by AJ Lancaster
He could tell Hetta was in a similar mood; she tucked her arm in his and smiled ferociously around at their audience.
“The Duke of Callasham is here,” Hetta murmured, pointing out the man in the crowd. “Do you think he knows it was you who broke his roof?”
“Hopefully not. Though I will need to check him for remnant compulsion.” Wyn’s gaze swept over the room, and he made an unpleasant discovery. “Sunnika is here as well.”
Sunnika was in mortal form and dressed in mortal fashion, surrounded by a knot of admirers. Her eyes widened when they met his across the ballroom. Did she see the change in him? Or had she merely not expected him to come?
“The earl, too,” Hetta observed. The Earl of Wolver watched them with cool interest.
Queen Matilda cut a graceful path through the room, the crowd parting like a flock of starlings in flight. She was a tall woman with piercing blue eyes. Her pregnancy was only obvious because Wyn knew to look for it, the cut of her ballgown designed to hide the subtle swell of her stomach.
“Prince Hallowyn, Lord Valstar,” she greeted them.
He dipped his head. “Your Majesty. Apologies for our lateness.”
“I apologise for the inability of my orchestra to ignore distraction,” she said with a meaningful glance in their direction. The orchestra hastily began the opening chords of another song.
Queen Matilda considered Hetta. “Congratulations on your recent elevation to the Northern Lords Conclave, Lord Valstar.”
Hetta’s fingers spasmed on his arm. “I beg your pardon?”
The queen smiled. “I know the vote was passed only narrowly, but a victory is still a victory. Take them where you can. I heard your speech to them was very…forthright.”
Something unwound inside him. The Conclave had voted her one of its own after all, despite everything.
“Good,” he said fiercely. Hetta looked dazed by the news.
Queen Matilda turned to him, uncertainly lingering on his wings. “Do you dance, Prince Hallowyn?”
“I do.”
The queen seemed to steel herself and held out a commanding hand, which he took.
“I would be honoured,” he said drily. Though he was also beginning to feel cursed to spend all his balls dancing with people who weren’t Hetta. He gave Hetta an apologetic glance as he and the queen went out onto the floor; Hetta just shrugged, her expression caught between amusement and exasperation. Probably she was thinking the same thing.
“We surprised you,” he said to the queen, grateful that the dance was a formal, traditional one, the rhythm slow. Hopefully that would reduce the risk of him accidentally flaring out a wing for balance. He’d never practised mortal dancing in this form.
The queen didn’t deny it. “I did not expect you to come winged.” She pursed her lips. “You could have arrived in a somewhat more timely fashion. Your counterparts from other courts did.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Princess Sunnika. “It has been suggested that your court is…unreliable.”
He didn’t have time to respond before the dance separated them. At least any clumsiness on his part would go unnoticed, since his presence had all the other couples so distracted they kept losing place.
“I have seen the High King as I said I would, and I am going to marry Hetta,” he said when they met again. “Are you still willing to give us your blessing?”
This time it seemed to take an age before the dance reunited them. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line.
“I do not like scandal, Prince Hallowyn.”
“Neither do I.”
She did not speak again until the dance ended. “I wish to speak to you both before I make any announcement. Come and see me tomorrow morning in less…crowded conditions.” They both spoke in low tones, aware of the many interested parties trying to eavesdrop.
Politics, Wyn thought. “You said you would announce our engagement at this ball.”
“That was before…certain complications arose.”
Wyn didn’t know if she referred to Hetta’s pregnancy, the wing worshippers, DuskRose, or something else, but it didn’t matter: he still refused to accept it.
“I can negotiate a treaty between Faerie and Mortal, Your Majesty.” He smiled, the truth sharp in his mouth. He still didn’t know what to make of that truth, except a determination to stand exactly where he’d told his mother, between both realms. His child would not be ashamed, and they would know what they were and where they belonged in the world from the beginning.
“And yet your title has not changed; can you truly speak for your court? It has also been suggested to us that your court’s influence is limited.”
He didn’t have to look far to know who’d suggested that, Sunnika’s presence a low burn in the leylines. “I was not speaking of ThousandSpire. I can negotiate on behalf of Faerie. All of it.”
The queen looked doubtful, so he pressed his advantage.
“I would rather us be allies, Your Majesty. My child will have a foot in both worlds. But if you send us away, I will make the agreements between Stariel and Faerie alone, and we won’t look kindly on such measures as your earl has been considering.”
The queen didn’t look surprised at the reference to Hetta’s pregnancy, though she didn’t look pleased either. “Could you not have waited?” she asked with some asperity.
He only smiled. She studied his face, her mouth thinning as the seconds ticked by.
“Very well. Bring Lord Valstar to the dais on the hour. I will make the announcement.”
Triumph thrilled through him, heady as sloe gin, but he merely inclined his head in thanks and left to find Hetta.
He found Hetta valiantly making conversation with a group of women. None of them were any good at masking their fascination as Hetta introduced him, but at least none of them regarded him with hostility. Instead, they stared at Wyn’s wings and horns with emotions that varied from mild curiosity to lewd interest. Stormwinds. He hadn’t anticipated the latter, though he should have. Some mortals were more susceptible to the magnetism of greater fae than others. He tamped down on his allure.
“My apologies, ladies, but I need to steal my Star from you for a moment.” He smiled, and one tittered; another blushed.
“Is it true you fought off giants at Penharrow?” the blushing lady asked breathlessly. The others all perked up. If they’d been fae, their ears would have twitched. “I read all about it in Lady Peregrine’s! It sounded so terrifying!” she gave a delicate shudder. “But you were so valiant!”
Wyn blinked. Of course some version of the leviathan attack would make its way south, but Wyn hadn’t expected to feature as a hero in the tale.
“Yes,” Hetta said firmly, taking hold of his arm. “He was extremely valiant, but please excuse us.” He could hear the hint of laughter bubbling under her words. She drew him away. “I think Ms Orpington-Davies was telling Jack the truth about not writing that article in the Chronicle.”
Wyn wanted to know exactly what their intrepid reporter had said about him, but Hetta looked surprisingly relaxed about the possibilities when he said so.
“I’m going to get a copy framed. ‘Prince Hallowyn combines a kind heart with a singularly charming smile.’ And she quoted some nice things the villagers said about me too. I take back every harsh word I ever said about reporters.”
Wyn frowned at Hetta. “How—”
“One of the ladies had a copy,” she explained. “I had to occupy myself somehow while you were dancing.”
“I will dance all the rest of the dances with you,” he promised.
He made good on this for a bit before a gong rang at ten o’clock precisely. The room hushed.
“I am pleased to make a public announcement tonight, of an historic union between our realm and another.” The queen paused. “The engagement of Lord Henrietta Valstar and Prince Hallowyn Tempestren.”
Wyn felt the weight of the room’s attention fall on him and Hetta. Hetta squeezed his hand, and he unfurled his wings
with a snap. You couldn’t change the world overnight, but you had to start somewhere.
55
A Royal Wedding
Having fought through everything up to and including dragons to get here (for a loose definition of ‘fought’), Hetta had been prepared to take matters into her own hands to ensure the weather was perfect for her wedding, but the day dawned bright and clear without her help. Perhaps Stariel had intuited her desire and manipulated things even without instruction; perhaps it was an entirely natural phenomenon. She decided to take it as a good omen regardless.
Her stepmother, a cluster of her female cousins, and her aunts fussed and fretted around her as she made the final adjustments to her gown.
“Are you nervous about being married?” her cousin Ivy asked.
“No,” she said. She watched dust motes sparkle in a shaft of sunlight above the dresser where she sat. “But I’ll be glad when the ceremony is done. It’s taken us such a lot of work to get to this point that I can’t quite shake the fear that we’ll be interrupted on the brink.”
Aunt Sybil descended, narrowing her eyes in an expression Hetta couldn’t quite pinpoint. She scanned her critically from head to toe and eventually allowed grudgingly, “You look well, Henrietta.”
“You look beautiful,” Alexandra added with flattering enthusiasm.
“I jolly well ought to, after all that effort,” Hetta said, smiling. She hadn’t spent the better part of the morning taking pains over her appearance for nothing.
“All brides are beautiful,” Ivy agreed. “Radiant is also traditional.”
“Beautifully radiant or not, everything’s ready,” Caro said from the doorway. She came into the room with eyes sparkling. A starflower was woven into her red hair, matching the flowers in Hetta’s bouquet. “But you do look nice. It’s time.”
Hetta stood, smoothing her dress, which didn’t entirely disguise the swell of her belly. She had started to show several weeks ago, and the changes still felt odd. And only going to get odder, she reflected, given there’s still months to go.
For a moment she thought she felt something. Had that been the baby moving? The midwife had said last week that she might feel it any time from now on. Hetta waited, to see if it would come again, but it didn’t.
Stariel not only thought that all was well but offered up an additional piece of information that took Hetta aback. Well, that’s certainly going to make our lives interesting.
They held the ceremony on the village green, since the crowds wouldn’t fit in the temple. At least they’d managed to avoid holding the ceremony in Meridon, despite pressure from the queen. In Meridon, with the queen herself in attendance, they would’ve been gawked at by every member of the aristocracy who could beg, borrow, or steal an invitation, all of them trying to use the situation to better their positions in Prydein’s social hierarchy.
At Stariel, there were still more strangers present than Hetta would’ve preferred alongside her family, but they were at least mostly Northern strangers, and not all of them were noble. The people of Stariel were well-represented too, with seats set aside for the village councillors and the staff at the house.
There were also fae, and that was the other reason Hetta was glad to be home and also outdoors, since this had the advantage of making the guests much more relaxed than they would’ve been in an enclosed space. Hetta wasn’t sure if this benefited the humans or the fae more.
Fae and humans, she thought, looking at the wings and tails and horns of the greater fae present, at the even more varied shapes and appearances of the wyldfae who’d made a rare exception and dropped their glamours. Urisks peeked from behind bushes, large goat-eyes blinking curiously; tiny flower fae buzzed in the hedgerows; around the architecture of the temple twined strange and wonderful lowfae. The great nessan had coiled itself between the oaks bounding the green, though in its case Hetta was glad it had kept its glamour up as it would otherwise have frightened the villagers. In the crowds along the riverbank she saw naiads and shellycoats, some glamoured, some not. She waved at them as she passed, and they nodded solemnly.
Princess Sunnika had come in place of her aunt and didn’t appear thrilled to be attending the wedding of her former fiancé, but Hetta was still glad she’d come. Hetta spotted Gwendelfear looking almost happy sitting next to Alexandra, though every now and then she shot a melancholy glance at her former princess.
The humans weren’t entirely comfortable with the fae presence, of course, but everyone was doing their best to behave, though there was a lot of furtive staring going on. Hetta had to give credit where it was due: Princess Sunnika didn’t seem even slightly self-conscious under the intense scrutiny she was getting. Hetta saw the princess stare down her nose at one onlooker with icy intensity, and the onlooker gulped and quickly dropped his gaze from her furry ears.
I suppose one has to start somewhere, Hetta thought, resting a hand on her abdomen. Though hopefully we’re somewhat further along by the time you arrive.
They were still adjusting to a faeland that was neither fully Mortal nor Faerie but a mix of both, working out the details of what it meant to have the power to negotiate between the two worlds. The Dower House was turning out to be a useful waypoint and accommodation for fae emissaries from other courts, especially with the Gate they’d since constructed between there and Meridon. Jack had suggested they start charging either the courts or Queen Matilda for the use of it, which wasn’t actually that terrible an idea; perhaps it would please the bank, Hetta thought idly before pushing it away. They had time to work it out. Today was for her and Wyn.
The ceremony itself was to be under a great oak tree on a rise at the far end of the green. As Hetta made her way towards it, news of her arrival spread, so that by the time she found herself at the start of the long, flower-carpeted aisle, those that wished to be seated were seated, and everyone was staring expectantly at her.
She’d lied to Ivy, she realised as she paused to take a deep breath: she was nervous. She could hardly ignore that her marriage marked in a very official way the start of a new era for not just her and Stariel but for the whole Mortal Realm. She and Wyn should’ve just eloped and got the business over with, but Wyn had stood surprisingly firm on that point. She rubbed at the new ring he’d given her.
Wyn was facing away from her, exchanging words with Lamorkin. She saw the moment he realised she was here, for his wings suddenly pulled upwards. She could nearly see the effort of will it took him to turn in a measured movement.
He looked very handsome and very self-conscious, though he was hiding the latter well. He was dressed in silver and indigo, the style for the Spires but the colours for Stariel. It matched her dress, the full skirts spreading in a vast pool around her, hiding the delicate sandals she wore.
What a pretty and colour-coordinated couple we make, she thought absently. Wyn canted his head to the side as she drew near, silently asking what her source of amusement was, and she said in an undertone as she reached his side and the music faded, “Thank goodness your feathers don’t clash with the colour scheme!”
Wyn choked, but the monk-druid performing the ceremony scowled, overhearing and not approving of this levity. They’d already put his nose out of joint with the extensive modifications they’d requested, plus the fact that the ceremony needed to be conducted jointly by a fae. Lamorkin was performing this aspect of the service, and they beamed at the pair of them, making up for the monk-druid’s censure.
Marius, who was standing as best man, was blinking rather a lot, and Hetta’s heart swelled with warm affection. Oh, Marius. He’d always been an incurable romantic under it all.
The vows had been a point of contention, with Hetta trying to minimise them and Wyn recklessly—in her opinion—wanting to promise everything and anything, but they’d come to a compromise eventually.
“W
ith this ring I pledge myself to our union, Henrietta Isadore Valstar,” he said, voice clear and carrying. Her hand trembled when he took it gently. His hands were trembling too.
“With this ring I pledge myself to our union, Hallowyn Tempestren,” she said, her own voice far less steady.
He gripped her hand so that their forearms aligned. Lamorkin was ready with the ribbon for the fae part of the ceremony. They wound the strip of white silk around their joined hands in a lattice pattern.
Wyn’s eyes were deep and solemn, the colour of horse chestnuts lit with flecks of brandy.
“I take you as my mate, Henrietta Isadore Valstar, and I entwine my path with yours,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Your honour is my honour; your troubles are my troubles; your pleasure is my pleasure.” Amusement flickered in his eyes at his words. “Your children are my children.”
Hetta repeated the words, her pulse fluttering strangely.
“By the power of the High King, I entwine the fates of these two here joined,” Lamorkin said. Some bittersweet emotion sparked in their dark eyes briefly.
Hetta gasped as magic surged up where she and Wyn clasped hands: unfamiliar magic, like strange spices tossed over an unruly sea. Her hand grew hot, and she instinctively jerked away, but both Wyn’s grip and the ribbon prevented it. The heat eased just at the point of pain and the ribbon dropped away, charred with magic. Wyn released her hand to examine his own palm, looking terribly smug. She followed his lead and gasped again. Inked on her skin was a strange and beautiful tattoo, centred on her palm and running down the length of her forearm. She traced the lines of it. It made her think of feathers, somehow, and frost. Wyn held his up next to hers.
“We match,” he observed. “Looks like you are fae enough for the sengra to work.” He grinned, bright and delighted.