Summerfall: A Winterspell Novella

by Claire Legrand

  That their world was full of people, and almost as many problems.

  That their increasing lack of discretion could not be ignored forever.

  Alban exploded into the Great Room, a leather packet in his hands. When he reached the table, he flung the packet down before the queen.

  Liane regarded him coolly. “Darling husband, why are you making such a racket?”

  “Henning,” said the king, low and dangerous. “Explain this to me.”

  Commander Henning blinked in astonishment. “Pardon me, my king, but I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “This. This report from your men, who have brought it from the west.” Alban gestured angrily at the packet. “Open it, and read it aloud.”

  As Henning reached for the packet, Rinka saw the queen’s eyes move to Rohlmeyer, to two of the other mages, and back to her husband.

  Rohlmeyer, gray-eyed, perpetually expressionless, raised one eyebrow.

  Rinka felt a sudden thrill of fear.

  “It says here,” began Commander Henning, but then he trailed off, his eyes wide.

  “Out loud, Henning,” said the king. Rinka looked to him for comfort and found none; his eyes were blazing, his mouth tight.

  “It says here,” began Commander Henning once more, “that a group of soldiers in Lord Drachstelle’s employ has separated from the other conscripted forces and declared themselves the Restoration. They are currently traveling south, into the faery lands, burning villages as they go. They claim . . .” Commander Henning paused. His gaze flickered to the faery delegates, uncomfortable.

  “Yes?” Alban insisted.

  “They claim to be on a mission to purify Cane of the ‘unclean creatures of the south.’ They claim only they can save the country from the faeries’ wicked influence.”

  An uproar. Garen leapt to his feet, the other faeries joining him in protest. The mages soon followed, ordering them silent, demanding more information from Henning—except Rohlmeyer, who remained seated, his hands folded on the table.

  “Enough,” snapped the king, and silence fell. “Henning, this is unacceptable. As commander of my army, you approved the appointment of the Drachstelle captains, did you not?”

  “Yes, my king.”

  “And yet these captains are apparently unfit to discipline their soldiers and keep them from running amok like crazed savages?”

  “Sometimes not even exceptional captains, darling,” said Liane evenly, “are enough to keep dedicated soldiers from doing what they think is right by their own people.”

  Rinka knew she should keep quiet, and yet she could not. “You think this is some sort of retribution for what happened at the school?”

  “I think,” said the queen, her eyes fixed on Alban, “that there are many in this country who remain unsatisfied with the prisoners’ sentences and crave a more fitting form of punishment. I think we should expect more, similar violence if we do not appease those citizens who feel they have been betrayed by their king.” The queen paused, her mouth curving into a small smile. “You might have noticed this discontent, my dearest love, only you have been rather preoccupied as of late.”

  A tense silence fell; outside, a bird dipped past the window, casting a tiny, darting shadow across the sun-drenched table. Rinka refused to acknowledge the icy fall of dread down her back.

  Is this, she wondered, alarmed, because of us?

  Because of me?

  She dismissed the thought at once. This was a natural—if regrettable—consequence of the tension present throughout the country. It had nothing to do with her any more than it had anything to do with Garen.

  “Henning, I want these rogues stopped,” Alban said at last. His hard gaze did not leave the queen. “Find them, apprehend them, and bring them here. They will answer to me. And do it quickly. Liane, you will write to Lord and Lady Drachstelle and invite them here. I wish to speak with your cousins, and a letter will not do.”

  The queen’s eyes flickered with something Rinka could not read. “Of course, my king.”

  “Rohlmeyer,” continued Alban, tearing his eyes away from his wife to glare at the impassive mage, “I want you to oversee an investigation into the unlawful abduction of and experimentation on faery citizens, perpetrated by the physicians and mages residing in Erstadt.” He paused, looked at each of the Seven mages in turn. “Each of you will assist Rohlmeyer in this.”

  That was enough to send Rohlmeyer’s eyebrows shooting up. Rinka held her breath. Alban had sent out his own spies to begin investigating this very thing, the day after he promised Rinka he would. They had both decided it would be best to hide the investigation from the Seven mages for as long as possible, in case any of them were involved. That Alban would have as good as accused Rohlmeyer of these crimes, in front of everyone, meant he must have been even angrier than Rinka thought.

  “I beg your pardon, my king?” said Rohlmeyer.

  “You heard me,” Alban said. “Bring me whatever you can find—any correspondence, any physical evidence. Search the dungeons, search the city, search the Kingsmarch.” Then he paused, and Rinka shivered to feel a pulse of something in the air—a ripple that passed between Alban and Rohlmeyer, between Alban and the other mages, and back again. Each of them winced.

  “And of course I will know, Lord Rohlmeyer,” said Alban significantly, “if any of you disobey me or lie to me. Remember that.”

  Rinka had no love for Rohlmeyer, and still she felt faintly ill to think of the bond between the mage and his king—the magical bond each of the Seven mages allowed to be forged in return for their influential positions at court. The custom had never sat well with Rinka. The other faery delegates shifted restlessly.

  To be compelled by your own blood to do another’s bidding . . . She tried to imagine it, being forced from the inside out to do something she perhaps didn’t want to do, in exchange for political connections. Her father had feared that very thing—that the faery delegates were being summoned to court so the king could use them for his own purposes, to force peace—or create terror—through coercion.

  But Alban would never do such a thing. Maybe before, but not now.

  Are you sure?

  Rinka ignored that twinge of doubt and found herself hoping desperately that Rohlmeyer’s binding was a strong one. Anything to keep those unreadable gray eyes from turning mutinous. Anything to keep Alban safe—and a dependable ally.

  Rohlmeyer inclined his head. “Of course, my king. We will begin this work immediately.”

  * * *

  At midnight, Rinka met Alban in the art gallery. It had become their haven, and yet tonight Rinka could not find peace even here.

  She found the door unlocked, stepped inside, and locked it behind her. Alban stood at the window, a troubled silhouette against a canvas of stars. Rinka stood uncertainly at the door, watching him, unsure if he had even heard her enter the room.

  “I know what you’ve come to say,” he said quietly.

  “Alban.” Rinka leaned back against the door. If she went to him, she would lose her resolve. “I cannot stop thinking of faery children being torn from their beds.”

  Alban nodded, lit a candle on the table beside him. Its flickering light turned the room into a wash of gold. “Henning has already gone, accompanied by a dozen of his best men. He will find these rogues, Rinka, before any more damage is done.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She paused, collecting herself. “But that doesn’t change anything, not for us.”

  “Rinka,” he said, his face full of shadows, “please don’t do this.”

  “I will, and I must, and you know it. Look at what’s happened. Think of what could happen if Henning can’t apprehend the Restoration quickly enough, if any faeries decide to avenge their fallen. If anyone finds out about us during all of that . . . it’ll make things even worse. I love you, but—”

  “But it isn’t worth it.” Alban said it tonelessly, as if he didn’t really believe it.

  “I wasn’t going
to say it quite like that.”

  Suddenly he was there, tipping up her chin. In the candlelight, his eyes were darker than ever, and terribly sad. “There are bound to be incidents like this, from time to time and on either side of this conflict, but that will not always be the case. Most people simply want to live peacefully. They don’t want war.”

  Rinka thought of the queen, of Rohlmeyer, of the Drachstelle soldiers gone rogue. “Some do.”

  “And they will become fewer and fewer. We are educating them, Rinka, we are doing good work. The schools we’re designing, the shared villages . . .”

  “But is it enough?” Rinka turned away, worrying the pendant at her neck. “I never thought it would be like this. I thought . . .”

  “You thought you would come to the capital and find everything as you did in your dreams.”

  I thought all humans would be as beautiful and good as I imagined.

  I was a foolish girl. Unforgivably naïve.

  She swallowed hard against the sourness in her throat. “I have betrayed everyone, by loving you.”

  “Rinka—”

  “You know I’m right. We have to stop.” She turned, her face firm, looked him unflinchingly in the eye. Her heart was breaking; she could hardly breathe. “Too much is happening, too much is unpredictable. I can’t concentrate on my work if I’m forever worrying that someone will find us together, or that the very thing I’m working to correct could be made worse by my own selfishness.”

  “Is it so selfish,” Alban said, his voice hollow, “to love someone?”

  “It is when it comes at the expense of others.”

  “And I thought faeries didn’t care about such things.”

  Rinka smiled sadly. “This is different.”

  He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering tenderly on the pointed curve and its array of silver earrings.

  Rinka found herself wanting to say too many painful things. “Do you think Rohlmeyer will obey you?” she asked, moving away from him. “Do you think they’ll find any evidence? I hope they do, and hope they don’t.”

  “I’ve never heard of a bound mage able to disobey his king. And even if he did risk it for a time, I’d imagine the pain would be unbearable.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rinka said. “I don’t trust him.”

  For a long time, they were silent. Rinka watched the night sky outside, and Alban stood a horrible distance away. Rinka thought she might soon begin to cry. She began searching for the right way to leave him.

  “Rinka,” he said at last. There was a question in his voice.

  “You won’t change my mind.”

  “It isn’t fair.”

  It was a childish thing to say, and yet Rinka found herself agreeing with him. “Not many things are.”

  “I should have been the one to end this. I shouldn’t have put you in this position to begin with.”

  “And I could have decided not to kiss you, but I did, and here we are. You aren’t alone in this, Alban. We started it, and now we will end it.”

  He moved closer; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her wrist. Took her other hand and kissed her palm. “It wasn’t enough. I didn’t have enough of you. We could have years, and it wouldn’t be enough.” His voice was torn. “Know that, Rinka. Remember that.”

  She nearly turned into his arms, thinking for a desperate moment that one more night couldn’t hurt, but then managed to gasp, “Let go of me,” and he did.

  This was nothing like it should be, none of it. It was not the faery way to refuse love, to walk away from passion. She wondered what Garen would think, what her father would think, if they could feel the agony of this moment. Would they pity her for being so unfortunate as to love a human, or would she disgust them? She couldn’t begin to guess; she didn’t know what to feel, herself.

  When she thought Alban might not speak again, he said, “I’ll miss you.” He cleared his throat, and then, “When everything is different, when everything is better, maybe we . . . maybe this . . .”

  Rinka couldn’t bear the stubborn hope in his voice. “I doubt it,” she said, her voice hard and unfamiliar, and moved past him without another word, leaving him alone in darkness.

  9

  THREE WEEKS LATER, the queen’s cousins from the west arrived, per Alban’s summons. The moment Rinka met them, she knew they would be trouble.

  Alban threw a party in honor of their arrival, and to soothe anyone’s anxieties about perceived tension between the houses of Somerhart and Drachstelle. The Emerald Hall was a vision of color that night—the deep green walls, the gilded molding, the mural on the ceiling that incorporated each of the four royal families’ sigils—stallion and nightbird, sea serpent and dragon.

  Rinka wore the silken gown from some weeks past—the plum, with its iridescent sheen and the fringed golden sash at her waist. She wandered the room, restless, Leska at her side, until an attendant at the door announced the arrival of Lord and Lady Drachstelle.

  When they entered the room, a vision in resplendent scarlet, Rinka observed that, were she human, she might have felt plain beside them.

  The queen’s cousin, Steffen Drachstelle, was tall and slender, with a full, expressive mouth held in a knowing smile. His wife, Rastia, had dark hair and fierce eyes. Everywhere they went, they leaned close to each other, whispering, as if perpetually engaged in some conspiracy.

  They glided about the Emerald Hall, greeting courtiers, sipping punch. When Leska presented Rinka for introduction, Rinka noticed Rastia tracing idle circles on her husband’s gloved palm, which bore a red embroidered dragon in the same style as the necklace the queen wore.

  “And this is Countess Rinka,” said Leska serenely, in her modest apprentice’s robes, “who was instrumental in our rescue of the hostages at that school in the highlands near the start of the summer.”

  “Lord Drachstelle.” Rinka sank into a curtsy. “Lady Drachstelle. It is a delight to meet you.”

  “Countess, we have heard much about you,” said Steffen—warmly, Rinka thought. Or was that feigned? “I must compliment your contribution to the peace efforts.”

  “And we must also compliment your dedication to nonviolent recourse,” added Rastia, her voice low and lyrical. “To have convinced our cousin the king to halt interrogation of those faeries, and to instead have them tried peacefully as they absolutely should have been . . .” Rastia shook her head and gave an eloquent smile. “You must hold great influence with Alban, to have persuaded him so effectively.”

  Rinka could feel the attention of various courtiers upon her, but she did not let that—or Rastia’s smile, which seemed strangely fixed—shake her. Rinka inclined her head humbly.

  “His Majesty is a thoughtful, fair man,” she said. “It only required a small word on my part to make him realize what he already knew.”

  “Cousins,” said the king, entering the room and striding toward them. Courtiers bowed to him, parting before him in a wave of violets, blues, and Somerhart green. The musicians near the terrace began a joyous rendition of “The Morning of the First Queen”, the Somerhart family song.

  Rinka gave her excuses and hurried away before she and Alban could lock eyes. She did not trust herself to be near both him and the Drachstelles at the same time, not after three weeks of separation. Instead, she tried to concentrate on the beauty of the night, the glitter of the room, making conversation with everyone she could find.

  When the musicians began a langzier, Rinka gratefully fell into the line of dancers taking position. The langzier was an elaborate dance in which partners danced for long minutes before switching with other dancers in line. With the right number of people, it could last for an hour or more, and it became a sort of contest to see which dancer could outlast the others.

  For a few minutes, Rinka knew nothing but the relief of moving. Her first partner was a young, wide-eyed duke with a small holding in Lady Gespian’s lands, to the east, who could not seem to manage a coh
erent sentence in Rinka’s presence. He was, however, a passable dancer, and kind enough, and Rinka was glad for his company—until the music changed, signaling the time for a new partner. The duke passed Rinka to his left, and then, through a series of turns, Rinka found herself in Alban’s arms.

  He seemed as surprised as she was, but held her firmly nevertheless, and swept her away into the vibrant swirl of the other dancers. The touch of his hands at her waist erased everything but him from her mind. She could not hide her smile when she saw him valiantly trying to suppress his own.

  “My king,” Rinka said softly, “you honor me with this dance.”

  “I expected you to scold me.”

  So he had planned this. She laughed. “I should, you rogue.”

  “My apologies, Countess.” Following the movements of the langzier, Alban drew her close, speaking against the white cascade of her hair. “But I had to talk to you, if only for the space of a dance. You’re lovely tonight.”

  He turned her, and Rinka saw the inscrutable dark gaze of Steffen Drachstelle, watching from the side of the room.

  Then Alban turned her again, and she was facing him once more.

  “Lord Drachstelle is watching us,” she said, low beneath the music and the dancers’ laughter.

  “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I want you to avoid both him and Rastia, as much as you can.”

  She pulled back, frowning. “I cannot avoid them completely. They’re to attend the queen’s council meeting the day after tomorrow.”

  “I know. I don’t mean that. I just mean outside of official functions.” A turn, a spin, and he had her even closer now. She could feel the heat of him through the drape of her gown, and her heart twisted to be so near him, at last, and yet unable to hold him as she wanted to. “I’m not trying to order you about, Rinka. It’s only that something terrible happened today, and I’m feeling a bit on edge.”

  Rinka stiffened in his arms. “What is it? Tell me.”