by AJ Lancaster
“We can make our own laws?” Marius repeated, sure this couldn’t be true. Yes, long ago, before Prydein became Prydein, justice had been whatever the relevant lord decreed, but that was definitely not the case anymore. The Crown’s laws applied everywhere.
Rakken waved this away. “Oh, not entirely. There are merely a small number of exemptions that refer to the separate Addendum for specifics. More to the point, Marius Valstar, you can make your own treaties as an independent entity. And your monarch must take those relationships into account in their dealings with your court.”
Well, that certainly sounded promising, though Marius was suspicious of it. Rakken looked very pleased with himself, so Marius said: “If you’re thinking that this means Stariel can make some kind of treaty with ThousandSpire, no one’s currently ruling it, are they? So it can’t make any treaties with anyone. Unless you’re thinking that that’s what Wyn could do, if he becomes king there.” Which might be the best outcome, if it wouldn’t also leave Hetta broken-hearted. She’d get over it though, wouldn’t she? Marius felt guilty for even thinking that, but it didn’t stop it from being true, did it?
Rakken’s eyes narrowed, and that anger he’d been doing such a fine job of hiding burned briefly in them, an inferno cast in emerald.
“Nothing is certain, Marius Valstar,” he bit out. “Perhaps my brother is dead.” Marius was pretty sure Rakken had meant to say that provokingly, to show he didn’t care at all if that was the case, but it came out hollow.
“Wouldn’t you know, if he was?” He’d been drawing comfort from the assumption that Wyn’s siblings would know if something had happened to him. If they didn’t know, if Wyn could be dead and no one know it… Marius swallowed, a cold sense of dread settling in his belly.
Rakken sighed. “Usually, yes, but I don’t know how the dismae would affect that. Maybe we would not sense it.” His gaze went unfocused, and he looked so uncharacteristically vulnerable that Marius risked a very brief pat on his shoulder. He had very muscular biceps. Rakken’s mask slid back into place at the touch, once more all sardonic amusement, and he raised an eyebrow at Marius until he withdrew his hand.
Marius pulled the charter back towards him like a shield. “Don’t worry, I won’t shatter your stoic image by blabbing to everyone how worried you are about him.”
Rakken’s lips curved. “Thank you.”
33
Opening Night
Hetta smoothed the sleeves of her coat over her dress, a long flowing chiffon confection in pale apricot with a draping neckline. She and Marius were standing in the lobby of the hotel, dressed to the nines, waiting for Catsmere and Rakken so they could make their way to Bradfield’s opening night.
“Do you really think this is going to help us find Wyn?” Marius grumbled, fidgeting with his cuff links. He looked considerably smarter than usual in his evening suit, with his hair unnaturally tidy.
“Probably not,” Hetta admitted glumly. “But even if I can’t get anything out of the duke, it can’t hurt to try to turn the tide of public opinion in our favour so we don’t have a riot on our hands when we find Wyn, and we’re not going to do that by hiding.” When they found him; not if. The queen had refused Hetta’s request for an audience today. That could mean nothing, or it could mean they’d found Wyn and didn’t want to tell her. If that was the case, maybe the duke would know. At this point, Hetta was starting to not care who found him so long as someone did.
She sighed. “Besides, I can’t think of anything more helpful to do right now, so we may as well as not support Bradfield’s artistic endeavours.” She’d relayed her concerns about Angus to Jack in their brief phone call, but her inability to chase that lead right now chafed. How life had changed. Six months ago, the play would have been her first priority. She reached for Wyn’s ring where it hung on its silver chain, on public display along with a generous amount of cleavage, and Stariel gave a beat of acknowledgement through the stone.
Marius chose this moment to notice the object. “Why are you wearing a ring as a necklace?”
“Because Wyn gave it to me. And because I’d much rather people viewed Wyn and me as star-crossed lovers than as a dangerous liaison,” she said matter-of-factly, but her heart beat fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Her brother wasn’t stupid.
Marius’s frowned. “What do you mean— Oh,” he said, eyes widening. “Oh. I thought… But does it mean—are you-—has Wyn asked… But why…?” He trailed off, took a deep breath and tried again. “Congratulations.”
Hetta laid a gloved hand on his arm. “Congratulations are a little premature; we need royal permission to marry. Two lots of royal permission actually: both Queen Matilda and the fae High King, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. I haven’t told anyone else,” she said in a rush as Marius looked down at her.
His frown deepened, and he said exactly the thing she didn’t want to hear. “Are you hoping a public declaration that you’re engaged will keep Wyn from leaving for the Spires?”
She folded her arms. “I’m not making a public declaration.”
“You’re wearing what is very obviously a betrothal ring in a very attention-drawing location.” He flushed.
“Are you criticising my dress?”
He looked determinedly at the ceiling, cheeks pink. “That’s not what I meant, Hetta, and you know it,” he said in a pained voice. “You can pretend all you like that there aren’t any unresolved issues between you, but you haven’t seen Wyn for three days, and now you’re suddenly telling the world you’re engaged? Clearly this isn’t a decision he was part of.”
“Are you saying you think I would make this up?” She shook the chain at him.
“No! But I think you’re terrified that once we find him and he finds out what’s happening in ThousandSpire, he’ll decide he has to go back there and be their king.” Marius met her gaze. “And I think you think that might actually be for the best, even though you don’t want it to be. So you’re trying to ensure he’ll stay and ignoring the consequences.”
Was she? “Do you hate the idea of us marrying so much?”
He blinked. “No, of course not.” He wrinkled his nose. “In fact, I told him he needed to stop vacillating and make an honest woman of you when I spoke to him last.”
“That’s a very outdated way of thinking, brother mine. And I didn’t think you’d side with the gossips,” she said tartly, unexpectedly hurt.
His eyes flashed. “I don’t give a fig for the scandal.” When Hetta raised an eyebrow, he conceded: “Oh, very well, I don’t like it when people talk about us in the papers. But that’s not what I meant, Hetta.” He grew oddly serious, glancing up the ornate entry stairs. “You can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter that he’s fae.”
“It doesn’t matter that he’s fae! Not to me.”
“It’s not just about you though, is it, anymore? What about Stariel and the rest of Prydein? What about his home court?” He sighed. “I know he’s a good man. But he’s got some very…questionable family connections, and you just told me yourself that you’re going to have to fight two different sets of royalty just to marry him. But if that’s what you want, then, well, I’ll gladly dance at your wedding. You better be damned sure though.” He took a deep breath. “You’re not doing this just because everyone’s opposed to it?”
She huffed and poked him in the shoulder. “I’m not going to marry a man out of sheer contrariness!” That, at least, she could safely refute. She didn’t know what to say to the rest of Marius’s other words. They held too much truth for comfort.
Marius laughed, but his expression grew thoughtful. “I wonder if you actually do need the queen’s permission to marry, though.”
“What?”
“You know that Addendum to the Northern Charter I told you about and the exemption about making treaties? What if your marrying Wyn is part of a treaty between you and his kingdom?”
Hetta blinked. “He’s not going to be king of ThousandSpire.”
Marius didn’t argue with her, which was a jolly good thing, because she wasn’t sure what she’d have said if he had.
“Do you think the queen knows about the Addendum?” she wondered aloud. “She never mentioned it.” She frowned. “Oh, of course she must have known. She didn’t want to give up the advantage. Gods, the human court is just as bad as the fae ones, isn’t it?” She felt a sharp yearning to be home, away from the politics.
Marius patted her shoulder. “He’ll be all right, Hetta. He’s a resourceful man. Fae.” But she could see he was worried about Wyn as well. How strange, for Marius to be reassuring her rather than the other way around. She watched him wrestle with himself before he added, reluctantly: “Isn’t wearing a betrothal ring in public tonight a touch undiplomatic, since the queen hasn’t given you permission?”
“That’s what’s going to make us star-crossed lovers in the public’s eyes,” she said lightly.
Before he could respond, the royal twins appeared at the top of the main hotel staircase.
They were still in their human forms, but they were somehow inhuman, everything about them drawing the eye in the same way a master’s painting did. Or a live tiger. Wyn did that too, on rare occasions when he lost control of his emotions, fae shining through his mortal skin, but she hadn’t realised it was a thing they could turn on consciously. They wore white-and-bronze clothing cut in an unfamiliar style, and Hetta would bet good money that Meridon’s tailors would be besieged with requests to imitate it by tomorrow morning.
Adorning them was a king’s ransom in gold and emerald jewellery, the colours sharp against their oak-brown skin, bringing out the strands of gold in their dark hair. Though their colours matched, it served only to emphasise the differences between them: Rakken’s broad shoulders and cut-glass cheekbones, Catsmere’s willowy grace and pixie-like features. They were mesmerising, impossibly beautiful and altogether other.
In fairness, Hetta had asked them to emphasise their foreignness. The news of the nightwyrm would paint the fae as monsters; let people see that they could also be entirely civilised—or at least dress up nicely for parties. She couldn’t openly announce Rakken and Catsmere’s true identities without risking the queen’s wrath, but if Lord Valstar—who the entire world had probably heard was involved with fae by now—turned up with a couple of eerily beautiful companions of mysterious identity, well, Hetta couldn’t be blamed for the conclusions people might draw.
Stariel stirred, restless, and she realised she’d been staring dumbstruck at the two fae for their entire descent to the lobby, unable to tear her attention away. Thank you, she sent through the ring, not liking that she’d nearly been caught in the allure.
Rakken’s lips curved in slow, sensuous amusement. “Are we to your liking, Lord Valstar?” he purred. “I should hate to disappoint at my first mortal event.” His eyes were impossibly green as he took in her and Marius, like someone had crushed emeralds with sunlight and new spring leaves to create a hue that redefined the colour entirely. “You look ravishing.”
Stariel grumbled again, and she realised she’d almost been caught once more. Drat. She took a firmer hold on herself.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what, Lord Valstar?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Stop whatever it is you’re doing to make yourselves…” She made a vague motion at him. “That.”
“Inordinately good-looking?” Rakken suggested. “Devilishly handsome? You wanted us to be ourselves, as much as possible in mortal skin. This is a natural side-effect. It’s not my fault if you find royal stormdancers particularly alluring.” He angled his head, as if he knew that would make the gold threads in his hair glint in the light from the vast elektric candelabra that lit the lobby. He probably did. “Or if you find my brother…unsatisfying in comparison.”
Marius sighed. “Stop flirting with Hetta, Rake.”
“Are you jealous?” Rakken said archly.
Hetta had a moment’s panic on her brother’s behalf, but Marius ignored the fae and offered an arm to Hetta.
“Let’s get this over with then,” he said with a sigh.
Hetta wanted to quiz Marius, but she didn’t have the opportunity to speak to him alone before they reached the theatre. It was probably for the best; Marius didn’t like crowds much, and a better person than Hetta would avoid upsetting him in such a situation. But Rakken’s remark had made her intensely curious. There were very, very few people who Marius had trusted with the truth of his own preferences, and Hetta wasn’t strictly one of them: he’d only admitted it when confronted. He had told Wyn, during the years when Hetta had been away, and possibly some of his Knoxbridge friends knew, though she wouldn’t stake her life on that. He’d never tell someone like Rakken. Which meant either Rakken had guessed and was deliberately taunting him, or…?
Or Rakken just flirts with everyone, she thought. In which case, it will be an interesting night.
Marius’s arm was tense under hers as he escorted her inside the Griffin Theatre. The front entrance could hardly have contrasted more vividly with the back. Here, at the public-facing end, the Griffin was a wildly ornate creature made of false gold curlicues, pillars, and mosaics showing frolicking mythical beasts.
The duchess’ guests were ushered upstairs into the Griffin’s private bar that ran behind the boxes. It was a long room, decorated with more mosaic tiles and potted plants with long, spiky leaves. A string quartet gave it a fashionable ambiance—as did the throng of bejewelled and elegant partygoers, who all seemed to know each other.
There was no herald—it wasn’t that kind of event—but Hetta could still see the news of her arrival passing from mouth to mouth down the room, amplified when everyone caught sight of Rakken and Catsmere.
Hetta took a deep breath. I can do this; I am the lord of a great Northern estate, and I’ve been to plenty of parties before. But she’d never faced a room full of strangers examining her so intensely, as if they wanted to find flaws. The parties she’d loved were mad things where no one cared who your parents were or where you came from, where you could argue about plays and invent new drinks and dance to wild, fast-paced tunes until you dripped with sweat. No doubt the parties of the aristocracy could get just as crazily out of hand, but she’d never been in an atmosphere so prickling with malice. Or at least, not in the mortal world.
But apparently this was an atmosphere that the two fae royals knew exactly how to thrive in. Rakken gave Hetta a single, sharp-edged smile before he and Catsmere set off to do battle. Hetta watched them go, not sure how to feel about the way people turned towards them, caught by that tug of allure that wasn’t exactly compulsion but also wasn’t exactly not compulsion. Probably she ought to be appalled by it, but honestly all she could think was that if it helped her find Wyn then she would happily watch them enthral the whole of Meridon.
“Well, at least some of us are enjoying themselves,” Marius said, looking in the same direction. “What now?”
“Now we find the Duke of Callasham or his wife before the play starts. Or Brad, if he’s here.” She knew Brad would want to be downstairs, preparing, but his business instincts might demand he at least put in an appearance here, for his patron’s sake.
They found the duke first, drunk out of his socks in the card room adjoining the bar.
“Lord Valsssstar!” he said exuberantly, throwing his arms wide. The drink he held sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “I don’t know you!” he told Marius.
“This is my brother, Mr Marius Valstar,” Hetta said impatiently. “Your Grace, I wanted to ask you—”
“You don’t have a drink!” He narrowed his eyes at Hetta’s empty hands. “You’re not one of those damned teetotallers, are you? You should have a brandy. The brandy’s excellent here, you know.”
“I’m sure it is, but I wanted to ask you about the Northern Lords Conclave,” she said quickly before the duke could interrupt. She watched for a reaction, but he merely homed in on her cleavage.
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“Want advice, eh?” he said to her breasts. “Well, if you wear that dress, you’ll certainly grab them by the balls.”
Marius swelled, and Hetta quickly tried another tack. “Your Grace, did you read the article about me in the last issue of Lady Peregrine’s Society News?”
“Simon’s gossip rag?” The duke laughed uproariously. “Not to my taste, m’girl.”
“Simon?” Hetta pressed. “Who’s he?”
The duke blinked at her. “The Earl of Wolver. He owns the magazine, along with half the papers in town.” He patted the seat beside him. “Why don’t you sit here and try the brandy?”
“Thank you, Your Grace, but I’m afraid I have to go now.” She dragged a purpling Marius away.
“The Earl of Wolver,” she mused once they were safely back in the main bar. “I wonder if that’s coincidence?” Bradfield had given the strong impression he and the earl hadn’t parted friends, but surely that was no reason for the earl to strike out at Hetta? Did the earl even know she and Brad used to work together?
“Knowing our luck, probably not,” Marius said. “Though if he owns half the papers in town, he might not keep track of what each publishes in any detail. Owner’s not the same as editor-in-chief.”
“Yes, but he probably could get them to publish whatever he wanted.” Her thoughts flew to Angus again. Angus had been a lord for several years, and the political circles he moved in would’ve likely overlapped with the earl’s at some point. What if that was the connection? What if Angus had asked the earl to put that article in? She shared her thoughts with Marius.
“Maybe,” he said doubtfully.