The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  Rakken raised an eyebrow. “But I’m not precisely useless; I am more powerful now than I have ever been.” He opened his palm with a flourish, and a tiny crackle of charge formed in its centre. Marius stared at the contained glittering blue-white ball in fascination. He’d never seen Wyn do that, but then Wyn wasn’t exactly showy with his magic.

  “Useful if we run out of matches,” he said drily.

  Rakken laughed, closing his hand. The charge snapped out. He fanned out a wing, and Marius jumped as feathers brushed him, unclear where glamour ended and wings began. Rakken only smiled at his reaction, devilry in his eyes. Gods, Rakken. In Knoxbridge. For who knew how long.

  This was a terrible idea.

  “You can’t come with me to the earl’s with your wings out,” Marius said, making one last attempt at protest.

  Rakken’s smile broadened. “Thank you,” he said, “for inviting me.”

  23

  The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

  On Monday, the Gate in the rose garden re-opened, only for the creature Gwendelfear to stumble through before it closed. Without Hetta or Wyn, even though half a day had passed and Hetta had said she’d probably be back by now. Thank Simulsen he’d been watching over the Gate, was all Jack could say. What in the hells did Hetta think she was doing, sending them evil fairies for safekeeping without warning or explanation?

  And he didn’t need Alexandra snapping at him that Gwendelfear wasn’t an evil fairy—and she should’ve known he was only joking when he’d said the girl was welcome to the Tower Room again. Well. Only half-joking.

  He didn’t trust the fairy girl, even if she did look pitiful, as if she’d suffered some terrible wasting illness. And even if Stariel had greeted her as one of its own, sending Jack’s land-sense pinging in the same way it did for his relatives—and why and how had Hetta thought attaching yet another fairy to Stariel was a good idea? Wyn he could cope with, but Gwendelfear? Wasn’t she one of the bad ones, even if she had healed Alex that one time?

  Not that anyone had cared for his opinion. The bloody fairy girl was now ensconced in a room down the hall from Alexandra, who’d also taken responsibility for shepherding her to mealtimes with the territorial fierceness of a she-cat. Gwendelfear herself proved a completely useless source of information on Hetta and Wyn’s whereabouts.

  On Tuesday, the chief linesman complained that he couldn’t keep the team hanging around indefinitely, if Lord Valstar wasn’t going to keep up the trenching work needed to finish the job; they were due to begin another job soon. Jack told them Hetta was indisposed but would be back to the task soon, and wasted a morning trying and failing to get Stariel to act in her absence. At least the land didn’t seem worried, from what he could tell. That had to mean Hetta was fine, whatever the reason for her dragging her feet in returning.

  On Wednesday, a royal courier arrived with a message for Lord Valstar and refused to leave without a response.

  Jack tried the same tactic as he’d used for the linesman.

  “I’m afraid Lord Valstar is indisposed.” He couldn’t tell the man she was in Fairyland, could he? Or should he? It had now been three days, after all.

  The ploy didn’t work as well as he’d hoped.

  “I will wait for her lordship to be sufficiently recovered to respond,” the pompously dressed man said.

  Jack eyed him with alarm. “There’s no knowing how long that may be.”

  Not even a blink. “Even so. I have my orders.”

  He and the courier stared at each other. Eventually, the courier allowed, “I suppose a response from you may suffice, if you are acting in her stead.”

  Jack looked down at the envelope the courier held out as if it might poison him. “Me?” He shook his head. “No. You can leave it here, and she’ll answer as soon as she can. But I’m not responding for her.” If he opened the queen’s message, that would be him involved in whatever this royal nonsense was, wouldn’t it, whether he wanted to be or not. This was Hetta’s mess, and he refused to get tangled up in it.

  Besides, she was going to be back any moment, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she?

  “You can tell her majesty that you delivered her message safely, and that Lord Valstar will respond as soon as she can,” he said flatly, folding his arms. “Now I bid you good day.”

  The courier hesitated, taking in his expression. “Could I have that in writing?”

  “I have faith in your recall.” And with that, Jack marched out and hoped like hell the courier would be gone when he returned. He’d done the right thing, hadn’t he? The faintest fluttering of something like panic stirred in his stomach, like the feeling you got just before a horse bolted.

  No, he’d done the right thing, he told himself. Hetta could deal with the queen’s message—whatever it was—when she returned. Which would probably be later today anyway, so it was best to leave it for her so as not to confuse matters. He stalked out of the house and round to the rose garden, ignoring the drizzle of the rain.

  The Gate was inactive, the unnatural blooms once more colourless, tightly furled buds. Jack scowled at the plants, feeling Stariel’s unease circling them. They shouldn’t have let Hetta go in the first place—what the hell had Wyn been about to let her go with him, anyway? Pregnant women weren’t supposed to go gallivanting off to Fairyland! Why did Hetta always think she was some sort of special exemption?

  On Thursday, the bank manager wanted to know when the Dower House would start bringing in rent.

  “The estate agent said there’s a fellow coming to look at it next week,” Jack told him, pleased to have an answer to this question, if not exactly pleased at the prospect of strangers living on Stariel land.

  Jack had lined up an excuse for why Hetta wasn’t available to speak with the bank manager, but it proved unnecessary. The man never even asked.

  On Friday, Angus Penharrow demanded to know if Hetta was coming to meet the Northern lords he’d invited to his house party. Jack tried his now-standard stalling tactic.

  “Indisposed?” Angus said doubtfully. “That’s not what the locals are saying.”

  Jack folded his arms. “What are they saying then?”

  “That she’s gone to Fairyland.”

  Bloody hell—could no one keep their mouths shut in this family?

  Angus took in his expression. “I see that she has, then. When is she coming back?”

  “It’s none of your business.” Jack folded his arms. Angus might’ve paid in sheep for the wrong he’d done to Stariel, but that didn’t mean Jack trusted him further than he could throw him.

  Angus raised an eyebrow. “It is if she wants my help with the Conclave.”

  Why the blazes wasn’t Hetta back yet? But Jack wasn’t prepared to let Angus Penharrow take the high ground here, even if Jack too privately wished Hetta had given a bit more thought to Stariel before she’d left. “She’ll be back when her business there is done.”

  Angus was unimpressed with this response. “You don’t know anything about these wing worshippers the papers have started going on about, do you?”

  Jack shook his head.

  Angus gave a deep, frustrated sigh. “Well, if she’s not back before my fellows arrive next week, are you up to giving a tour of the estate? Lord Arran’s planning to arrive early, and it would be no bad thing to reassure him everything’s in hand here.” He fixed Jack with a meaningful look. “It is in hand, isn’t it?”

  Jack bristled, even though that feeling of riding a runaway horse hadn’t left him in days now. “Yes!”

  On Saturday, a reporter turned up.

  24

  Miscellaneous Faerie Encounters

  Wyn clung to his mortal form under the assault of more magic than he knew what to do with. The afternoon had softened into twilight under the trees, but the weight of, of…watching had only grown worse the longer they walked, though they had yet to encounter anyone or anything larger than the blood butterflies.

  Uneasy, he drew up his
leysight for guidance and immediately stumbled, blinded by the intensity of the leylines.

  “Wyn? What is it?” Hetta reached out to touch his shoulder.

  He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “The leylines merely startled me. I’m beginning to understand why Deeper Faerie isn’t recommended for young fae.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t feel it? The ambient magic is very powerful. It’s…distracting me.”

  She shook her head.

  Perhaps the fact that she was a faelord made her immune to the influence; perhaps it was because she was human. He risked another glance of leysight, more carefully this time. The lines of magic criss-crossing the land glowed with brilliance, a multitude of colours in shades that ran beyond the normal spectrum. Every leaf, every blade of grass, glimmered full of magic, the colours and scents so vibrant they hurt. It sang to him, a seductive song of homecoming that made no sense given he’d never been here before. He wanted to change forms, unfurl his wings and bathe in the intensity of the sensation, but instead he pressed his magic down harder, clinging desperately to his mortal form. Perhaps the ambient magic and the temptation it presented wasn’t a sinister trap, but he was suspicious of it on general principles.

  “Wyn?”

  He started as Hetta touched his shoulder again. She was frowning up at him. Ah. He’d gotten distracted focusing on not getting distracted.

  “My apologies. This way,” he said, choosing a path between two ancient trees of a species he didn’t recognise. He’d never seen the like of their towering purple trunks or pale lilac leaves in any of the surface realms.

  The forest was full of small noises as he followed the line of the tracking spell. Insects chirped and birds trilled warnings, little flits of feathered things diving for cover as they passed. Ahead of them came the rippling of water and a sound akin to wind chimes, oddly familiar. He carefully examined the leylines again, trying to decipher why the wind chimes seemed so familiar, but everything shone so brilliantly that he couldn’t untangle individual threads.

  Their path led them to a riverbank, where the water ran slow and clear enough to make out every stone of the bed. Some distance away, a waterfall thundered down a sheer cliff face more than a hundred feet high. Small sprites played in the pool beneath the falls—the source of the windchime sound. In full daylight they would be nearly invisible, burning with a flame so hot it had nearly no colour at all, but dusk showed them as flickering glass figures about the size of dolls, giggling as they chased each other above the water’s surface. Steam rose from the surface where their small feet brushed—the equivalent of playing daredevil, for their kind.

  “Nightwraiths,” he named them quietly, for Hetta’s benefit. “A type of flame sprite. They aren’t dangerous, generally, unless you touch them.”

  The sight of their games woke an old memory…

  He was a boy and he and his mother sat on a lakeshore, watching the nightwraiths dance.

  His mother rose and waded into the water, and gentle ripples lapped against the shoreline, the surface still as glass. The night was warm, full of the dry, earthy scents of summer, and cicadas chirped in the eucalypts. Mother’s steps sent distortions through the stars’ reflections and the dancing hues of the sprites, who flitted around her excitedly. She extended a graceful hand and coaxed one into her palm.

  “Aren’t they lovely, Hallowyn?” She turned back to the lakeshore and smiled. “Come and see.”

  He waded into the cool lake, the water trickling through his feathers to his skin in shivery rivulets. His mother stood only knee-deep, but the water reached his waist when he held out his hands eagerly for the sprite.

  She laughed and shook her head. “It will hurt you, little one. They burn brightly.”

  “Why doesn’t it hurt you, then?” The sprite danced in her palm, tiny and delicate, its features flickering shades of flame. Standing this close, he could feel the heat of it, but his mother’s skin was smooth and unburnt. “Are you using magic?”

  Sadness crept into her expression, a sadness so deep and terrible that it frightened him. She put the nightwraith down carefully, and it ran across the surface of the lake, giggling.

  “No,” she said.

  “Wyn?”

  Wyn snapped free of the memory. “I think my mother and I used to watch them,” he said slowly, fishing each word up from a great depth. Had they? He frowned. Why had he been so sure of it, just a moment ago? He couldn’t recall any particular memory associated with his mother and nightwraiths now.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  They were beautiful, little figures of living flame with dragonfly wings. His chest grew tight. Why did the sight of them make him feel such sadness, then?

  Hetta let out a long, careful breath. “I need to sit for a minute. And eat something.”

  He found her a suitable rock and tried not to fret. Hetta’s smile, half-fond, half-exasperated, told him he hadn’t entirely succeeded. He took out a biscuit from his satchel—sending a mental thank-you to Rakken for the spell that enlarged the interior—and offered it to her.

  She leaned against him while she ate the biscuit. It always amazed him how small and soft she felt in his arms, the contrast between the iron-willed faelord and the physical woman. He focused on the leylines as they curved around her. She shone as brightly as the magic here. There was a hint of charge spinning lazily around her, draining slowly into Lamorkin’s spell-stone, but he stroked the charge off anyway and let it disperse between his fingers. It might not make any difference, but perhaps it would make the heartstone last longer.

  “Whatever you’re doing makes me feel rather like a cat being brushed.”

  “What a good kitty.” He nuzzled her.

  She laughed. “How close are we, do you think?”

  He checked the tracking spell. There was still more than half the time left in the spell, which meant they hadn’t been here above a few hours. It was hard otherwise to judge.

  “A lot closer than before.” He grimaced. “I cannot be more precise, I’m afraid.”

  The forest was oddly peaceful, with Hetta soft against his side, despite the magical assault on his senses. His mind drifted to Stariel, wondering how much time had passed there and how Jack was handling things in their absence. What would the Valstars make of Gwendelfear being thrown back into their midst?

  “Will Rakken be able to tell if Marius is…if there’s some permanent side effect from Aroset’s attack?” Hetta asked abruptly. “I mean, a side effect other than telepathy.”

  “Perhaps. Mind magic is strange and rare, even in Faerie.”

  Wyn had met exactly one telepath before, and she had been stark, raving mad, imprisoned deep beneath the palace in ThousandSpire, her powers constrained to within the walls of her cell. The reason King Aeros had kept her alive was as a useful training exercise for those practising mental shields—and as a terrifying way to extract secrets from anyone with any resistance to compulsion. Wyn had gotten the merest glimpse into her mind, once, when his shields had faltered: a hollow shell, filled with chaos not her own. Whatever core of individuality she’d once had had been burned away by the thoughts of others.

  She’d died before Wyn had left ThousandSpire. He’d gone to see her body burned, driven by something between pity and guilt. Her head had been wrapped in bandages, but he’d heard her guards muttering about the damage she’d done to herself, how her power had gone rogue, imploding her own skull.

  He shivered, not in revulsion but in fear for his friend. But it cannot have helped her mental state to be imprisoned by my father. Perhaps she wouldn’t have lost herself so badly if she’d been treated better. Perhaps she could have gained control of her powers if she’d had someone to teach her. He’d heard of functional telepaths, though he hadn’t met any personally. And Marius’s abilities might be much milder than the woman he’d known. Maybe. Marius had sent Aroset hurtling into a wall with the force of his projection—and Aroset was gr
eater fae, should’ve had iron-hard shields against that.

  Were they right to keep the knowledge of his powers from Marius? Rakken thought it too dangerous, but could he truly know the risks? How could Marius learn to control his telepathy if he didn’t know he had it? I will find an expert for him, Wyn vowed silently. There had to be someone in Faerie who knew more than they did.

  Hetta’s worry mirrored his. “How much do you trust Rakken’s judgement?”

  “He likes debts as much as most fae, and he owes you for giving him sanctuary at Stariel. For that alone, I trust him to keep Marius safe from Aroset.” Though he had some uneasiness about putting the two of them together for any length of time—an uneasiness he could not share with Hetta, since it was based on a private conversation between himself and Marius.

  “What about the telepathy? It was mostly on Rakken’s say-so that we didn’t tell him, and the more I think about it, the less I like it. Rakken loves having the upper hand, and wouldn’t Marius knowing what he can do take that from him? What if Rakken exaggerated the risk for his own benefit?”

  The insight startled him. Rakken’s shields should be adamantine, telepathy or not, but hadn’t Cat said Marius was particularly sensitive to him?

  “I confess that didn’t occur to me. I hope you’re right, and that the risks of his telepathy are primarily to Rake’s ego.” Rather than to Marius’s life. “After this, I would like to find someone who knows more about mind magic. Someone who could teach him, maybe.”

  Hetta made a wordless sound of agreement and burrowed into his side. The sharp edges of anxiety softened under the physical contact, and he knew Hetta was seeking the same reassurance. After this.

  Hetta finished the biscuit, watching the nightwraiths in the distance. “They don’t drink blood, do they? I’m rather jaded after the butterflies.”