The Court of Mortals (Stariel Book 3)

by AJ Lancaster

  “The queen told me not to leave the city,” she said. “And even if she hadn’t, I’m not running away and leaving you to sort out this mess by yourself.”

  “It’s my mess,” he said.

  “No, it’s very much my mess, if we must assign ownership. Queen Matilda wouldn’t even know you existed if it weren’t for me. I know you’re hoping that turning yourself in voluntarily will soften the queen towards you,” she said. His expression took on a sheepish edge that said her deduction was correct. “But what if it doesn’t? And what if she was responsible for trying to frame you with those guards?”

  “More to the point,” Rakken said, “handing yourself over to this mortal queen doesn’t get you any closer to the Spires, particularly if she has more dismae.”

  “I won’t voluntarily wear dismae again,” Wyn said with a hardness that told her just how much they’d affected him. “Nor am I proposing to remain a prisoner at Her Majesty’s indefinite leisure. But I need to ensure Queen Matilda does not hold Hetta or Stariel to blame for my disappearance.” He smiled. “She will, at least, have to admit that the feathers her guards found were not mine. Perhaps that will spur her to investigate her own court and remove some attention from Stariel and me.”

  Hetta put her cup down with a clink. “All right, enough.” She glared at both her and Wyn’s assorted relatives. “You can all go away now. Go and eat breakfast downstairs or something.” She made a shooing motion. “I want to talk to Wyn without you all arguing at cross-purposes.”

  “It’s not appropriate to leave the two of you alone—” Aunt Sybil began.

  Hetta just managed to stop herself from saying she didn’t care, instead reining in her temper. “Please, Aunt?” Hating the pleading note that had crept into her voice, she added: “It’s not as if anyone else knows he’s here. We just need to talk. Alone.”

  Marius levered himself up off the sofa and gave both her and Wyn a narrow look. “It better be just talking, Hetta.” She nearly rolled her eyes at him but refrained, since he seemed to be on her side in this. He narrowed his eyes at Wyn. “We’ll see you after breakfast. Come on, Alex.” He shepherded his younger sister past the twins. Aunt Sybil hesitated.

  Rakken offered her an arm. “Might I escort you down, Lady Langley-Valstar?”

  She went straight into Wyn’s arms. He leaned his cheek against her head as she breathed in the smell of clean linen and magic. It was tempting just to stay there and let the rest of the world go hang, but eventually she pulled away.

  “You’re leaving,” she said flatly.

  “Not this minute, but yes, once I have done what I can here.” He told her about Torquil, and it shook her, the careful way he told her his brother was dead, the stunned denial he couldn’t quite hide. If something happened to one of her brothers or sisters, she would—she couldn’t imagine what she would do. And to imagine them murdering each other? She felt sick. “I can’t keep running from the Spires.”

  She took the lid off the breakfast tray. “You can eat some toast, though. And bacon.”

  He chuckled, considering the mountain of food. “What did you tell the maid?”

  “That I was ravenous but also indecisive.” She helped herself to a crumpet.

  They sat together on the sofa, knees touching, eating in a silence that wasn’t so much companionable as charged. The space between them had become an overlapping thing, as if her body had memorised the shape of his and now adjusted for it unconsciously. And yet she’d never been more aware of him, the brush of his arm against hers as he leaned forward, the heat of him against her side. From prior experience, she knew sex and emotional connection weren’t necessarily related, but she was forced to admit something had changed between them since last night. She didn’t regret it. Did he?

  “How exactly were you planning to approach the queen? I have to go and sign official paperwork tomorrow morning, if you want to smuggle yourself in as part of my entourage. I was planning to bring Marius with me to double-check Her Majesty hasn’t slipped anything she shouldn’t in.”

  He put down his cup. “I fear that may lead Her Majesty to think you knew my whereabouts. Or, at least, that you didn’t hand me over as soon as I reappeared. I’d like to spare you that charge, at least.”

  “What are you proposing then? Drop out of the sky?” Hetta didn’t like this suggestion, remembering the bristling hostility of the guards. “What if one of the guards shoots you?”

  “Princess Evangeline told me that she and her mother walk alone in the queen’s private garden before breakfast.”

  She looked at the timepiece and wrinkled her nose. “That’s still tomorrow then.” Thank the gods. She still had him for one more day at least. “But what if you can’t talk her round? What if she summons her guard and tries to imprison you again?”

  He sighed. “Then I become a fugitive in truth. And hope she’ll change her stance at a later date if I become the ruler of a foreign nation.” He smiled, attempting levity, but uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

  She swallowed. “King.”

  He flinched as if she’d struck him and then immediately apologised. “Sorry—”

  “Don’t. I don’t like it any more than you do, but we can’t not talk about it. I of all people ought to understand that sometimes we have obligations bigger than just ourselves.” Even though I haven’t been doing a good job of that lately. She gave a weak smile. “But I do expect you to give Stariel very favourable trade terms for our sheep.”

  He didn’t say anything for long moments, and then he forcibly pulled himself together. “You’re right. If I am…king, then that will put me in a significantly better bargaining position with your queen. I—we—need to use that.” He turned back to her, expression soft, and walked his fingers over to her hand, matching their palms together. “I should remind you of all the reasons why you’d do better to wash your hands of me, but I don’t want to in case you listen,” he admitted.

  “Well, don’t remind me then.” She laced her fingers between his. “Plan with me, instead.”

  They talked. It steadied her, drawing lines around the future, even if the scale of it still daunted her. With his warm presence beside her, it didn’t seem so outlandish, imagining a future in which fae and humans lived side by side. Yes, but you won’t be side by side, really, will you? a small voice in the back of her mind pointed out. Hetta shushed it.

  “Is the High King likely to make an appearance, if you’re crowned King of ThousandSpire?” she asked. He hadn’t turned up when she’d been chosen, but Stariel wasn’t exactly a typical faeland. But then, he had turned up for the signing of the Northern Charter between Stariel and the Crown three hundred years ago. Quite aside from Wyn needing his permission to marry, Hetta had a large and ever-growing list of questions for the High King of Faerie. Questions that were starting to verge on demands.

  Wyn considered the brightening light through the windows. “I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s anyone who would remember my father’s ascension. He is—was—the oldest faelord I know.” A tightness came into his expression, and she squeezed his arm.

  “Well, at least I won’t be the only novice at this.”

  He smiled. “There is that. Perhaps you can give me pointers.”

  “It’ll certainly make our practice sessions more interesting.”

  He smiled at the ‘our’, but his gaze flicked to his wrists, where the dismae had been. “They were already sufficiently interesting for me.”

  The respite from their respective relatives didn’t last nearly long enough, of course. There was some very pointed and extended knocking before Marius returned to the room with the rest of the party in tow. He frowned at Wyn and Hetta’s proximity to each other, and she rolled her eyes at him.

  “Well, brother?” Catsmere said.

  “Tomorrow,” he told her.

  43

  The Octagon Garden

  Early the next morning, the seaward wind whipped Wyn’s hair back from his face,
and despite his worries, he revelled in the sensation. Below, the river stretched like a silver serpent through the city, curving around bright square-edged patches of green where parks interlaced with the urban fabric. He leaned on his air magic and banked into a tight turn over the palace, his attention going straight to the raw wound in the earth where the nightwyrm had come through. It steeled him. He would make sure Aroset set no more nightwyrms loose to wreak havoc in Mortal, at least. Now I just have to convince Queen Matilda of that.

  Circling, he searched until he found the garden Princess Evangeline had mentioned, an accurately named green octagon. A fish pond of the same shape gleamed like an eye as he descended towards it in a rush of wind and wings. He made a neat landing of it—I’m definitely improving—stumbling only a little on the gravel edge of the pond. Whoever had designed the Octagon Garden had aimed for a carefully cultivated wilderness, softening the geometry with artful plantings.

  “Prince Hallowyn!” Princess Evangeline said with satisfaction as he landed. She was perched on the edge of the fishpond, a paper bag of what was presumably fish food clutched in one small hand. The princess was again dressed in pale colours, this time a pattern of daisies embroidered on robins-egg blue, and the outfit was already somewhat the worse for wear.

  “Good morning, Princess.” He smiled, not letting his internal wince show at the use of part of his true name. But Aroset already knew he was in the city and that he’d been at the palace recently; a single mention of part of his true name here carried minimal risk. He hoped. “You may call me Wyn, if you’d like.”

  “They said the fairy monster killed you,” she informed him, inspecting his appearance with interest. Wyn tightened his grip on his coat under one arm. He’d meant to change before confronting the queen—shirtsleeves didn’t constitute proper dress for mortals—but now he reconsidered. There was nothing of horror in the princess’s eyes, only curiosity.

  “I am not killed, as you can see,” he said, fanning out a wing for emphasis. “Though the nightwyrm did injure me.”

  A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds at that moment and lit up the silver filigree edging his feathers, and Princess Evangeline made a fascinated sound and reached out longingly.

  “You may touch,” he told her.

  “You can fly,” she breathed, touching the tip of her finger to one of his primaries. She bit her lip, and Wyn had a very good notion of what she was about to say next: “Could you fly with me?”

  “I think you should ask your mother for permission first,” he said, turning to face Queen Matilda as she emerged hurriedly from a nearby path.

  The queen must have heard his voice, judging from her rushed entrance, but she clearly hadn’t been prepared for his appearance. She jerked to a halt, sketching the shape of his wings and horns with alarm. He repressed the urge to arch his wings up in challenge. It would be pointless, anyway, as well as childish; she wouldn’t be familiar with the body language of stormdancers. Instead he clamped his wings tightly against his back.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with a nod.

  “Evangeline,” she said with quiet intensity, as if he were a wild animal she feared to startle. “Come here.”

  “I would not hurt a child. Particularly not Crown Princess Evangeline of the house of Allincourt. Even though she may or may not outrank me,” he added, with a flicker of a smile, remembering how she’d introduced herself so pompously. Princess Evangeline grinned back at him, unaffected by her parent’s anxiety.

  “Mother, can Prince Wyn take me flying? He’s not dangerous, and I haven’t thanked him for saving me from the monster—what did you call it?”

  “A nightwyrm,” he murmured, not taking his attention from her parent.

  “What are you talking about, Evangeline?” she asked, her gaze also fixed on him.

  The princess scuffed her feet and blurted out: “I was in the kitchen when the monster came.”

  If Wyn had any doubts that Queen Matilda loved her child, the way her face went white quelled them. He knew she was remembering the vast bulk of the nightwyrm, the glint of razor teeth.

  “That’s why you were hurt, wasn’t it?” the princess asked him. “Because you had to stop running and fight it after you pushed me out the door?”

  “In part,” he allowed. “But it needed to be dealt with regardless.”

  “Evangeline,” the queen said firmly. “Go and find Kitty in the schoolroom. I shall see you at breakfast.”

  The princess’s mouth grew mulish, but a glance between Wyn and her mother told her that the latter wasn’t likely to relent. She went, with much dragging of feet and backward glances.

  Queen Matilda watched her go. At least she no longer looked alarmed, though she didn’t look pleased either. “Prince Hallowyn,” she said when Evangeline was safely out of earshot. Her gaze lingered on the lines of his shirt, correctly concluding that he wore no dismae under his sleeves.

  “Ah, I would prefer ‘Wyn’—my name acts as a kind of beacon, and I don’t wish to attract further attacks. I would also like it noted,” he said, “that Lord Valstar had nothing to do with my disappearance, and that she did not know of my whereabouts when I left the palace. I was injured, and it took me some time to recover sufficiently to return.” Queen Matilda didn’t need to know about Gwendelfear. How had Sunnika dealt with the lesser fae? Despite everything, he still felt a measure of sympathy for her. After all, he thought fairly, we are even now. I imprisoned her; she imprisoned me.

  He delved into the satchel he’d brought with him—he must get one properly fashioned for his fae form—and held out the dismae to the queen. Her eyebrows went up, and she refused to take them from him, so he leaned down and put them carefully on the ground, though he would’ve preferred to hurl them into the pond instead.

  “I didn’t want to be accused of theft. The damage was unintentional, Your Majesty, but I doubt they are salvageable.” He was pleased at the lack of emotion in his tone.

  Her lips pursed. “I take it you didn’t use the key to remove them?”

  “I did not.” He waited to see if she would bring up the unconscious guards, the planted feathers. His wings shivered with the tension, ready to flare out if she called out to summon her guard.

  “Will you tell me how, then?” she asked instead.

  He searched for a diplomatic answer, and not only because he wasn’t wholly sure himself how he’d broken the dismae, except perhaps for the cumulative effect of battering magic at them for so long. “While I’m in favour of peaceable fae-human relations, I don’t wish to help you build more weapons aimed at my people. Besides, mortals already have so many advantages, and I’ve taken quite a personal dislike to this particular one.” He nudged the dismae with his boot, where they clinked against the gravel.

  “Do we?” She watched him closely; the question wasn’t idle.

  “Humans can lie; you are not bound by your oaths; iron has no effect on your magic; and you are more selfless than the fae. Yes, I’d say you have many advantages.”

  A muscle in Queen Matilda’s cheek twitched, but she said levelly: “The damage to the palace is extensive.”

  “The nightwyrm’s teeth and claws are made of diamond, which I imagine will help considerably with the repair bill.” He swallowed. “Was anyone hurt?” That was something that couldn’t be remedied with diamonds, if so. Hetta hadn’t said anything, and she would have, if she’d heard otherwise, which meant probably no one had been badly injured, but he still needed to hear it confirmed. He thought of Mrs Lovelock and the guards he’d met, and a chill went through him.

  Beyond the cultivated peace of the Octagon Garden, he could hear the muted sounds of the palace, but for the moment there was only him and this mortal queen, alone. He found her difficult to read, though he had the uneasy sense she wasn’t having the same trouble. He’d never been so aware of his own feathers than under her measuring appraisal.

  After a long silence, she spoke. “Some minor injuries, the worst being a
broken arm—one of the maidservants. She’ll recover, I’m told.”

  “I am sorry,” he said, with perfect sincerity.

  Her eyes narrowed. “And what assurances can you give that there will be no more such creatures? Have you come to return yourself to our custody again?”

  He straightened. I am a prince. I am the storm, and you cannot cage me. “I am not your subject, Your Majesty. I have tried to allay your fears, but ultimately, I am of royal blood, and I owe a duty to my court to remember that. However, I didn’t wish you to think I had simply fled your hospitality without taking my leave.” There was no harm in maintaining the appearance of good manners. “As to ensuring there are no more such attacks—I would negotiate with you as an equal, on the relationship between the fae of ThousandSpire and the mortals of Prydein.”

  He met her eyes and tried to convey an authority he didn’t feel. King Aeros wouldn’t have negotiated like this, at least, but he could still feel his father’s ghost beside him, his guinea-gold eyes mocking. You are weak, Hallowyn. The thought of assuming his father’s throne… His stomach twisted.

  I will burn it, he thought with sudden and irrational ferocity. Perhaps my fate is sealed, but the throne itself need not be part of it.

  Childish, equating a symbol with the thing itself, but he couldn’t seem to entirely quell the mindless panic churning in the back of his mind, even when he flattened his wings more tightly against his back. He took a deep breath. I will keep Hetta and Stariel and my Valstars safe. That, at least, was a rock he could cling to.

  “I take it the succession war Lord Valstar referred to has resolved then?” she asked as the wind rattled the bullrushes at the edge of the pond.

  “Not quite yet. But I intend to return to my home court as soon as possible, and I have reason to be sure of the outcome when I do.” The words tasted cold and bitter, but he had no difficulty speaking them. “If I’m crowned King of ThousandSpire, Stariel is not the only entity I could negotiate with. I would look favourably upon treaties with my future spouse’s home nation. Trade deals and such.”