by AJ Lancaster
“Because I have too many of Mother’s gifts,” Irokoi said easily. “And because you were the only one I could reach. Perhaps it’s because I am oldest and you are youngest. I enjoyed having a mirror. Though I’m sorry you are stuck here too.” He looked up at the top of the bubble, following the flickering movements of strange fish.
“Have you tried piercing the barrier?” Wyn didn’t like to think of it, the weight of water the magic kept at bay, but if the choice was break it or be trapped, he would choose freedom. And he had air magic, after all.
Irokoi began to walk towards the bubble. Wyn and Hetta exchanged glances but slid into place behind him anyway.
“Can’t he just answer questions normally?” Hetta complained, taking Wyn’s arm. She looked tired, and she rubbed absently at her ring; he hoped she could draw some power from it, even as far as they were from Stariel.
“Koi?” he prompted, knowing his brother had heard.
“What is normality, when it comes down to it?” Irokoi said without pausing in his stride.
“I’m taking that as a ‘no’, then,” Hetta said drily.
“He’s always been like this,” Wyn admitted. Why did Irokoi always have to speak in riddles? Others said it was because he was mad, that Aroset blinding him had broken something in him beyond repair, but Wyn didn’t believe that. Astral projection was a subtle, complicated magic even Rakken wasn’t yet skilled enough to pull off.
Although in fairness, Irokoi’s projection had gone to Wyn rather than Catsmere as intended, so perhaps he was giving Koi too much credit.
As they walked along the shore of the terrible undersea lake, Wyn’s gaze kept snagging on its smooth surface. Each time, a sharp, piercing sense of sorrow shot once again through his heart, easing each time he looked away.
“Why is the lake sad?” Hetta asked, surprising him. She felt it too? “Or is it the lake monster?”
“The lake guardian is a creature of sorrow,” Irokoi said up ahead. “Well, that and anger, I suppose; I wasn’t joking when I said you should avoid waking it, Lord Valstar.”
Wyn stared at the dark waters, the guardian’s sorrow clutching at him. Irokoi reached out a wing and trailed his leading primary along the surface of the water, the movement oddly deliberate.
“You’re not worried about waking the lake monster?” Hetta asked.
“It won’t speak to me.”
Hetta blew out an exasperated breath.
They reached the bubble, and Wyn opened his leysight the merest fraction. The world lit up in incandescent brilliance, rainbows upon rainbows, slicing through him in fractal splendour.
He winced and hastily tamped it down.
Irokoi grinned at him. “If you were any less than you are, little brother, trying to see the wefts of this place would burn your eyes out. As it is, you need to have more patience. Like this, Hallowyn.” He held out a hand. Wyn took it warily.
Irokoi extended a mental connection in addition to the physical one. Wyn hesitated. Did he trust Irokoi? Did he have much choice, given they were trapped here with him? Slowly, Wyn lowered his shields. The barest hint of Irokoi’s signature: frost and the velvet of a storm gathering at midnight.
“Breathe,” Irokoi instructed. “Let yourself feel the world, rather than charging in and demanding it show itself to you.”
I wasn’t aware leysight counted as a demand, Wyn thought, but tried to obey. What did he feel? He reached out with his senses, following the path Irokoi unfurled before him in his mind. He could hear the eerie stillness of the lake, the absence of the proper sounds a body of water should have made. Starwater always had a sound, even on the stillest of days—the small lapping of its edges on stone, waterbirds paddling, the occasional splash of a fish. This lake held only sorrow so intense it trapped the water itself in frozen paralysis. He could hear his own breaths, and Hetta and Irokoi’s, the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
A sense of something whispering on the edge of hearing, a name he could almost catch—
“Who is Nymwen?” he said slowly. “The lake speaks the name,” he added, for Hetta’s benefit.
A tremor ran over Koi, and when he spoke it was so soft, Wyn had to strain to catch it. “Who knows?” His voice hardened. “But you are supposed to be listening to the barrier, not the lake.”
Wyn tried again, concentrating. Between the soft whispering of a wind that didn’t exist was wound…something else. Magic. It held the same sadness as the lake, and it surrounded them. He opened his eyes and let it seep into him, his leysight soft and insubstantial as thistledown.
The bubble became a web made of countless tightly interwoven threads that pulsed with magic—a magic that rang with sorrow and power.
“The High King laid this spell,” he said, for Hetta’s benefit. Not that he’d been in any doubt. Who else could be responsible for the magic here? But it was one thing to know this and another to feel it humming all around him.
Gingerly, he put out a hand and rested it on the bubble-spell. It flared at the touch. He pushed. It didn’t budge, but the threads thickened and brightened until he was forced to look away.
“I don’t think we can break it. It’s absorbing any magic I use on it.” He turned back to Hetta, extracting his hand from Irokoi’s.
“That’s actually somewhat reassuring to hear, given the amount of water above us,” Hetta said. She swallowed as a vast shadow moved in the deep, entirely silent.
They watched as it drew closer. So that was what he’d seen the back of before, breaching the surface. A grey-skinned leviathan, walking on two tree-trunk legs, many teeth visible in its blunted snout, tail undulating silently in the murky waters. Wyn felt extremely vindicated in his choice to keep far from the waves.
“Can it see us?” Hetta asked, her voice higher pitched than normal.
“The spell keeps it out as much as it keeps us in,” Irokoi said. Wyn knew he was trying to be reassuring, but it was still unnerving to see one great eye roll around and fix on them. The leviathan began to swim closer, vast webbed front feet kicking like an oversized frog’s.
“Let’s…go back inside,” Wyn suggested, fighting the urge to flare his wings out in challenge.
“I completely agree,” Hetta said fervently.
29
Lord Arran
Jack felt ill at ease, riding out to meet the lords at the boundary with Penharrow. Of course, he’d imagined himself in the role of lord many times, but in none of those imaginings had he gotten farther than Stariel’s border—certainly not as far as membership on the Conclave. Old Lord Henry hadn’t bothered much with them. “A bunch of bantam roosters, too concerned with whose crow is loudest,” he’d called them dismissively. “Stariel has no need for their approval. We were here before the Conclave was even a notion; they should look to us, not the other way around.”
Easy for him to dismiss them, Jack reflected. Lord Henry’s right to a place on the Conclave had never been questioned. It seemed both incredible that Hetta’s might be up for debate and absolutely typical of his cousin to make things as complicated as possible. To be honest, if not for Angus’s concern, he might’ve thought the whole problem an exaggeration; as it was, he was sure it would all be sorted out easily enough. Probably the other lords just wanted reassuring that Hetta wasn’t mad as a hatter.
Though they wouldn’t have debated my claim, if things had gone differently. The thought made him irritable, though why should he feel guilty for it? It wasn’t like that had actually come to pass, and the Conclave’s attitude towards Hetta now wasn’t his fault regardless.
He scanned the skies for Aroset, but there were only high wisps of cloud against the blue. He squinted, just in case it helped, but still nothing. Could be because there truly was nothing, or could just be that his Sight wasn’t working today. That was magic for you; unreliable as weather.
Still, it was good to be out of the house. Far too many people had wanted things of him lately; answers he didn’t have to questions that were only
piling higher as time went on. Hetta damn well should’ve given more thought to what she was leaving behind before she’d gone skipping off to Fairyland. She’d seemed blithely sure that she wouldn’t be gone for long, yet here she was, absent a fortnight and with no indication of when she was planning to return.
What if she didn’t come back? What would that mean for him? Jack felt traitorous even thinking it, but it didn’t stop the question popping into his mind in quiet moments. Not that there had been many of those; everyone wanted a piece of his time, from the housekeeper to the bloody village council. Land matters he could deal with, but how was he supposed to know about magic?
Jack drew up just short of the boundary and waited for the three riders to approach from the Penharrow side. Probably there wasn’t much risk in crossing the boundary briefly, but he’d said he wouldn’t, and more than that, that he’d look after Stariel while Hetta was gone. Someone had to put the land first. He reached out for Stariel, which twitched restlessly; it had been on high alert ever since Hetta had left. But at least it wasn’t—well, it would know, wouldn’t it, if there was anything to be worried about, even with Hetta so far away?
He recognised Angus at a distance, riding the roan cob he favoured. Jack scowled reflexively but managed to get his face in order by the time the party reached him. The other two men were strangers.
It was hard not to think of might-have-beens, when Angus introduced the older man as the Conclave’s Chair, Lord Arran. Arran was somewhere in his sixties, short and wiry with thick grey hair, weather-tanned fair skin, and narrow, almost elongated features, as if someone had taken hold of his chin and crown and pulled them subtly apart.
“—and Lord Featherstone,” Angus introduced the second man.
Jack took a closer look at Featherstone, darkly amused. He didn’t look at all like Rakken, and Jack wondered if he’d heard the tale of the impersonation. Featherstone was younger than Arran, though he still looked as if he had a good couple of decades on Jack, with deep-set dark eyes, olive skin, and an unfashionably full beard.
Lord Featherstone’s expression didn’t give anything away, and he only nodded slightly in response to the introduction.
“You’re old Lord Valstar’s nephew,” Lord Arran said, pulling Jack’s attention back.
Jack felt oddly defensive, and his horse shifted its weight in response; he tightened the reins. “That’s right.”
“And you’re the substitute for the new Lord Valstar, are you? Doesn’t she have brothers?”
Jack had to take another moment to control his mount, and it was Angus who answered: “She does, but I believe Marius is away at present, and Jack’s always been more involved with the estate. Shall we get on?”
Lord Arran made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat but didn’t object.
They rode. Blackbirds startled at the horses, hopping back under the hedgerows, the blackthorn budding with tiny white flowers. The breeze brought the smell of mud, crushed grass, and horse sweat, and the sun was almost hot on his back.
Stariel hung on Jack’s shoulders as they picked their way past muddy fields towards the village. He eyed the rows of young plants with satisfaction; planting season had dragged on longer than it should’ve, thanks to a wet spell in mid-April, but they’d grown at a staggering rate since. The farmers were all saying it was the best growing season in living memory, typically turbulent April weather notwithstanding. Was that chance, or something else? Jack couldn’t stop thinking of that apple tree Hetta had magicked into blossoming at unnatural speed.
“What are you growing, then?” Lord Arran asked.
“This lot is spring barley.” Jack told him about the seed trials.
Lord Featherstone seemed interested. “Penharrow says Lord Valstar has been making considerable changes to the estate since she inherited.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed.
Lord Arran gave him a sidelong look. “I’d heard Stariel followed some odd inheritance laws. Must’ve been quite an upset for you all.”
Jack grunted. “No more than usual. Shall we give the horses their heads? Good day for it.” Jack might harbour his own personal feelings about Hetta’s inheritance, but he’d be damned if he’d air them to a stranger.
This suggestion was met with tepid agreement, which was all Jack needed; he kneed his horse to a faster pace. The air rushed past, the beat of hooves and the rhythm cooling his blood somewhat by the time they neared the village and had to slow. The streets were busy, it being market day.
They dismounted at the village pub. The grizzled publican’s wife looked the lords up and down with every sign of enjoyment, as if she were memorising the details to recount for later entertainment.
A pint of beer and a piece of lamb-and-kidney pie did wonders to improve Jack’s mood, as did Angus turning the conversation towards sheep. Lord Arran had strong opinions on this, but he also knew what he was talking about, and Jack found himself in charity with the man.
He should’ve known things had been going too well to last.
“So what do you make of this fae business, Mr Langley-Valstar?” Lord Arran asked when the sheep conversation lulled.
Jack’s uneasiness returned in full. “What fae business would that be, exactly?”
“Isn’t your steward supposed to be one? A fairy prince, is what I’ve heard.”
Jack shrugged. “He is, but it’s hardly relevant most of the time.”
Lord Arran scoffed. “That seems hard to believe.”
“Believe what you will, my lord.” Jack took a steadying gulp of his drink.
“And where is he today? I’d like to speak to him.”
Damn Hetta for leaving him to answer awkward questions on her behalf. He cut a look at Angus; Angus was the one who’d talked him into this, after all, but Angus stayed quiet.
“On a leave of absence,” Jack said reluctantly. “Not sure when he’ll be back.”
Lord Arran made a disapproving sound but dropped the subject. Or at least, so Jack hoped.
They went for a walk through the village after lunch. Villagers they passed eyed them interestedly and doffed their hats.
“So I see you’ve put in elektricity in the village? How did you justify the expense?” Lord Arran asked as they walked.
Jack eyed him with dislike. “You don’t have it at Arran, then?”
“Oh yes; years ago.”
Why the bloody hell are you asking me to justify it then?
“The inevitable tide of modernity comes for us all,” Featherstone remarked, and it was impossible to tell whether he meant it approvingly or not.
The group dispersed amongst the market stalls around the green, and Jack thought it a reprieve until he heard Lord Arran’s distinctive tones.
“And what do you make of this fae business, eh? Heard you have one as land steward.” Bloody Lord Arran had turned his interrogation upon one of the tenant farmers who’d come to the market day.
“Mr Tempest?” the farmer asked cautiously.
“That’s the fellow.”
“Don’t know anything about the fae business, but he’s better than the last steward.” Not high praise, since the last steward had actively embezzled from Stariel’s accounts. But the farmer followed it up with, “Got our roof thatched soon as I told him it needed doing.”
“And your new lord?” Lord Arran apparently saw nothing wrong with interrogating Hetta’s people within earshot of Jack! The farmer’s expression held an edge of incredulity, as if he too couldn’t quite believe the nerve of the man. Jack came up deliberately to stand beside Arran, but the man gave no sign of embarrassment.
“She’s ours, born and bred,” the farmer said, and Jack made a grunt of agreement. “With all respect, your lordship, I’ve matters to be seeing to. Got a pig I said I’d take a look at.”
Lord Arran drew himself up, clearly affronted at this lack of deference, but the farmer doffed his cap and left—leaving Jack to take the brunt of his ire.
“And your cou
sin? How long is she planning to avoid us for? Seems mighty convenient timing for her to become an invalid.”
“She’ll come to meet you as soon as she’s able,” Jack said stiffly. “And I’ll thank you not to speak of her so.”
“I suppose we all end up dancing to a woman’s whims, one way or another,” Lord Arran said, which gave Jack a strong desire to plant him a facer. “Put your back up, have I, young buck? I don’t believe in sugar-coating things, and you can tell your Lord Valstar so, since you seem so tied to her apron strings. Tell her to stop cowering and come face me like a man. Though I can see that might be difficult,” he added.
Things went further downhill from there.
Jack stumped back into the rose garden, still covered in horse-sweat from the blistering ride after the whole lords-debacle business.
Ivy, who’d been sitting on the nearby bench reading, took one look at his face and excused herself. When he was sure he was alone, he went to stand in front of the Gate. The glossy leaves of the dusken roses seemed to mock him in the afternoon sun.
“Bloody hurry up and come back!” he growled at the Gate. A sliver of guilt prompted him to add, “You can’t blame me for putting their backs up; you’re the one who left me in this lurch in the first place.”
He shut up then, the absurdity of talking to himself catching up with him, and slumped down to sit on the bench Ivy had vacated. He reached out for Stariel; it seemed much as it had been earlier, and once again he tried to find that reassuring. Stariel would know if its lord was in danger, wouldn’t it?
30
Feathers
To Hetta’s relief, the library also contained bedrooms, presumably for the same non-existent academics who the empty reading room and desks were designed for. It made her extremely curious to know why the High King had built this place and if it had always been so empty.