The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  Irokoi had been right that the creatures would follow them, but he might have mentioned this was because the leviathans were determined to capture the pair of them—presumably to drag them back to the undersea. He put the question of why aside to examine in less blood-soaked circumstances.

  “Miss!” He recalled the maid servant who he’d stolen the scarf from. She’d been shaken enough to obey his command, even though his appearance had her eyes wide enough that he could see the whites around the irises.

  “Y-yes, sir?” she stuttered, jerking into motion.

  “Please fetch the first-aid kit. Has the doctor been summoned?”

  She shook her head uncertainly.

  “Send for him immediately.” She bobbed her assent, the order seeming to steady her, though her attention still snagged on his horns as she left.

  “I’ll take over; you need your leg seen to,” a firm female voice told him. A primly dressed woman knelt beside him and put her hands on Lord Arran’s shoulder. There were plaster fragments in her hair. She sketched the winged shape of him briefly but didn’t linger, her attention returning swiftly to Lord Arran. “Ms Orpington-Davies,” she said. “You’re Prince Hallowyn.”

  The reporter. She’d given up on Marius and Knoxbridge, apparently. “Keep pressure on it,” he said grimly.

  “I’m not a fool, Your Highness.”

  He grinned. “Maybe I’ll give you an interview after all then.”

  “I’ll hold you to it if you stop trying to martyr yourself. Give over.”

  He did, standing clumsily as Ms Orpington-Davies took his place. Pain pierced his left leg even though he put no weight on it. Everything on that side hurt, but the leg was the worst. He stumbled, feeling a warm, slick wetness in his left boot that didn’t bode well. Curse my too-slow reflexes. And curse storms-bedamned thick hide! He wasn’t even sure if the leviathans had felt his lightning, and he hadn’t wanted to risk drawing more power, not so close to a mortal dwelling. Not when he wasn’t iron-certain of his control.

  There was dust everywhere—the leviathans had ripped part of the roof off and clawed out a portion of the second floor. The manor swarmed like a kicked anthill, people shouting back and forth. Had anyone else been injured? Wyn tried to find out, but he couldn’t seem to find his mild, conciliatory manner through the pain, and servants scattered before him, skittish as sheep. He couldn’t really blame them; they had just seen one fae rip half the roof off, and here Wyn was, another fae wandering into their midst. Though one would think they’d recognise me; Penharrow is not that far removed from Stariel. Though in fairness, they wouldn’t have seen him in this form. His left wingbone felt sprained, complaining at every jostle. He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing, or at least recover his hearing; everything sounded muted on that side.

  Well, if he couldn’t be conciliatory, he needed to at least be mortal, but he couldn’t seem to compact himself down into the right form. He rubbed his ear and grimaced; the ringing continued.

  Hobbling up the entrance stairs, he came face to face with two people he didn’t recognise. Only his reflexes saved him from becoming a pin cushion as one of them brandished a kitchen knife at him.

  “Begone, foul creature!” The accent placed the man as one of the lords Hetta was supposed to be meeting this week at Penharrow’s house party.

  Wyn felt put-upon. “I’m here to help,” he complained. “Please put the knife down. I am Lord Valstar’s steward.”

  He willed himself back into mortal form and managed it just as Penharrow appeared at the top of the steps. Wyn staggered as the pain became more acute, and Penharrow scowled at him.

  “Where’s Hetta?”

  “At Stariel. Lord Arran is injured.” Wyn waved in the direction of the fallen lord. “Are there any other—”

  “Some. I’ve sent for Dr Greystark.” Penharrow grimaced as he took in the lord now uncertainly clutching the kitchen knife. “For the gods’ sake, put down the knife, Drummond.” He met Wyn’s eyes. “What were those things?” There was an accusation there, an accusation Wyn had no answer for; the leviathans were, after all, Wyn’s fault.

  “Leviathans,” Wyn said softly. “My brother has drawn them off; Hetta will take care of the rest once they pass the bounds to Stariel.”

  Penharrow’s mouth thinned, but he had higher priorities than Wyn now. He strode past Wyn and down the steps. Wyn leaned against the stone balustrade for support. The lord lowered the knife, and Wyn heard Penharrow issuing commands, soothing frayed nerves with the ease of someone used to being obeyed. Wyn let people wash around him in eddies, wishing his head would stop ringing. At least in mortal form he didn’t have to deal with the pain of his wing, but the pain in his leg had increased tenfold and, more worryingly, the limb felt wrong.

  He looked down. A rim of ruby was slowly forming around the outline of his boot, the colour bright against the pale stone. During the fight he’d channelled the pain into his magic, but now it had nowhere to go, and it swelled inside him, pressing against his skin in a low, stabbing ache. It would hurt less in his fae form, and, terrifyingly, he found he wanted to change for reasons beside that. Everything felt so muted like this, his body unfamiliar and awkward.

  But he felt the unfamiliar lords’ eyes on him, watching the way one would a beetle that has wandered into the house, so he forced himself to smile amiably at them, holding onto his form with sheer determination. He would not be the reason they voted against Hetta.

  The leviathans might be, though, he couldn’t help thinking.

  They carted Lord Arran into the house; he looked semi- rather than unconscious, which Wyn hoped was an improvement. The man was elderly, and the blood loss had been significant before Wyn got to him. What if it’s killed him? The thought felt like the leviathan grabbing at him again, except this time the dull, ringing ache came from within. Why did other people always end up paying the price of his mistakes?

  Kineticar tyres crunched and tore Wyn’s attention away from the slow drip of his own blood.

  Jack stepped out, but Wyn hadn’t had time to process his arrival before Gwendelfear emerged from the kineticar and Wyn nearly lost his grip on his mortal form as his instincts shrieked enemy! His instincts faltered in the face of her cool blue eyes and the hint of Stariel rather than DuskRose that now clung to her, the same hint interwoven with his own magic. It was more obvious now than it had been within Stariel’s borders, the contrast between her and the background magic greater here.

  Gwendelfear’s lip curled in disgust, and he knew she didn’t wish to feel that flicker of kinship between them either. But we’re of the same court now. He spread his hands in a pacifying way; they might as well grow accustomed to it, since he doubted the lesser fae would choose to leave the protection of Stariel for unclaimed lands, and if she’d had another court to flee to, she would not have needed Sunnika to intervene on her behalf.

  Gwendelfear’s expression didn’t grow any warmer and in fact took on an edge of satisfaction as she took in his injury. Ah, well.

  Penharrow headed back to the door and frowned to see Wyn still leaning against the balustrade.

  “You’re bleeding, man.”

  “Yes,” Wyn said, his voice sounding odd in his ears. “I expect it will stop soon. Who else is injured?”

  “A few of the servants have minor scrapes, and my mother’s twisted her ankle. Lord Arran…” Penharrow’s expression told Wyn all he needed to know about the Conclave’s Chair.

  Irokoi descended in a rush of wings, Hetta in his arms, and Wyn nearly sagged with relief. They’d dealt with the leviathans successfully, thank the stormwinds. Following hard on the heels of that thought was fear; they were outside the bounds of Stariel. What if Aroset made an appearance? He scanned the sky, searching for a hint of his sister’s magic, but there was nothing. Please let her still be fanning her wings in Faerie.

  Hetta hopped down. “Wyn!” She made her way towards him, and he decided on this occasion that he could let her cross th
e distance rather than meeting her halfway.

  His hands clenched on the stone balustrade for support, accidentally jolting his leg and sending a fresh wave of agony through it. His boot felt too tight, and he suspected it might be the only thing keeping his foot from swelling to several times its natural size.

  He lost time, and Hetta was at his side.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “Broken, I think. Are you all right?” The heartstone had fallen from under her shirt where she usually kept it hidden, the colour darker than earlier today. How much power did Lamorkin’s spell have left?

  The next few minutes contained an excessive number of people telling Wyn he was an idiot for standing there on a broken leg, followed by a painful removal to one of Penharrow’s receiving rooms, where Lord Arran had also been conveyed. Wyn did at least manage to ask Irokoi to keep watch for Aroset outside. Hopefully they’d have sufficient warning if she chose the worst possible moment to appear.

  Hetta pressed him down onto a settee, and the other people in the room gave him unfriendly side-glances.

  “Wyn…” She trailed off.

  “It does look somewhat worse than I anticipated, I admit.” There was an angle to his leg that wasn’t natural, and a distortion in his trousers that suggested the bone might have come through the skin.

  She took a deep breath. “It needs to be set. Has the doctor been called?” There was an anger simmering beneath her worry, an anger directed at him that he didn’t quite understand. He wanted to ask its cause, but not here, not in this room filled with people looking at him like something subhuman. He squeezed her hand.

  “Yes,” he agreed, to both questions. “But I am not the most urgent concern; he is.” He nodded to where Lord Arran was laid out on the sofa, still unconscious. The bandage on Lord Arran’s shoulder was soaked through. Mortals should not lose so much blood so quickly, particularly not elderly ones. For all Wyn’s magic, he had no ability to heal people. Healing was a rare gift, in Faerie, and not one possessed by stormdancers.

  Wait—there were not only stormdancers here now. He sought out Gwendelfear and she shook her head haughtily, the message clear: I don’t take orders from you. Her shoulders hunched, waiting for Hetta to command her.

  Hetta’s hand tightened on his, and he knew she was thinking of the Court of Dusken Roses, of Queen Tayarenn and Wyn’s father, and tyranny.

  Jack was having no such internal debates. “Well, are you going to help or not?” he asked Gwendelfear.

  She examined the dying man on the sofa, and then said, “Get me water that hasn’t been changed, that hasn’t been subject to iron.” When she’d healed Alexandra, they’d carted bucketfuls of lakewater from Starwater to a bathtub in Stariel House.

  It took some persuasion, but eventually they managed to get some of the servants to carry down a hip-bath from another room and fill it with water from the ornamental pond at the back of Penharrow Manor. Wyn had no part in the persuasion; Hetta took it in hand. The servants eyed him with suspicion as they followed her orders, and he tried to become smaller even though all he wanted to do was release his wings and lie there panting. Stormwinds knew he couldn’t blame them, not after the leviathans. Would those of Stariel, those who knew him better, have reacted differently?

  He lay on the settee, time moving in fits and starts as he breathed and began to fold the pain away, building his mental block bit by bit. It was hard in this form, and harder still because his magic writhed, refusing to settle to his command. He was only peripherally aware of Gwendelfear dropping her glamour and summoning her magic, of cool greenish light filling the room and the scent of fresh lakeweed.

  He finished his mental block and opened his eyes just as the light snuffed out and Lord Arran opened his eyes. The lord gave a shout of outrage—Gwendelfear was still perched over him, no glamour disguising her true form—and would’ve knocked her away except that her reflexes were faster than his. She sprang away as he splashed and flailed his way out of the hip bath.

  “Get away, you! What is that, that thing!? What the blazes am I doing in this?”

  Thing. Wyn didn’t think; he changed to his fae form between one heartbeat and the next, leaning forward to give his wings space. His magic hummed into the void, and he let it.

  “That thing,” he said, voice crackling with frost, “is the lady Gwendelfear, who you can thank for saving your life, since she has just used her healing magic on your behalf. The water was a necessary part of it.”

  Gwendelfear’s whiteless gaze met Wyn’s. Dark circles showed beneath her eyes, her face nearly as gaunt as it had been when she’d left DuskRose. The healing had drained all the power she’d recovered from weeks of rest.

  Lord Arran’s lip curled. Wyn had to fight down the power that swelled in response, the urge to awe this disrespectful mortal into submission. You will not look at her like that. You will not look at us like that. Anger cold and clean as a blade hummed along his nerves, trailing down to his primaries, to the deeper thought beneath.

  You will not look at my child like that.

  Lord Arran flinched and clutched at the side of the bath for balance, dripping wet. He snarled at Hetta instead:

  “I should’ve known you’d be in the middle of this trouble, girl. Is this what we have to look forward to now? Fairy monsters attacking people now you’ve gone to bed with one?”

  “It’s Lord Valstar to you.” Hetta’s voice was the same temperature as Wyn’s.

  Lord Arran just shook his head and stalked out without a backwards glance. A heavy silence fell. One of Hetta’s hands slipped to her abdomen, the briefest flicker of a touch, and Wyn wanted to chase after Lord Arran—broken leg be damned—and make him apologise. Wyn knew exactly what she was thinking, for his thoughts traversed the same path, revolved around the same unhappy question: Will people call our child a thing? Wyn curled his hand into a fist. Not if I have anything to do with it.

  Hetta sighed. “How many lords do you think I’ve alienated now?”

  “I think I must take credit for the two who brandished knives at me earlier. So, between us, three?”

  Her lips twitched. “I think you’re being optimistic.”

  What about Penharrow? It had been hard to read the man amidst the chaos earlier, and he’d disappeared into the manor at some point after the hipbath had arrived, presumably to see to the rest of the injured and check the extent of the damage.

  “We should get back to Stariel,” Wyn said. The longer they were outside its bounds, the more risk of Aroset finding them, and he couldn’t face his sister like this, a lame duck.

  “You are going to stay on that couch and wait for the doctor to set your leg,” Hetta told him. “Jack, go and see where Angus has got to and if Dr Greystark has arrived.”

  Gwendelfear made a hissing sound like a teakettle at boil and stalked over to Wyn.

  “I will set it, storm prince.” Her expression dared Wyn to comment. She glared at Jack. “Get me a knife. The boot will need to be cut off,” she added impatiently when Jack didn’t move. A whisper of a smile curled around her mouth. “Though I don’t deny the temptation to use it in other ways.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gwendelfear pretended not to hear him. When Jack returned, knife in hand, she used it to remove his boot and trouser leg with ruthless efficiency, unmoved by Wyn’s sharp breath as agony slammed down to his heel.

  Hetta swallowed and sat down beside him, looking away. The way the bone jabbed through skin was very nauseating, Wyn agreed.

  Gwendelfear scowled at the injury. “It was wise not to attempt to heal yourself till this was set,” she said. “Otherwise it would need re-breaking to straighten it.” She looked disappointed this wouldn’t be necessary.

  Wyn didn’t move, but something gave him away, because Gwendelfear’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t know how to do that, do you?”

  “I read the theory, when I was a boy,” Wyn admitted. “But…” But he hadn’t had the power ne
cessary to attempt it, then. Now…now, maybe he had the power, but he wasn’t sure he had the necessary control. In theory, greater fae with sufficient skill and power could redirect their own magic inwards, accelerate their own healing rate. It was an ability that required fine-tuned control as well as raw power.

  Gwendelfear just made a sound of disgust. She set his leg, and Wyn lost time again. His awareness narrowed to Hetta’s hand on his, to the red throb of pain, and he came back to himself, panting, as Gwendelfear upended a bucket of cold water over him. He winced. Was it truly necessary to splash such an excessive amount everywhere? The settee was likely to be unsalvageable after this. Although that wouldn’t be a problem for him to deal with. Perhaps not moving immediately to Stariel had been wise.

  Gwendelfear thrust out a hand, demanding, and Wyn took it. She…pulled, was the best description he could come up with. He recoiled, an instinctive reaction to someone trying to grab at his magic, and Gwendelfear made an impatient noise.

  “I don’t have enough magic left for this myself, Oathbreaker. If you’d rather hop out of here…”

  “Sorry.” Wyn concentrated, but still nearly fumbled the connection—this was much less straightforward than linking to Rakken or Irokoi had been, since they shared blood—but Gwendelfear made up for his ineptness with sheer persistence. And they were, after all, the same court now. An unsettling thought.

  The link snapped into place, and magic rushed out of him and into Gwendelfear. She made a sharp, startled noise, but her grip didn’t falter. How many times had he been used as a magical battery, of late? He hoped this wasn’t an omen of things to come.

  His leg flared with heat as her magic washed over him, sunlight on lakewater. The relief from pain was so intense that it made him dizzy. Or perhaps that was merely the drain of his magic.

  Gwendelfear released his hand and scrambled away as if burned. Her earlier gauntness had faded; her skin bloomed a healthy shade of green once more, and the colour had returned to her hair, all the shades of summer grass. If she’d looked like this when he and Hetta had tumbled through the Gate, he would’ve feared months rather than days had passed in their absence.