by AJ Lancaster
The queen’s eyes narrowed at his emphasis; she’d known then, of the bit of archaic law that Marius and Rakken had found. He hated reducing Hetta to such terms, but that was, after all, the nature of politics. He hadn’t missed it, in the years he’d been away from court. It was yet another thing he would need to re-accustom himself to.
“It isn’t trade that most concerns me.”
“I intend to try to prevent conflict between Faerie and Mortal.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re a poor negotiator, Prince Hallowyn. You are supposed to name your terms first before making such promises.”
The tightness in his chest eased a little. “I said exactly what I meant.”
Her smile widened for an instant, a bit of realness undamped by politics. “You also haven’t tried to leverage the fact that you apparently saved my daughter’s life,” she said abruptly.
“She would not have been in danger if not for me.” Or if he hadn’t been wearing the dismae, but he chose not to remind the queen of this. Why undo the small amount of goodwill Princess Evangeline’s revelation had bought him? “And I didn’t do it to win your favour; I won’t bargain with the lives of children.”
The tiny aborted movements in her neck betrayed the fact that she was trying not to stare at his wings and horns. He appreciated the effort, nonetheless. Should he raise the subject of the drugged guards? If the queen had been responsible for it, doing so would hardly endear him to her, but he needed to know. But how to begin? He couldn’t say Hetta had told him about it. But how to state that he’d seen them himself whilst making it clear he’d had nothing to do with the scene?
She could hardly have failed to notice his wing colour, but he still made a show of half-stretching his left wing, so that his primaries caught the light. One eyebrow rose, and he had the sense that he’d amused her, but the movement worked as he’d intended.
“An incriminating feather was found near the bodies of two unconscious guards outside the Treasury the night your ‘nightwyrm’ attacked,” she said. “Though I see Lord Valstar was correct in saying it wasn’t yours.”
“No. I did not enchant your guards, nor attempt to break into your Treasury. How sure are you that it was enchantment and not mortal means that rendered them unconscious?”
Her blue eyes flashed, but there was no guilt in her, and some of the tension went out of him. It hadn’t been her framing attempt, then. That boded well.
He waited, watching calculations turn furiously. “It appears there is someone in my court with a grudge against you,” she admitted eventually.
“And possibly Lord Valstar also. Lady Peregrine’s Society News has been threatening to publish damaging articles about both of us, though I am not sure exactly what that will entail.”
“That gossip rag?” She frowned.
“I believe the Earl of Wolver owns an interest in the paper. Does he also have the power to command your guard?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do not appreciate what you are insinuating.” But he could see her reaching the same conclusions as him and Hetta.
In the growing silence between them came the distant crunch of approaching footsteps. Guards coming to investigate after the princess’s tales? He tensed.
The queen came to a decision, a kind of cool resoluteness straightening her posture. “You may speak to Simon about it yourself, if you can delay your departure a few hours. I have already asked him to witness Lord Valstar’s signature.” A very dry humour circled her mouth. “Tell me, what was she intending to do if I set my guards on you this morning?”
“I have already stated that Lord Valstar was unaware—”
Queen Matilda waved his protest away. “Oh, you’ve an excellent poker face, Your Highness, and I do believe, incidentally, that Lord Valstar wasn’t involved in your disappearance. But I do not believe in coincidence, and Lord Valstar is due at the palace this morning. Besides, you have not asked after her welfare, which seems uncharacteristically disinterested of you if you truly haven’t seen her since that creature attacked.”
He gambled. “I may have delayed speaking to you, a little, after I recovered from my injuries. I wanted to assure myself that my enemies hadn’t gotten to Lord Valstar in my absence.”
She seemed amused rather than angry. “So the fae are just as foolish in love as humans then. I begin to see why she’s put up with the complications you’ve caused her.”
Must everyone comment on his love life in some way? He turned from the queen to face the set of guards who had just rounded the corner towards them. His wing muscles bunched in preparation for a rapid exit.
“Your Majesty!” the lead guard began, but the queen interrupted him, her manner as assured as that of any ruler in Faerie.
“I commend your caution, Captain, but there is no need for alarm. I do not require my guard at this moment.” She considered Wyn thoughtfully. “Tell me, Prince Wyn, have you breakfasted?”
44
Signatures
Hetta hadn’t persuaded Aunt Sybil and Alexandra to get on the day train back to Stariel. Instead, she and Marius left them at the hotel under Rakken and Catsmere’s watch—which felt a bit too much like leaving foxes in charge of hens for her liking, even if Alexandra seemed much less concerned about the pair than she had previously. Is it right to get my family mixed up in this business? she couldn’t help wondering, not for the first time, followed by, but if I’m planning to marry the king of ThousandSpire, they’ll only be more mixed up than ever. She pressed her gloved hands together and swallowed.
Marius was doing a good impression of their aunt in her absence. His mouth didn’t shift out of its hard, straight line as they caught a hackney to the palace, and the sounds of the city magnified in the silence between them, the clatter of hooves and cries of hawkers. He still hadn’t looked at her when they neared the long approach to the palace.
Hetta huffed. “Honestly, Marius, this brotherly outrage is growing tiresome. My personal affairs are none of your business, and it’s childish to refuse to speak to me because of them in any case.”
“It’s not—not that,” he said, flushing. He screwed up his eyes. “Gods, don’t remind me. I’m just…angry. At him, mostly, for planning to leave, even though I know he doesn’t want to. At you, for not picking someone human, for starters.”
“That’s not—”
“I just want you to be happy, Hetta,” he said, and then added, “And what’s best for Stariel.”
“I am happy!” she snapped back, but he just shrugged and looked away.
“Are you? Good, then.”
“And this will be better for Stariel.” Wouldn’t it? Why, then, was she plagued by so much doubt? She pressed her palm against the ring under the collar of her dress; Stariel had no answers at this distance, though it wasn’t exactly good at answers anyway.
He didn’t answer, but his expression spoke for him. She felt very twelve years old and tempted to strangle him. Instead she took a deep breath and said: “We can argue about it later. Let’s try to resolve Stariel’s minor diplomatic incident first.”
The stray reporters from two days prior had dispersed, and the polished stone columns and uniformed guards were as blankly composed as ever. Presumably there were still workmen scurrying madly behind the public facade to repair the nightwyrm’s damage, but you wouldn’t know it from looking. Hetta found it reassuring. After all, if there had been a confrontation between Wyn and the guards, there would’ve been some sign of it, surely?
He promised he wouldn’t let himself be imprisoned again, she tried to reassure herself. Maybe he was already winging his way north, if the queen hadn’t reacted well to his reappearance, although that thought was the very opposite of reassuring.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Marius murmured, as the butler stiffly took their coats.
She didn’t point out that he had no way of being sure about that as the butler took them on a path that carefully avoided the damaged parts of the palace. Hetta could still smel
l plaster and fresh paint, somewhere out of sight.
They were led to the same receiving room where they’d first met Queen Matilda, but this time the only person present was the Earl of Wolver, standing next to the window.
The earl turned when the butler announced them and replied civilly enough when Hetta introduced Marius, though he made no attempt at small talk. Could he really be the person behind the drugged guards? But why? Had it been on the queen’s orders? Did he know about his paper’s threat to publish further scandal about her and Wyn? She tried to read some sign of guilt in him and failed. He just looked haughty.
“The relevant papers are here for your inspection,” he said, gesturing at an ornate writing desk. “Her Majesty asked me to witness.”
“Where is Her Majesty? Doesn’t she need to sign as well?”
The earl’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if it had been rude of Hetta to point out that the queen was running late. Hetta’s old schoolmistress would be disappointed in her. “We await her,” he said quellingly.
“I heard you own Lady Peregrine’s,” she said, giving up on subtlety. The earl frowned slightly but didn’t seem particularly discomposed.
“I own an interest in the Times, Lord Valstar. But yes, the magazine you refer to is a subsidiary.” He said the word ‘magazine’ with distaste, and she had to admit it fit better with his rigid manner, the idea that he’d inherited Lady Peregrine’s as an unfortunate side-effect of owning a ‘proper’ paper. What in Prydein had Brad seen in the man?
“And the article it published spreading gossip about me and my staff?” She watched him closely for a reaction.
His gaze was very cold. “I do not concern myself with the day-to-day running of nor contents of the magazine.” He made a curt gesture at the papers on the writing desk. “Did you wish to inspect these, Lord Valstar?”
What had she been expecting? For him to spread his arms and announce to the room, “Yes, ’tis I who have been conspiring against you!”. Oh well. It had been worth a shot.
She sat at the writing desk and began to read through the papers, handing each page to Marius as she finished. Her name was already printed on the last page, awaiting her signature: Lord Henrietta Isadore Valstar. She stared at the stark black letters, at the echo of her father’s name. But that was her identity now, wasn’t it, the Lord of Stariel? Why, then, did the sight of her name next to the queen’s make her feel like an impostor?
What would happen if she refused to sign it? But that was just pigheadishness speaking. Even if Stariel was in any position to rebel against the Crown—with our vast armies and resources and so on, she thought wryly—her people wouldn’t thank her for it. Oh, the Northern folk might grumble about the Southern monarchy, but when it came down to it, they’d all benefited from being one united Prydein for three hundred years.
But what if the queen had tried to imprison Wyn again? What if she’d succeeded? Wyn shouldn’t count in this calculation, not against the weight of duty, and yet, he did. She thought of the oath-words she’d made to Stariel, when she’d become lord: to protect this land from that which threatens it; to put its interests above my own. She swallowed. She’d always clung firmly to a belief that that wouldn’t be necessary, that she could be a good lord and achieve her own personal goals. But what if that had been only a convenient lie she’d told herself?
“They’re as they should be,” Marius said softly, handing her the last page of text. She started, but took it and laid it back on the desk.
The earl narrowed his eyes at Hetta’s brother, and there was something stronger and more personal than disapproval in the expression. Marius sensed it too, and he blinked.
“Why do you hate me?” he blurted out, with typical disregard for tact. He sounded puzzled rather than hurt, but his eyes widened suddenly, and all the blood drained from his face.
The earl drew himself up, but before he could answer, the door opened, and the butler announced: “Her Majesty Queen Matilda and Prince Wyn.”
They turned. Apparently Her Majesty also has a penchant for dramatic entrances, Hetta thought, though she couldn’t help but admire the effect. Wyn was in human form, cool and collected, and his gaze swung to hers, clearly trying to radiate silent reassurance towards her. Relief nearly made her sag, and she gripped the desk for support. Whatever he’d said to the queen, it didn’t seem to have gone badly.
The earl reeled back as if struck. “Your Majesty—” The protest died on his lips. Is he going to point out that she’s accompanying a fugitive? she wondered, but the earl realised the absurdity of that and shook off his initial reaction. “I’m afraid I don’t understand his presence here.”
The queen raised blonde eyebrows. “Prince Wyn?” The combination hit Hetta’s ears strangely, but it was a good sign that she was avoiding using his full name. “He has returned to take his leave of us after the regrettable incident with the—what did you call it?”
“A nightwyrm, Your Majesty,” Wyn murmured.
“Yes, the nightwyrm. He has explained himself over breakfast. In any case, he wished to speak to you, Simon, so he seemed an expedient choice for a second witness.”
Hetta nearly rolled her eyes at Wyn. Only he would manage to go from fugitive to breakfast companion in the space of a few hours.
“Your Majesty—” the earl hissed in a low tone as he caught up to her. “Is this wise?” The earl flushed in the face of the queen’s cool sapphire gaze—how pleasing to know it worked on other people too—but persisted nonetheless. “What of the enchanted guards?”
“His Highness has persuaded me he was not involved in that.” Queen Matilda moved further into the room towards the writing desk in a swish of silk poplin. “Lord Valstar, are you satisfied that all is in order? This is your brother, I presume?” she asked, with a hint of irony, since Marius was still staring at the earl, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was ignoring their monarch in order to do so. His face had gone grey around the edges, and he looked like he might be sick.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Hetta said, putting a hand on his arm. “Mr Marius Valstar.” He jerked back to the present company and cut a hasty bow.
She frowned at him. What was wrong? But he only shook his head, his jaw tight.
“Your Majesty, may I ask why you are persuaded Prince Hallowyn was not involved?” the earl said. “What of the feathers? And, forgive me, but there have been…certain questions raised as to his character.”
A spurt of indignation went through Hetta. So he did know very well about the article!
The queen gave a bright smile. “Ah, yes, Simon. I have decided to issue a statement to reassure the public and to repair the damage to His Highness’s reputation. I am trusting you to see that the requisite puff piece runs in The Times.”
The earl stiffened and shot a poisonous look at Wyn. “Your Majesty, have you considered that he may have persuaded you using unnatural means?”
Wyn shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Hetta before she had time to protest. Blue feathers rustled into place, sparkling even in the weak sunlight filtering through the window. The queen didn’t seem the least surprised. Staged, Hetta thought. She suspects the earl was involved but isn’t sure.
Wyn fanned out a wing. “I hope this reassures you as to the colour of my feathers,” he said mildly.
The earl reared back as if confronted by a snake, and his expression made Hetta curl her hands into fists. Strange Wyn might be in his fae form, but he wasn’t a monster, and no one should look at him like that!
But it became apparent why the earl was one of the queen’s advisors. He recovered swiftly, re-focusing on the queen. “Your Majesty,” he objected. “You may be unaware, but one of the subsidiaries of The Times was planning to publish an account of certain allegations linked to His Highness.”
“I am aware of the piece,” Queen Matilda said. “I trust you can see that it does not run?”
“But what about the allegations?”
“Are you talki
ng about the incident at the bank in Alverness?” Hetta asked. “We were attacked by fae creatures there, which was obviously upsetting for the staff, but Wyn certainly wasn’t to blame for it.”
“I am not,” the earl said stiffly. “The informant’s allegations involve a quite different incident.”
“Well, it might be easier to refute it if you’d tell us what it is!”
“Compulsion. Enchanting people to do his bidding.”
Hetta glared daggers at him. “Do you think he would’ve voluntarily put on those iron cuffs if he was inclined to casually compel people?” Though beneath her anger, she couldn’t help remembering Rakken’s compulsion unfurling in the train station. The earl wasn’t wrong to worry about that magic in general, even if he was entirely wrong to worry about it in this specific instance.
“I have already assured Her Majesty that I have no compulsive magic spells active on any mortals,” Wyn said. “And I have no desire to compel any mortals in the future.”
“Perhaps you do not,” the earl said in a tone dripping with disbelief, “but what of those around you? Are you saying you’ve never used compulsive magic at a friend’s behest?” The earl looked straight at Marius, something sharp and vindictive in his expression. “That you never would?”
Oh no. There it was—the connection Hetta hadn’t seen, that Marius must have realised earlier. What had Bradfield said? That the earl had thrown him over for a fresh-faced young man? Mr John Tidwell, who Wyn had bound not to speak Marius’s name, would certainly fit that description. Oh, of all the bad luck! What a pity Wyn had that attack of conscience and undid the compulsion, she thought, despite all her earlier misgivings about that magic. But the idea that John Tidwell had presented himself as a victim—oh, she wanted to hunt him down and give him a piece of her mind! Possibly with accompanying fireworks.