could guess what you’re suggesting, Your Majesty, but it would be more efficient if you were to simply tell us.”

  “I see bluntness has rubbed off on you, in the Mortal Realm.”

  “I appreciate bluntness,” Hetta said lightly, squeezing Wyn’s arm. She smiled up at him. “Mortal that I am.”

  He smiled back, coiling his magic in as tightly as he could.

  Tayarenn canted her head. “I hope that your choice of consort does not indicate you will be limited to only relationships with courts he prefers.” A flash of teeth. “Assuming he still favours the Spires, given their current…weakness.”

  “I’m not anti-DuskRose,” Hetta said. “And I didn’t mourn King Aeros.”

  That was a very fae answer, and Wyn wasn’t sure how he felt about it.