The Court of Mortals (Stariel Book 3)

by AJ Lancaster

  “Ah…there is another complication. Royal fae need the High King’s permission to marry. It may be…difficult to acquire.” Difficult was an understatement. The High King of Faerie had decreed that peace between two warring fae courts would be cemented by Wyn marrying Sunnika. Petitioning him for permission to marry a mortal instead seemed unlikely to go down well—if Wyn even knew where to find the High King. The High King appeared and disappeared according to no one’s schedule. Sometimes no one saw him for years at a time.

  Hetta gave him an exasperated look. “If I wanted to live a life free of complications, I wouldn’t have run off to join a theatre troupe at seventeen. Or seduced my butler upon my return,” she added with a half-smile. “You said difficult—that’s not the same thing as impossible, is it?”

  “No,” he said slowly, thinking. “It is not. So…does this mean you want to marry me, then? Hypothetically?”

  Her pause probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like hours. He repressed the urge to shift restlessly while he waited for an answer.

  She began to giggle. “Wyn, you cannot ask people to marry you hypothetically!”

  “I am fairly certain that I just did. And I am still waiting for a hypothetical answer.”

  But she shook her head. “Last time you planned to marry someone, it left you with your power stunted for more than a decade and fae from two courts trying to kill you.”

  “That was because I broke my promise. Which I would not do in this case.”

  “The case of this hypothetical marriage?”

  “Yes. That one.”

  Her giggles increased until she shook so much she had to put a hand against his shoulder to steady herself.

  “It’s not very nice to laugh at people who are hypothetically asking you to marry them,” he groused down at her. This only made her laugh harder, and he could not help his own mouth curving up reluctantly in response, his heart twisting with painfully intense fondness.

  When she sobered, she reached up to tug at his hair. Her eyes were fond. “You impossible man. Of course I’d hypothetically like to marry you, everything else aside.” Her smile faded, and she pulled the queen’s summons from her pocket. “But I don’t like that this is all hypothetical, and that anyone other than the two of us gets a say in this decision.”

  “I know,” he said, although a warm, giddy happiness rose in him despite everything. “I don’t like it either, and I’m sorry for bringing you so many complications.”

  Her gaze went faraway, as if she were reaching for her land-sense. “Well, at least half these complications are my fault anyway, since they come from me being lord.” She returned to him. “Will we be in danger from whatever’s going on in ThousandSpire, if we go to Meridon?”

  He shook his head. “Not if the borders remain closed. Whatever was behind that…attack this morning, it was driven by the specific resonance between the Standing Stones and the Spires.” Had it been an attack? He had not recognised any of his siblings’ signatures, but that could be because the strength of ThousandSpire’s magic had overshadowed them.

  She nodded absently, then straightened, a spark of mischief in her. “Well, shall we try this week to persuade Her Majesty that a complicated fae prince who makes ridiculous not-proposals is a sensible match for her newest lord, then? Next week we can sort out your monarch.” Her gaze grew thoughtful. “And while we’re petitioning him, I also have a number of questions I’d like to ask him about faelands.”

  He could not help the soft huff of laughter escaping. If he had not long since fallen for Hetta Valstar, he thought he would have done so at that moment. He pulled her into his arms again, heart swelling. “Let us also try to persuade Lady Sybil that she need not accompany us to Meridon.”

  12

  Lady Peregrine's Society News

  Marius Valstar was deeply absorbed in a book about water lilies when the voices of the nearby students finally penetrated.

  “—and speaking of scandals, you know the botany tutor, Mr Valstar?”

  “The tall, skinny bloke with the glasses?”

  Marius grimaced. The description was accurate, if not exactly flattering. You could be called worse things. Unprompted, his brain began to list some: your father’s least favourite son; failed academic; family scandal waiting to happen. Wait, he’d missed the next words from the students. Add terrible listener to the list.

  “You know he’s from one of the big estates up north? One of those horribly old-fashioned ones,” the first student said. He had a thin, nasal voice. There was a murmur of tepid interest. The speakers were obscured by shelves, but they sounded as if they were seated at one of the large tables that lined the outer edges of the library’s atrium. If they were referring to Marius as the ‘botany tutor’, they were probably first or second years. He didn’t recognise the voices, but it was only the beginning of term, and he hadn’t done much tutoring yet.

  He ought to scuttle away. No good ever came from eavesdropping, but curiosity held him in place—curiosity, and a prickle of fear. What scandal were they talking about? It can’t be mine. I’ve been so careful since I returned. But what if he hadn’t been careful enough? His heart thudded against his ribcage like a jackrabbit.

  Calm down. They can’t possibly know. Even if they suspect, they can’t have proof. There was only one person who could testify against him, and John couldn’t do that without implicating himself. And John’s not here anymore. Marius had heard John’s father had gotten him into the Meridon Law School after he’d dropped out of Knoxbridge University. Dammit, I’m not going to think about John. Sometimes now he could go days without thinking of him.

  Wait, he’d missed the next bit of the conversation as well, but he came back to it with a sharp shock, because it wasn’t his scandal the students were speaking of at all.

  “—anyway, rumour has it that she’s fucking her butler. And—it gets better—said butler isn’t even human!” Nasal’s voice grew ripe with amusement. “The talk of the North is that he’s a fairy!”

  The latter half of this pronouncement was met with general scepticism.

  “I know the Northerners are a superstitious lot, but that’s coming on rather too brown, Andy!”

  Nasal—Andy, presumably—spoke. “No, it’s true, I promise you! My uncle—you know, the Duke of Callasham,” he added with a practised emphasis that suggested he dropped mentions of this relative at every opportunity. “He holds a Northern title as well, and he’s on the Conclave, and he says the entire North is speaking of it! Fairies!” He chortled.

  “She must’ve been gagging for it to fall for that,” another voice added.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Fogherty!”

  The group snickered, descending into ribald remarks.

  Marius stood frozen, his fingers digging into the leather binding of the book. How dare some young idiot speak about his family, about his sister, like that? It wasn’t true, the way he’d framed it, and the injustice burned.

  You’ll only make it worse if you confront them, his inner logician said.

  Would he? Gods, he wanted to see their faces if he strolled out from between the shelves right now. An ache started behind his temples.

  Yes—currently they just think it’s a stupid bit of gossip about someone they don’t really know. If you confront them, you’ll only make it more likely they’ll pass on the story to others.

  Dammit. His inner logician was right. Dammit! He glared through the shelves as if the force of his ill will could reach through and strangle the students regardless of all the books in the way. Hetta was worth a thousand of them, and so was Wyn! If I’m marking any of their classes, they’re all failing their next assignments, he thought viciously.

  Seething, he hugged the book to his chest and crept further into the stacks, but he couldn’t relax, even when he’d found his way to the darkest corner on the floor, rarely visited by library-goers. He read the spines and nearly choked at the irony: he was in the mythology and folklore s
ection. He’d been meaning to see what resources the library had on the subject of fae, but he was in no mood to browse.

  He leaned against the wall and tried to calm his breathing. The ache in his temples increased. He needed to get out of the library, away from the students he could still hear nattering distantly. His legs itched to pace properly. Walking wouldn’t solve anything, but it couldn’t hurt, and sometimes it helped dislodge loose thoughts. Walk until you are struck by sudden genius: what a brilliant plan, Marius. Not smacking of cowardice or indecision at all.

  He took a circuitous route out of the library, but his heart didn’t stop racing until he was four blocks and an alley away. It was a mild afternoon, and he stuck his hands in his coat pockets and set off at a blistering pace. He knew the central streets of Knoxbridge well from his frequent rambles, so he paid minimal attention to navigation, sticking to the smaller alleys and less crowded paths. It was just gone the hour, and gods knew he couldn’t be bothered fighting through the crowds of students swarming from the lecture theatres on Old Street to their colleges at this time of day.

  By the time he’d found his way down to the river, he’d mentally composed a long, articulate lecture that explained why gossiping constituted a moral failing and why this was particularly so for anyone publicly discussing his sister. The silent lecture gave form to the worst of his anger as he followed the waterway. By the time he arrived at the east gate of the botanical gardens, he’d progressed from fuming to despondent. There was nothing he could do, really.

  I’m a terrible big brother. He’d always felt fiercely protective of all his siblings, but with the youngest three—born after his father had remarried—it had been simpler. He was so much older than them that even his awkward, flailing efforts had impressed. Although Gregory is rather less impressed with me of late, he thought morosely. His younger brother had started at Knoxbridge this year, and the dolt was determined not to rely on Marius for anything. But with Hetta, it had always been different. He’d never managed to shield her from Father before she’d left home—if anything, she’d borne the brunt of his moods—and often he’d felt like her younger rather than older brother. Maybe that’s why Stariel chose her for its lord.

  And he still couldn’t figure out how to protect her, even now. Gravel crunched under his feet as he strode between flowerbeds and stared moodily at the giant water lilies on display in the pond. The immense white flowers had just risen above the water, petals still tightly furled, and the rich, seductive scent permeated the air. How could he explain the truth to people? He couldn’t bear the thought of letting the rumours fly unchecked, but nor could he think of a way to quieten them. He had no authority here; his word would hold no weight. Graduate students were only one step removed from the very bottom of the university’s hierarchy. Should he appeal to a higher authority? But who would that be? Maybe his cousin Caro would know—she was better at navigating the social currents of the university than he was. Both her parents were established academics.

  He brooded on the matter as he found his way into his greenhouse. At least here there were small tasks he could do something about, and he threw himself into potting up seedlings and carting compost. The afternoon darkened, but he didn’t notice other than to switch on the elektric lights—a reminder of how backwards Stariel was in comparison to the South.

  He was carefully removing stamens from the latest pea hybrids when his cousin Caro spoke behind him.

  “Marius Valstar, why are you buried in a glasshouse on a Friday night?”

  He started and knocked the container he’d been transferring stamens to onto the floor. Fortunately, it landed right-side-up, and only a few stray threads scattered across the tiled floor. The yellow elektric lights threw hypnotic shadows, making it hard to distinguish the threads from the stone.

  Caro had folded her arms, but at the accident she was immediately contrite. “Oh, sorry, Em. Are those important?”

  He crouched and picked up the scattered stamens, shaking his head. “No, they’re not, actually. These were destined for the compost heap.” He frowned as he rose. “But you gave me a fright. Why are you creeping up on me at this time of night?”

  “I did not creep! You were just lost in your own little world, like always. In any case, my earlier point stands. Why are you shut away in here? You missed the Spring Fling!” From her dress, that was where she’d been. Her red hair was arranged into perfect ringlets, beneath a hat with curling feathers on it. She dropped down on a stool next to the bench, and a faint scent of liquor hit him. “You haven’t come to any of the dances, lately.”

  “I haven’t felt like it,” he said defensively. He didn’t much like crowds, but normally the lure of dancing was strong enough to overcome that. Lately, however, the crowds had affected him more than usual—that or maybe the new lighting down at the dance floor. Whatever the cause, the eye-watering migraines that resulted made the exercise entirely unappealing.

  “Well, you need to come and cheer up Mazie next time we go out,” Caro said firmly. “She’s suffered a disappointment.”

  “I told you not to go matchmaking me with your friends, Caro.”

  She waved airily. She wasn’t drunk, but she’d clearly had enough to make her merrily unconcerned. “I’m not! But there’s nothing like dancing with a handsome man to make one feel better about oneself. Please come next Saturday. As a favour, if nothing else.” She huffed. “One might think you hated dancing, the way you’ve been hiding lately, and I know that’s not true.”

  “Did you break into my glasshouse just to ask me to escort you and your friends next weekend?” he said, secretly flattered by the ‘handsome’ label. “Where are your friends now? You shouldn’t be walking home half-cut and alone at this time of night!”

  “Well, obviously you’re going to walk me home now,” she said cheerfully. “My friends walked me here and I saw your light on, and you live on the way to me anyway, so I know it’ll be no trouble. Which reminds me.” She fished about for her handbag. “This is why I came to find you. One of the girls at the dance showed it to me. Have you seen this?” She pulled out a magazine, laid it on the workbench, and flipped it open.

  Marius recognised the magazine as Lady Peregrine’s Society News, which was a sedate title for a gossip rag. It was his stepmother’s guilty pleasure. Aunt Sybil’s passion for it was almost as great, though her enjoyment largely derived from loudly rubbishing its contents. This in no way stopped her from reading it.

  The article was a tiny one on page 3:

  A tale has reached our ears, Gentle Readers, almost too scandalous to believe. All I can say is that a certain downstairs personage that we shall call Mr T not only appears to have taken unnatural advantage of a recently titled Northern lord but may not be all he appears to be. A Dramatic Altercation in Alverness is the least of his misdemeanours! Does that whet your appetites? But you shall have to wait until Lady P’s next issue for the Full Story!

  When he glanced up, Caro’s expression had sobered. “It’s about Hetta and Wyn, isn’t it? The bank incident in Alverness?”

  “I don’t see how it could be about anyone else.” He stared at the words, furious and futile anger churning in his stomach.

  “This is slander, then!” she said, slapping the page. “Or libel. I never can remember which is which.”

  “It’s only libel if it isn’t true. And Wyn isn’t what he’s led people to believe.”

  “Yes, but he hasn’t taken ‘unnatural advantage’ of Hetta,” Caro argued. “Can’t you ask your lawyer friend if we can, I don’t know, get an injunction or something?”

  “I don’t have a lawyer friend.” John. She was talking about John. Gods, it hurt, the way Caro said it so casually: your friend. Ha.

  “Yes, you do. I met you walking one day, and you said ‘this is John, my friend. He’s reading law’ when I asked to be introduced.”

  “I meant he’s not my friend anymore.” Not that he’d ever really been that; friends didn’t merrily t
ry to blackmail you and your family. Only Wyn’s compulsion had prevented him from succeeding, though Wyn had said he’d lifted it before John had left Stariel. The compulsion horrified Marius. So did the removal of it, knowing John was no longer bound not to harm him. Which makes me a hypocrite.

  “Well, that’s very inconvenient,” Caro groused. Marius nearly laughed, bitterness spiky in his throat. Inconvenient. The single most excruciatingly shameful experience of his life was inconvenient.

  He glared down at the article. What was the Full Story even supposed to be? An account from someone who’d seen something of the attack at the bank last year? Someone from Stariel who’d been there for Wyn’s reveal of his fae nature? No doubt whatever it was, a magazine like this would slant it as sensationally as possible. Its publication felt both unreal and strangely inevitable, and the same helpless frustration as this morning rose up again and choked him. His temples began to twinge in a way that meant a migraine was threatening to make a joyful appearance.

  “Well, I’m going to write to the editor and demand they not print whatever else it is they’re planning. I shall use the word libel liberally,” Caro said decisively, sliding off her stool.

  “Good plan,” he said vaguely, rubbing at his head. And why hadn’t he thought of that course of action, obvious as it was? He folded the magazine back in half and gave it back to her. “I’ll tell Hetta.”

  13

  Long Distance Communications

  When Marius was put through to the gatehouse, the deep, faintly accented voice that answered didn’t belong to his sister.

  “Marius?”

  There was a pause. Did Wyn feel the tension between them, stifling all normal attempts at conversation? Before Hetta had come home and been chosen, he and Wyn had been close. Or, well, Marius had thought so. Maybe Wyn hadn’t. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t told Marius he was fae—Jack and Hetta had both found out before him. Or maybe he didn’t tell me because he knew he couldn’t compel me not to tell anyone else, the traitorous thought snuck in.