by AJ Lancaster
Wyn laughed, because it was better than despair, and there was no time for despair, not now, with the clock ticking ever louder.
Are you all right? He wanted to ask Hetta. There was a worrying brittleness to her, as if she were navigating a path made of stitched-together eggshells, but the question served no purpose: she wasn’t all right. Neither of them was. So he did the only thing he could, bundling her tightly into his arms, leaning his cheek against hers.
“Could you not?” Marius spluttered.
There was a knock at the door, and they disentangled reluctantly as it opened.
Lady Sybil stood there, side by side with Jack. She gave Wyn a withering look that he found oddly heartening, since it didn’t splinter even in the face of his wings and horns. It was precisely the same look she’d been giving him for several months, ever since he’d made the mistake of kissing Hetta in front of an assortment of Valstars.
“Have the two of you learnt noth— Oh.” She broke off as she spotted Marius and realised she couldn’t censure them for being unchaperoned. Marius gave her a small, ironic wave.
Lady Sybil ignored him, folded her arms, and glared down her nose at Hetta. “I wished to tell you that I am going to write to Lady Arran immediately. The Conclave wouldn’t even exist without the Valstars, and so I shall tell them! And you, Mr Tempest.”
“Yes, my lady?” Wyn asked politely
“You had better not disappoint me or my niece.” She gave a firm nod, turned on her heel, and stalked out like an angry crow.
Hetta turned wordlessly to Jack, who hunched his shoulders and said without meeting her eyes, “I saw that damned reporter off while you were gone. She tried to claim it wasn’t her article.” He gave a snort.
Hetta began to giggle, and that brought Jack’s head up sharply.
“I assume that was some sort of peace offering?” Wyn said to Jack, since Hetta couldn’t speak with one hand pressed against her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, dancing on the edge of a hysteria Wyn had a lot of sympathy with. He put a hand on her arm.
Jack huffed. “Yes, all right. It was. Can you stop laughing?”
“Sorry,” Hetta mumbled, wiping at her eyes. “It’s just—Aunt Sybil!”
Jack folded his arms. “She does care about you, Hetta, and us all.”
Before anyone could challenge this statement, more footsteps sounded on the stairwell.
“This is a terrible hiding spot,” Hetta said accusingly to Marius, who shrugged.
“Oh, are we hiding?” Wyn asked. He frowned at the tea tray. “Forgive me, but, in what sense?”
Grandmamma, Alexandra, Ivy, and Caro jostled at the doorway.
“What’s gone wrong now?” Hetta asked tiredly.
“Nothing!” Alexandra said.
“We came to help,” Grandmamma said placidly. They spilled into the room, which immediately became overcrowded. “Really, Henrietta, you cannot just make announcements like that and expect us not to act.” She surveyed the untouched tea tray and fixed Wyn with a narrow-eyed look. “What sort of husband do you think you’ll make if you can’t even get her to drink the tea? It grows strong bones,” she said in an aside to Hetta. “And I imagine your babe will need quite a lot of that, if they’re growing wingbones as well? Do fae babes have wings?”
Wyn found himself the focus of multiple pairs of interested eyes. Ivy was pulling out her notebook.
“Ah…not fully formed ones, I don’t think.” Heat rose in his cheeks, and it was with a deep relief that he felt something ping at the edges of his awareness, the spark of a greater fae, unmasked and blazing along the leylines. The spark was familiar but one he hadn’t felt in more than a decade. “But forgive me; my brother is at the border awaiting us. Brothers,” he amended.
50
The Last Stormdancer
The sight of Torquil, alive and well and standing on the other side of the train line, eased a tension Wyn hadn’t known he’d still been holding, muscles relaxing around his lungs. A soft, sentimental emotion swelled. This is probably the fondest I’ve ever felt of him, he reflected wryly. He and Torquil hadn’t been close; Torquil was prone to flares of cruel temper, and he’d seen their proximity of age as a reason to compete rather than collaborate. But Wyn couldn’t forget how it had felt to think his brother dead, the sharp, surreal sorrow of it, and he didn’t try to stop the smile that came to his lips.
Irokoi bounced across the raised tracks that marked the border here, beaming. “I found him! I must say, it’s so nice when people stay where you put them.”
Torquil’s expression was guarded, and he stayed where he was, arms crossed, assessing the party gathered before him: Hetta, Wyn, Rakken. The day was still and warm, and blackbirds chirped from the hedgerow, which needed clipping back.
Torquil’s eyes lingered on Wyn’s new plumage, but he didn’t comment. He’s shorter than I am, Wyn realised with mingled shock and satisfaction. Torquil obviously couldn’t fail to notice this either, and his expression soured. Wyn fought a childish impulse to flare out his wings so the light caught the colours better. It would not be politic to emphasise that Torquil hadn’t yet grown his own bloodfeathers, regardless of how temporarily satisfying it might feel. Torquil’s wings remained the same silvery-white as ever.
“Brothers,” Torquil said at last. The word was neutral, neither affectionate nor threatening.
“I’m glad to see you, and especially glad to know your death was greatly exaggerated,” Wyn said. Was it foolish to admit it? But Wyn didn’t see how it could be used against him, and they did, after all, need Torquil’s help.
“You always were sentimental, Hallowyn.” Torquil’s attention moved to Rakken, his feet shifting subtly into a more defensive stance. “Tell me, did you give up your claim on the throne to stop this one slitting your throat?”
“No,” said Wyn.
Rakken’s posture was carelessly relaxed, and he smiled, razor sharp. “Are you afraid of me, little brother?”
Torquil’s hand strayed towards the pommel of one of the twin blades strapped to his back. He’d never been much good at hiding his temper. “Perhaps you should fear me, Rake. I haven’t renounced my claim to the throne, and I won’t, no matter how many veiled threats you make.” The scent of his magic rose in warning. “And I see there’s no Cat here to back you up.” Cat still couldn’t fly.
“Oh, that wasn’t a veiled threat, dear, ever-dramatic Quil,” Rakken drawled. “If I threaten you, you will know it. Perhaps you should consider that Cat is not here to hold me back, should I decide to remove my competition.”
Wyn met Hetta’s eyes and saw that she was both appalled and trying not to laugh. He made a helpless gesture with one hand. Probably Rakken was merely provoking Torquil for his own entertainment. Probably—but his words cut too close to the truth. Wyn knew how badly Rakken wanted ThousandSpire’s throne.
“Rake mourned you,” Wyn said. “When we thought you were dead. We both did.”
Rakken gave Wyn a disgusted look, like a cat that has had its prey taken off it.
Torquil gave a sharp bark of laughter. “How unexpectedly sentimental of you! Did you mourn Father too?”
Rakken dusted a bit of lint from his shoulder. “Death is final; one mourns the potential it takes from the world. And dead people are so very rarely of use.” He straightened. “Are you intending to be of use here, Torquil, or shall we dally on FallingStar’s border all day?”
“I haven’t invited you in,” Hetta said, looking between them all with a dry expression.
Torquil blinked down at Hetta. “I apologise for my manners in not introducing myself immediately, Lord Valstar. I am Prince Torquil Tempestren. I understand you wish to marry my younger brother.” He sounded doubtful, as if he couldn’t understand why anyone would wish to do such a thing.
Wyn fought the temptation to flare out his wings and re-draw Torquil’s attention to Wyn’s bloodfeathers and Torquil’s lack of them.
“Yes,” Hetta said. “If I let
you in, will you abide by guestright? And agree to support Wyn’s and my marriage?”
“I will.”
“Welcome to Stariel, then.”
Torquil stepped across the border with an edge of defiance, his wings tightening as Stariel sniffed around him. He weighed up Wyn, eyes narrowing as he worked out that Wyn was connected to the faeland he stood on. It was jarring, Wyn had to admit, for his brothers to ping against his senses as other rather than kin; particularly so when the reverse was true for Gwendelfear, a DuskRose fae. Would he ever get used to that?
“Has Irokoi told you our terms?” Wyn asked.
Torquil nodded. “He said ThousandSpire should have its choice again, and I believed him, though…” His brows creased and he trailed off. A chill went down Wyn’s spine.
“You can’t remember being told there’s a compulsion on you because there’s a compulsion on you,” Hetta told him.
He stared at her. “Yes…” he said uncertainly.
“You’ll de-compel him?” Hetta asked Rakken.
Rakken heaved a sigh, and Wyn thought he was going to make some remark about mortal bluntness, but he simply said, “Yes.”
They went back to the house. Cat greeted Torquil with more enthusiasm than her twin but less patience.
“Rakken will remove the compulsion from you in exchange for your willing participation in breaking the Spires’ curse. Do you agree? We are running out of time.”
“I don’t trust Rake.”
Rakken gave a sharp-toothed smile. “Whyever not?”
Torquil just gave him a flat look.
Rakken sighed. “Very well. I promise to do nothing to your mind beyond what is needed to remove the spell.”
He bore Torquil away, leaving Wyn and Hetta alone. Hetta wrinkled her nose, looking after them. “He’s not what I expected. He’s not…glossy like Rakken.”
Wyn shrugged. “Torquil was never very good at diplomacy. Fortunately, he’s a skilled warrior, or I don’t think he’d have survived in the Spires as long as he did. But it’s perhaps not surprising he left when he could. He did not belong there either.”
He pulled at that thought, that commonality between them, not sure whether he was reassured or disturbed by it.
“I don’t think any of you belonged in the Spires when it turned on itself,” Hetta pointed out. “Some of you just took longer to realise than others.”
“And yet one of them may soon be ruling the Spires, regardless.”
It took nearly twenty-four hours to set up the spell at the Stones, and Wyn felt every minute of them ticking past. Irokoi and Rakken wrangled over spell parameters and ignored the others except for issuing irritable demands periodically. It didn’t seem to occur to them that they might be disobeyed.
Wyn exchanged a glance with Torquil after Irokoi had absently sent him to fetch ‘a simple pitcher filled directly from a spring’. Torquil had just arrived with another stack of books from the library at Rakken’s request.
Torquil raised a wry eyebrow. “They do know we’re no longer children, don’t they?”
“In fairness, I am not much more skilled at spellcasting now than I was then,” Wyn admitted.
Torquil canted his head. “I’ve never understood how you can be so free with your weaknesses.”
“I am not exactly weak.” He flexed his wings, the vivid colours sparkling—in contrast to Torquil’s own white. Torquil scowled.
Wyn looked up to find Cat watching them with the suggestion of a smile. She was perched on one of the stones, sharpening a blade. Her colour was a lot better than it had been, the cuts on her face scabbed over, her movement freer. Her wings were still a mess.
“Are you sure you aren’t still children, children?” she said.
Wyn went to fetch the pitcher without comment.
Hetta dragged him to bed when it grew dark, and even Irokoi snatched a brief few hours of sleep. Rakken did not follow. More importantly, Cat made no attempt to make her twin rest, even when Rakken was dark-eyed and shaky with exhaustion late the next morning, which told Wyn exactly how urgent she felt.
“Belchior’s loop was never intended for such a purpose!” Rakken was arguing with Irokoi, jabbing at a section in the sketch he’d drawn.
“How do you know? Have you even met Belchior?” Irokoi said.
“Can you even explain why it should go in such a pattern, or is this one of your”—Rakken made a dismissive waggling motion—“feelings?”
Irokoi was unruffled. “You’re just sore you didn’t figure it out without me. It’s obvious why it goes there. Don’t you trust my judgement?”
“No,” Rakken said flatly. “I require an explanation before I will commit magic to this madness. You are of questionable sanity, unlike me.”
“Debatable,” Torquil muttered.
Wyn laughed, though it didn’t ease the tension winding through him. Hetta had suffered too many shocks today. They were running out of time.
“How long is this going to take?” Jack asked impatiently, beyond the bounds of the circle. He, Hetta, and a small knot of other interested Valstars sat on a picnic blanket at what Wyn hoped was a safe distance. Hetta was eating a muffin. Wyn weighed the charge surrounding her, trying to judge the rate of increase. It hummed in the air around her, and her relatives were being careful not to accidentally brush against her. How much time did they have left? He balled his hands into fists. It had to be enough; he would wring agreement from the High King with his bare hands, if he had to.
Rakken and Irokoi pretended not to hear Jack, though Wyn knew Rakken at least was irritated at the reminder of his audience. There’d been a few travelling fairs passing through Stariel-upon-Starwater in his years here, and Wyn was strongly reminded of people gathered around the Fantastical Beasts.
Though we are at least real fantastical beasts. There had been a wretched ‘unicorn’ one year, consisting of a long-suffering white horse and a spiralling horn whose origin Wyn hadn’t known except that it certainly had not come from any unicorn.
And yet, Wyn was strangely glad that the Valstars had come to watch. It wasn’t exactly a show of support, but it wasn’t exactly not a show of support either, and it injected a welcome note of normality into the proceedings. He smiled. What would they do if the villagers decided to show up too? Perhaps we should charge for tickets.
“No one is making you stay,” Hetta said lightly, setting the muffin down. “And no one promised you it would be exciting.”
“It is exciting!” Alexandra watched Rakken and Irokoi’s movements, entranced, sketching rapidly on the pad she’d brought with her. Could she see the magic they were weaving? I will have to teach her how to shield herself, he made a note. The Sight was a rare ability, but like most gifts, it came with a dark side. If Alexandra was powerful enough to see leylines, that meant she might catch glimpses of other, less benign things, and Wyn didn’t want to find out how they might affect her. He thought of the blazing leylines in the undersea, how they’d felt burnt into his eyelids.
“I think the spell is nearly done,” Wyn offered, assessing the wefts of it. Rakken shot him an acid glare, but Wyn was becoming immune to them.
Jack subsided with a wordless grumble, measuring the sun’s position in the sky. “The morning will be gone by the time you’re finished.”
Marius too was making notes, and at this he looked up and frowned at the horizon. “Is the time of day important for the spell?”
“A bit,” Irokoi offered absently as he dragged his outstretched primaries over the Standing Stones that had last held a portal between the two faelands. The touch left a faint, delicate imprint that was somehow connected to the wider coil of spellwork Rakken was constructing between the other stones and the plinth in the centre of the circle.
“Is it the time of day here, or the time in the Spires?” Ivy asked, looking up.
It was a surprisingly astute question, and one Wyn didn’t know the answer to. He said as much, hazarding a guess. “I think it’s probab
ly about the resonance.”
“Tell me, brother, do you have any additional commentary you would like to make before we continue? Any further audience you’d care to invite to observe?” Rakken’s eyes glittered, almost feverish. “Don’t let my spellcasting keep you from your conversations. We are only about to try to pull off an insanely complicated spell to free a land you are directly responsible for cursing in the first place.”
“You’re losing your touch, Rake, if you can’t block out idle chatter,” Irokoi said placidly. “But Mossfeathers is right—we are ready. Now give me a feather.” He marched over to where Torquil stood and held out a commanding hand.
Torquil considered him through slitted eyes. There were a number of unpleasant magics that called for part of a person’s essence. He reached slowly behind his shoulder and plucked out a small covert.
“If you try to use this for anything nefarious…” he began, but Irokoi simply tsked, grabbed the feather and marched over to Rakken expectantly.
“With the same caveats as last time, Koi.” Rakken handed one of his own feathers to Irokoi. Cat gave hers over without comment. “How are you planning to acquire dear Aroset’s?”
“Oh, I already retrieved one,” Irokoi said cheerfully. “But thank you for reminding me.” He reached into his pocket and added two feathers to the ones already in his palm: one of his own black, and one of bright crimson.
The sight of the different feathers in Irokoi’s palm stirred something in Wyn. When was the last time they had all worked together on anything? For a given value of working together, he thought, glancing at Aroset’s frozen form.
Wyn had never felt particularly close to his family, but a warm, sentimental emotion swelled in him now. Perhaps it was merely the proximity of the Valstars, who for all their faults, valued family. But he didn’t think he was alone in it, from the others’ expressions. Would it survive the competition for ThousandSpire’s throne, if they succeeded in bringing it out of stasis, if what Irokoi had said about the faeland having its true choice now stood? Though at least I am out of that specific competition, now.