by AJ Lancaster
Rakken laughed, a hint of citrus in the air. “Don’t you dare bring magic into this, little Hollow.”
The lightning cracked out in a whip. Rakken’s magical shield was fast, but not quite fast enough. The shock threw him across the room, where he landed like a cat, spitting mad, his dark hair on end with static, charge crawling down the fine gold hairs threaded through it. Sparks of lightning danced in his eyes.
“Did you kill Father?” he snarled, his power abruptly vast, blanketing the room. Was Rakken more powerful than he should’ve been? Wyn was the youngest; his siblings had always been more powerful than him. But I am more than what I was, he thought, refusing to back down.
“Why do you care if I did or not? You were planning to kill him anyway!” he pointed out. “Father’s death was always part of your plans!”
“How well will Lord Valstar like you with your teeth rearranged, do you think?” Rakken said.
Wyn increased the amount of charge in the air. Rakken growled. The air churned with magic, and despite Wyn’s increasing trepidation, he’d never felt more alive.
Catsmere still stood to one side with a faintly chiding air, which was reassuring. She wouldn’t let Rakken kill him, would she? And his brother might be furious, but his actions were never dictated by pure emotion. Wyn frantically tried to figure out what Rakken was trying to achieve here, but adrenaline made his thoughts thick and hard to sieve as Rakken prowled towards him.
Wyn jumped atop the bed, really the only direction he could go in the small room, and wondered if the higher ground would make Rakken relent. But his brother smiled, the expression without mirth. A knife glinted in his hand, and Wyn nearly missed the movement. He ducked and rolled away as the knife thunked into the wooden headboard. It quivered there, and Wyn gulped. Maybe Rakken did wish to kill him.
“Stariel killed Father,” he said, a chill running through him.
This appeared to only enrage Rakken further. “Ah, yes. Weak little Hollow, still running to others for protection.” Another knife appeared in his hand. That was a spell Wyn hadn’t mastered before he left home—the trick of folding space to store small objects. Rakken had always been good at it. “Still running now.”
“You requested Stariel’s help to rid yourself of our father in the first place, so I don’t see why you should object to the faeland’s part in this.”
“I,” Rakken said, eyeing Wyn like a jaguar about to pounce, “own my dark deeds, brother. And I am not as defenceless as a lamb in the night.”
Wyn didn’t move fast enough this time, and the second blade nicked his bicep as he flung himself backward. The flesh wound stung, bleeding freely, though he knew it would heal within minutes. If I survive that long.
But Catsmere still hadn’t joined Rakken. She leaned back against the wall nearest the door, expression cool.
“Neither am I,” Wyn told his brother, and sent a whip of air to wrap around Rakken’s feet. Rakken dodged it contemptuously, but Wyn followed it with a snake of elektricity arcing down the lampshade cord. Rakken winced as it snapped down from his body, discharging most of its power into the carpet. Ozone filled the room. Oh dear—the hotelier would not be pleased.
“Pitiful,” Rakken taunted.
“Do you want me to truly try to fry you, Rake?” Wyn said, growing tired of this game, whatever it was about.
“Do you think you have the control or the power to do that?” He sounded genuinely curious.
Flick. Another knife. Wyn felt a chunk of hair shear off as he sidestepped. How many knives does he have stored? But even if Rakken’s obsidian ones ran out, he could resort to air-blades if he wanted to keep this up.
“I’ve power enough to make you regret it if I try,” Wyn said truthfully.
“Interesting.” Rakken played with his current knife, throwing it from hand to hand without taking his eyes off Wyn. “But you must know that I’m toying with you, little brother. Cat and I could slit your throat in under ten seconds if we were minded to do it.” Anger blazed up in his eyes again. “And Set is more powerful than both of us together, even now.”
Understanding flashed through Wyn, confirmed by a second glance at Cat. Her gaze wasn’t just cool but evaluating.
“You’re testing me!” he said indignantly. “Is it truly necessary to keep throwing knives at me, Rake? I don’t know what you’re hoping will happen! Of course I’m out of practice. You already knew that!”
The words cost him, for this time the knife scored across the healing wound on his abdomen. He hissed in pain. The aim had been deliberate too, for Rakken’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“You’ve spent too much time playing human, brother.” He tossed the next knife almost idly. “It won’t help you survive in the Spires.”
“I don’t wish to return to the Spires,” Wyn said, sensing that this was the heart of the issue. “I don’t wish to rule, Rake, if that’s what’s driving this behaviour. There’s no point raging at me because you couldn’t hold the Spires against Set, or because you fear it might choose me over you.”
“Wishes are for children,” Rakken said, and his anger transformed into something hard and cold. There was so much bitterness in him, enough to freeze over the hottest day of summer, and Wyn saw a concerned echo cross Catsmere’s expression, though she did not shift out of her watchful stance. “Are you a child, still?” He canted his head. “A human child? Or a royal stormdancer?”
“Fine,” Wyn snapped, temper flaring. “Fine, if you must cling to your melodrama. I knew what would happen when I translocated Father to Stariel. I meant for it to kill him.” Truth like acid. He changed forms. He wasn’t a child, and Rakken was right; he ought to own his sins. Ice grew in his chest, suffocating his anger. Was that why ThousandSpire wanted him? “Does that satisfy you?”
Rakken stilled. Catsmere abandoned her post and closed the distance between them. She gestured for Wyn to spread his wings, and after a moment of inner debate, he obliged. It was cramped in the small room, and his primaries brushed the walls on one side.
“Does this mean you’re going to stop throwing things at me?” he asked Rakken pointedly.
Rakken ignored him. Wyn hated how they still treated him like a younger sibling to be snubbed or praised depending on their moods.
“Your blood feathers have grown in,” Catsmere noted, examining his back. “I would have thought you too young.” Her attention made the skin between his shoulders itch, but Rakken was right. If the twins wanted to kill him, they could. Wyn had to trust that this wasn’t just some elaborate prelude to another attack. Catsmere, at least, would be unlikely to choose such a roundabout approach.
“When did this happen?” Rakken asked, and Wyn narrowed his eyes.
“Are you going to continue throwing knives, brother?” he repeated. Rakken shrugged, showing empty palms, and Wyn thought about how much he was willing to reveal to his siblings. “Last winter. I don’t know when the first signs began, but after the Maelstrom, the changes accelerated.”
“Interesting,” Catsmere said. “It didn’t affect Mouse’s wings.”
Rakken raised a sardonic eyebrow in response to Wyn’s incredulity. “Yes, brother, I survived the storm too. Without breaking my wings, I might add.”
So Wyn’s instincts had been right—Rakken’s power had increased, though it was hard to tell how much. Both twins had better control than he did, the legacy of the years they’d spent in Faerie while he’d been in Mortal.
“Not you, though?” Wyn asked Catsmere.
She shrugged. “It was a calculated risk.” He heard what she didn’t say; that they’d thought whichever one of them entered the Maelstrom might not come out again, but that Rakken at least had been desperate enough to chance it. Had Catsmere tried to argue him out of it? Had she even known what he was planning? Many people made the mistake of thinking the twins always acted as a unit—a perception they both took pains to encourage—but the truth was more complicated.
Rakken was still conside
ring Wyn’s wings. “Has it occurred to you that they look remarkably like Mother’s?” He blinked, as if startled by his own words.
Did they? Obviously Wyn knew the colour of his own mother’s wings. Didn’t he? He reached for the memory, but it was strangely elusive. His mother…she’d had green, green eyes, Rakken and Catsmere’s eyes, and her wings were blue, weren’t they? But trying to remember was like struggling through thick, cloying fog that whispered that everything was fine. Everything was fine. There was no reason to be anxious.
Rakken frowned. What had he just asked? Wyn couldn’t recall; it was gone like mist under sunlight. Rakken opened his mouth, shut it again, and shook his head, as if whatever he’d wanted to say had suffered the same fate.
They’d been talking about Wyn’s wings, hadn’t they? He flared his wings slightly, the motion a small challenge. “Blue is Stariel’s colour—I’ve chosen to take this as an omen. Why are you both so sure the Spires wants me, anyway? What of Koi and Quil?”
“Koi was in the Spires when Father fell. If it had wanted him, it could have taken him then,” Catsmere said.
“But where is he now? He said he was stuck.” He told them about the astral projection Irokoi had sent. “And what did he mean, Cat, that there isn’t another way?”
Catsmere’s expression was closed, but she shook her head. “The High King knows. He’s always liked being cryptic.”
Rakken dropped back into the armchair with a sigh. “At least he’s not dead, if he’s sending you messages. At least Set hasn’t killed him as well.” He said it almost to himself, and a warning bell sang in Wyn’s head, a sixth sense of imminent sorrow.
“Torquil Tempestren is dead,” Catsmere said, and Wyn froze. A soft, sharp pain sliced into his chest.
“I didn’t feel it,” he protested. Torquil couldn’t be dead. It had been a comfort, to think that at least one of his siblings had escaped the Spires.
“We did,” Rakken bit out. “It was Set. She’s determined to have the Spires. At any cost.”
“And you’re not?” he challenged.
Rakken smiled. “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted, Hollow. But Cat feels a degree of responsibility for your wellbeing. I suppose helpless things must have a certain hold on the conscience, else newborn babes would be abandoned before they drew their first breaths.”
Wyn said nothing. He didn’t much appreciate being likened to a newborn babe, but he didn’t want any more knives thrown at him either.
Torquil was dead. The words echoed and echoed until the individual syllables ceased to have meaning.
Rakken’s expression grew oddly pensive. “I’ve killed for the Spires before.” Though he was outlined in sunlight from the window, Wyn had the sudden impression of a fin surfacing briefly from dark waters. Was Rakken thinking of DuskRose’s golden prince? “I would prefer, on the whole, that no more of my kin died for it.”
“Even Set?” Wyn asked, surprised. Dead, dead, dead. My brother is dead.
“It may be necessary,” Rakken conceded. “But it seems a waste. These Valstars of yours make me wonder what we could’ve achieved if Father hadn’t played us off against each other. Perhaps this was merely his way of preventing us from banding together to overthrow him. There are—were—six of us, little brother. Most of the other courts guard their offspring jealously and would spend greatly to preserve them, but we have been profligate. Father would have killed you merely for his own love of power. He encouraged Set to attack Koi, and now she’s succeeded in killing Torquil. She’ll kill us and anyone else who might oppose her if she can.” He rubbed at the nape of his neck. If he’d had wings, they would’ve drooped. “You must return to the Spires.”
How could he refuse, with Torquil’s true name ringing in his ears? Dead, he thought. Gone. There was no brother between him and the twins now. He’d known Aroset was trying to kill him, but it was still shocking, somehow; in Faerie, death came rarely for greater fae and almost never for royal fae. King Aeros’s death had shaken him; it seemed unfair that another of Wyn’s family could be dead too. And I am also responsible for this one. If he’d accepted ThousandSpire’s bond when the faeland had reached for him the first time, would Torquil still be alive?
“You say you and Cat could cut my throat if you wished, and yet together you’re still not strong enough to overcome Set,” Wyn said, mouth suddenly dry. “What do you expect me to do?” His heart beat too fast. I don’t wish for this, he wanted to shout. But who would he shout it at? Faelands didn’t care for mortal politics or mortal hearts.
“Don’t be disingenuous, Hollow. You know it won’t matter what your relative powers are if you bond to the faeland,” Catsmere said, flicking one of his flight feathers. “We neither of us hoped to see you as king, but better that than Set.”
“Or a lordless faeland,” Rakken murmured. “The Spires grows…restless.” His gaze grew distant. “I’ll need to think where the best chance of achieving resonance will be in this realm, so we can cross the borders. Set will have found the one in Knoxbridge by now—she’s been trying to block translocation, but her power is spread thinly, trying to ward the entire faeland without a bond to it.” He grimaced. “Father’s wards have begun to unravel.”
Wyn pulled his wings hard against his body and changed back, as if he could deny his heritage as easily. “I know where there’s a resonance between here and the Spires.”
42
Coffee And Crumpets
Hetta saw the future in Wyn’s expression when he and the twins entered the sitting room, and her heart dropped like a stone. Suddenly light-headed, she tightened her fingers around her coffee cup, grounding herself in its warm, comforting solidity. She’d asked a maid to bring up a carafe and a generous breakfast tray for her—or rather Wyn. She didn’t know yet how they were going to solve the dual problems of Queen Matilda and ThousandSpire, but she did know that magic used energy and that Wyn would need to eat before he went running off to sacrifice himself for the greater good or whatever he was about to propose.
Of course, she’d imagined a private breakfast where they could discuss it. Her interfering relatives, however, were all squashed into the sitting room with them, and Aunt Sybil pounced on Wyn as soon as he came in, launching into an impressive lecture on all the reasons why his absence and lack of communication were unacceptable. Alexandra and Marius observed from the chesterfield, punctuating the lecture with vigorous nods. Wyn’s siblings took up silent observation posts on either side of the door, though a faint hint of amusement stirred around Catsmere’s mouth.
Hetta handed Wyn a cup of tea; she’d learnt he preferred it to coffee. He took it with a silent nod of thanks, not taking his polite attention from her aunt, who was now dwelling on the indignity of having her quarters searched by uncivilised ruffians before enumerating the various impertinent questions she’d had to endure from her acquaintances. The timepiece on the mantel showed it wasn’t yet eight o’clock.
Eventually, the diatribe wound down into affronted silence.
“I’m sorry to have worried you, my lady,” Wyn said sincerely. “And thank you for your forbearance.”
Aunt Sybil sniffed. “Yes, well, such behaviour is not to be repeated!”
“Do you mean that he’s not to run away from the queen again? Because technically he’s still on the run,” Marius pointed out helpfully. “And in just as much trouble as before.”
Hetta glared at her brother.
“Well, he is,” he said, unrepentant.
“Your mortal politics are not our primary concern,” Catsmere said from beside the door. “This is pointless delay, brother. We should leave for the Spires now.”
Marius made a garbled sound. “What do you mean leave? You can’t just leave, not after—” His cheeks flushed, and he bit his tongue, glancing at Aunt Sybil, who fortunately misunderstood.
Aunt Sybil pulled herself straight. “No, you certainly cannot leave now! You must go to Her Majesty and explain yourself before you do anything else,”
she said firmly. “And I must say that though I’m not in favour of the match, it’s unacceptable for you to embroil Henrietta in scandal and then not offer to marry her! Though I for one wouldn’t blame her if she won’t have you after this!”
Hetta met Wyn’s eyes and wasn’t reassured by the expression in them. She’d known this was coming. In her head, she even knew it was probably for the best. The King of Ten Thousand Spires might not be able to solve all the issues faced by Prydein now that Faerie was here to stay, but it would certainly help a great deal. And, as Marius had pointed out, they could probably use Stariel’s ability to make its own treaties for leverage with the queen.
It didn’t stop the scream building up in her lungs, a childish wail of unfairness. She pressed her lips together and held it in. She wasn’t a child, and she’d make this work, she vowed, despite all the obstacles Wyn had listed last night. There had to still be space in this for her and Wyn as individuals.
The russet of Wyn’s irises was very clear, the flecks of brandy-gold picked out by the pale sunshine filtering through the windows.
“I said I had things to do first, Cat,” he said quietly. He smiled at Aunt Sybil. “I do intend to present myself to Queen Matilda, my lady. But first, I would also like to encourage the rest of you to return to Stariel. My sister is dangerous, and I can’t guarantee she won’t target anyone I care about. It would ease my mind to have you all safely inside its borders.”
There was an immediate uproar. Rakken and Catsmere accused Wyn of procrastination; Marius of selfishness. Alexandra wrung her hands anxiously and tried to become as small as possible in the corner of the sofa.
Wyn made his way to Hetta where she still stood rooted to the floor by the window. He looked down at her, soft and sad, and she gave in to the urge to smooth the lapels of his coat. They didn’t need smoothing, but she wanted to touch him. Marius squawked, and she shot him a look she hoped conveyed how silly she thought he was being. The barn doors were open, and the horses had well and truly fled.