Summerfall: A Winterspell Novella

by Claire Legrand

  “Do you know Ottmeyer?”

  “Of course, the Sixth of the Seven.”

  “He was found dead today, in the river. It is believed,” the king said mildly, holding Rinka fast, for she had nearly stumbled in her alarm, “that he threw himself from his tower.”

  Rinka could not find her words, but her mind raced unhindered. “My king,” she began, somehow managing a smile at Leska as they glided past, “I hope you’re not thinking this mage killed himself so he wouldn’t have to obey the compulsion of your bond with him.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m thinking.” Alban’s voice was grim. “And he would only do that—”

  “If he did not want to obey one of your orders. If, by obeying that order—”

  “He would condemn himself, or others of his kind?”

  “Who may have committed the very crimes against faeries the Seven are investigating?”

  They fell silent. Rinka stepped back from Alban and out of the line of dancers, causing the nearby pair of Garen and his human partner to stumble. But Rinka hardly noticed them; she could think only of the blood bond between Alban and his mages, her previous fears surfacing with a vengeance. Her father had feared it too. The same potential—for binding, for servitude—existed in every faery’s magical blood. There was no precedent for it, no human-faery bonding in the history of Cane, but then, the right circumstances had never arisen.

  Until, perhaps, now.

  Wouldn’t it be easy, with the right words, for someone to persuade the young king to bond with his faeries? Wouldn’t it be easy, with tensions so high and these random acts of violence not abating?

  Wouldn’t it be simple as breathing, if the faeries didn’t agree to the ritual, to force them into it, no matter their magic? They were only seven, after all, in a castle of dozens, in a city of thousands. Rinka had read that forced bindings weren’t reliable—they could be tenuous at best and corrupted, even fatal, at worst. Of course, if the king thought it worth the risk . . .

  But Alban wouldn’t. He wouldn’t, not after everything they had shared.

  And what was that? A few weeks of passion, easily discarded in the face of a so-called peace. It would be a tidy solution. With seven faeries bound to him, unable to disobey his orders—surrounded by prejudiced advisors—what chaos could the king potentially bring upon the faery lands?

  These were absurd thoughts, and yet Rinka could not purge her mind of them. The presence of the watching Lord and Lady Drachstelle, the fear that had been quietly plaguing Rinka since the Restoration began their violence, Alban’s horrific news—the combination shattered Rinka’s nerves and sent her hurrying outside. She felt Alban at her heels, and the terrace emptied quickly at their entrance.

  Rinka leaned hard against the railing, seeking comfort in the city’s flickering lights. But the sight only served to remind her of the height of the palace, and how terrible a fall from one of its towers would be. She could not stop seeing Ottmeyer fall, and then, suddenly, it wasn’t Ottmeyer, but Garen, and his death would be her fault, because she had trusted Alban.

  She closed her eyes against the image and searched for calm. These fears were irrational, and she was so unused to that feeling that it terrified her. She breathed in greedily of the cold night air. Alban would never use her like that, would never use any of her people like that. He was a good man.

  But he was also young, and easily led. Only in recent weeks had he begun showing any backbone—standing up to the queen, to Henning, to Rohlmeyer—and a few weeks were easily reversed.

  A gentle hand on her arm interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She turned, and at the sight of Alban’s familiar face, flushed from dancing, open with love for the first time in weeks, Rinka felt herself relax.

  “Rinka,” Alban said, “what happened? One minute we were dancing, and the next—”

  “I wonder,” she said quietly, unwilling to share her true feelings, “how many of the other Seven are considering doing the same thing.”

  Alban came up beside her, grave. “Ottmeyer was young. He may not have had the discipline to endure the pain of defying me. But the others . . .” He sighed. “Rohlmeyer has not yet produced anything satisfactory in his supposed investigation. I fear I must send out more of my spies, to keep an eye on the Seven.”

  Rinka turned to face him, taking care to not stand too close, to not reach out and touch him here, where anyone at the party could see.

  “To what end?” she asked.

  “It cannot be coincidence that Ottmeyer jumped to his death the day the Drachstelles arrived. I need to unearth a connection, if there is one. I need to know what my mages aren’t telling me.”

  “You don’t think the Drachstelles encouraged him to suicide? That seems far-fetched.”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  “I know I don’t like them. The Drachstelles. They give me a bad feeling.”

  The king gave a tired smile. “And they do not like you, I’d imagine, and certainly not me. They never have.”

  “They want the throne.”

  “When Father died, they appealed to my judges to appoint Steffen steward of the throne, or at least appoint one of my uncles, up north, until I could be considered capable. The appeal was denied, and I used to wish it hadn’t been. I could have stayed a prince, and avoided the throne. But now . . . now, I’m glad.”

  “I want him nowhere near the throne,” Rinka said.

  “Nor do I.”

  They were quiet for a long time, as the langzier soared on behind them. Then Alban said quietly, “Rinka, I want you to be especially careful. The Drachstelles have a way of uncovering secrets.”

  “There is no secret to uncover,” Rinka said, “not anymore.”

  Alban put his hand near hers on the cold white railing, close enough to press his thumb to hers. “No,” he agreed quietly, “I suppose there isn’t. But they could still do considerable damage.”

  Uneasy, Rinka nodded. “You think the Drachstelles could make a new scandal out of an old secret.”

  “I think I don’t know what the Drachstelles want to do, or could do, and that worries me. But I feel better having them here where I can keep an eye on them.” Then, after a moment, he said, “I liked dancing with you tonight. For a moment, before I told you about Ottmeyer, I could almost pretend . . .”

  “I know.” Rinka glanced up at him. “I thought that too.”

  Silence fell again, and then the tempo of the langzier picked up, followed by a resounding cheer from the dancers. Reluctant as she was to say it, Rinka knew he should leave, return to his guests. He seemed to read her thoughts, straightened, whispered, “Good night, Rinka,” and slipped back through the terrace doors.

  In his absence, Rinka’s earlier fears seeped back into her mind, and she was left aching and uncertain in the midsummer breeze.

  10

  THREE NIGHTS LATER, Rinka dreamed of Alban.

  He was above her, pressing hot kisses down her neck, her breasts, her belly. It was a dream Rinka was not unused to having, and a welcome one, after so long apart. But then, the dream Alban’s fingers on her hips transformed into brutish claws, piercing her skin. He was a beast looming over her, and not human at all, yet he still wore his crown. Garen stood solemnly behind him, watching, his expression smug and bored, even as the Alban-beast slashed open Rinka’s stomach with one cruel swipe.

  The pain of it thrust Rinka out of her dream and into the darkness of her bedroom. She struggled upright, her clammy skin sticking to the silken bedsheets. Her hands flew to her belly, but she found herself to be whole and unhurt, and she subsided against the pillows, tucking into herself like a child. Since the night of the party, and in Alban’s absence, her nervous thoughts had remained, though the palace had been quiet. The Restoration arrested and tried, reparations under way to the affected faery clans. But she could not stop thinking of Ottmeyer flinging himself out into the sky.

  She absently rubbed her belly, willing away the image of Alban�
��s face shifting into the phantom of her nightmare, then wiped her face. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, and when she opened her eyes, blinking back to herself, thinking she would draw a bath and scrub away the poison of her thoughts, she saw it:

  A flutter of white. A swift movement of shadow.

  Rinka shot upright once more, sharpening with fear.

  The window farthest from her was open, the curtains undulating in the breeze, though she hadn’t left the window open that evening. Leska, maybe? But Leska didn’t randomly open windows in the middle of the night.

  Slow waves of dread rolled over Rinka, and she stiffened, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Someone was in the room with her—someone, maybe, in that stretch of dark shapes in the room’s far corner.

  Rinka shifted, reaching for the heavy pendant on her bedside table, reaching inside herself to gather her magic—but the intruder was quicker.

  He—she?—it was impossible to tell—shot out of the darkness to Rinka’s bedside. A gloved hand seized her wrist; a dagger glinted silver in the moonlight.

  Rinka kicked out blindly and rolled—not enough to free herself, but enough to grab her pendant and use the solid heft of it to channel her magic into something functional. A jolt of it shot out of her, slamming into her attacker like an invisible fist—but not before the blade caught her, slicing down her side and across her thigh. Blue dripped onto her white sheets, and she stumbled to the floor, naked and clumsy with pain.

  She wished she had bothered to attend Garen’s lectures on defensive magic.

  She scrambled for the door to her sitting room. “Leska!” she screamed, though it was a mad hope that anyone could hear her, for her voice was hoarse with terror. “Leska, help me! Alban!”

  The assassin found Rinka, knocking her to the ground. She screamed and tried to stand, but then came another hard blow—a gloved fist to her temple. She threw patchy bursts of magic, erratic from terror, at her attacker, but her panic made it uneven and difficult to control. One last burst of it flew wildly from her fingers, but the assassin ducked and lunged at her, pinned her against the floor with a hard arm at her neck.

  Rinka struggled, gasping, clawing at the arm that trapped her. Lips against her ear, and a hot voice—it was a man.

  “This is what happens to faery whores,” hissed the voice, slick and unfamiliar. “Long live the dragon.”

  Rinka felt the cold pressure of the dagger against her throat, and with the certainty that she would die came an incongruous, wild desire to live.

  She threw away her pendant, toward the open bathing room door, and the clatter of it against the tiles distracted her assassin long enough for Rinka to bring up her knee, hard, between his legs.

  He slumped, moaning, and his grip on her neck loosened. Rinka wriggled free and leapt for her pendant, but the assassin was not far behind, grabbing for her legs, wrenching her back. Rinka scrabbled for the pendant, her fingers smearing the floor blue. With a pained cry, she stretched her abused body and found the pendant. Her fingers curled around it, and she twisted back. In her desperation, her magic felt more focused, fueled by a primal rage. She drew upon the deepest parts of herself and flung a wave of searing power at her attacker.

  The force of it sent his body flying backward. He crashed into the far wall, leaving behind an uneven trail of red blood. He had hit his head. He was human.

  He was not done yet. He staggered upright, leapt for Rinka once more—but she was ready for him, her pendant clutched before her in one bloody hand, the other clamping down on her thigh, where spurts of blue blood trickled down her leg. Wave after wave of magic she threw at him, until he was a charred, smoking lump in the moonlight, flickering blue. Unused as Rinka was to fighting with magic, the aggressive heat of it made even her own stomach churn.

  She sank to the carpet and retched. She dragged herself across the ruined bedroom, through the sitting room, to the doors to her suite. She tried to reach for the door handle and couldn’t; her body was leaden, bleeding, throbbing, and she could no longer control it.

  “Help,” she whispered, clutching her bloody pendant. “Help me.”

  The last thing she knew before the pain consumed her was movement by the door. A sharp, high cry. The familiar, cold smell of mage magic. Cool hands on her face.

  “Countess,” said a voice, but it was garbled and frightening. Rinka tried to shrink back. “Countess, please speak to me.”

  But Rinka couldn’t. Her head was a mess of pain; her hands stung with magic. Someone had tried to kill her; someone had thrown her into the wall and cut open her leg.

  She let herself fade.

  11

  RINKA AWOKE in her bedroom to Alban hovering over her.

  “Rinka,” he said, his face sagging with relief. He sounded as though he hadn’t slept in ages. “Rinka, you’re all right. I’m here.”

  He kissed her wrists, her palms, her fingers, the soft skin beneath her eyes, her lips. And Rinka let him—until she registered the presence of the silent, green-cloaked King’s Guard at the door.

  She pushed Alban away with what strength she could gather. Her head still pounded, but her side and leg were stitched up neatly; her bed linens were fresh and free of blood.

  “You forget yourself, my king,” Rinka said tightly.

  “My guard is discreet and loyal.” He gathered her hands in his and continued to kiss them. “And you are alive and well, and kissing you helps reassure me of that.”

  She softened despite herself, despite the presence of the guards. She pressed Alban’s hands. “Tell me what happened.”

  Solemn, he settled beside her on the bed. “The assassin is dead. He was dead when Leska found you. She heard you screaming from her rooms. She summoned the healer, and the healer summoned me.” He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Apparently you were calling for me.”

  “I killed him.” Rinka closed her eyes, the attack coming back to her with vivid clarity—every blow to her skull, every surge of terror. “I used magic to kill him.”

  “And I’m glad you did, my darling. Never have I been more glad for your faery blood. You’re healing quickly.” Alban pulled her close, pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her. “Although now we can’t question the man, to find his employer.”

  “He did say something . . .”

  “What? What was it?” He moved away, his expression ferocious. “Anything, Rinka, could be helpful. I will find them, whoever they are. I will tear them to pieces for hurting you.”

  Rinka nearly repeated the assassin’s words, understanding their meaning in a way she hadn’t in the moment: Long live the dragon. The dragon—like the one emblazoned on the Drachstelle crest? Like the golden one the queen wore on a chain at her throat?

  “He said,” Rinka said, drawing a measured breath, “that this is what happens to faery whores.”

  Alban swore softly. He dismissed his guards and drew Rinka into an embrace. He breathed declarations of love and promises of justice into her hair, his voice breaking, and Rinka allowed the touch of his hands to melt away her worried thoughts. He was gentle, and every caress unwound the knots of tension in her belly.

  Long live the dragon. The words stuck in her mind like barbs, urging her to tell Alban, but whenever she imagined doing so, a terrible fear stopped her—the fear that, if she said the words, everything would change. The king would abandon discretion and rage at his wife; he would hate and distrust her even more than he already did. He would antagonize her cousins and wind the city into a frenzy, rooting out anyone remotely related to the Drachstelle family for interrogation.

  He would start a civil war. Rinka did not want that blood on her hands.

  But Alban read her silence, and paused to examine her face. “Is that all, Rinka?”

  She paused. She found she could no longer keep the words unsaid. “Long live the dragon,” she whispered. “He said that, too. Long live the dragon.”

  Alban hissed a string of violent curses and th
rew himself out of bed, jarring Rinka’s leg. She gritted her teeth and put out her arm to him.

  “Alban, please come back. Sit and talk with me.”

  “What is there to talk about, Rinka? Curse the Drachstelles, and curse Liane, for surely she knew.” He pounded his fist against the wall.

  “You mustn’t say anything to them, or do anything differently. Everything must remain the same. Alban, hear me. They must think us ignorant, otherwise . . .” She paused, took a breath. “They know we will have to be on our guard now, and they will have to be as well. They will need time to regroup, and that will give us and your spies time to gather the necessary evidence against them. In the meantime—”

  “I must wait.” His hands were fists at his sides, his eyes bright. “I must dine with them and drink with them, discuss politics with them, and know every word of peace they utter is a lie, and somehow not lose my temper.”

  “Come back to me,” Rinka said, unsure how else to show him comfort when she needed it desperately herself. So she said nothing, and let him love her until there was nothing left of fear between them.

  * * *

  Rinka stepped onto the main thoroughfare of Erstadt, Leska at her side, and strove to ignore the eyes upon her.

  This was a different market than the one she had enjoyed before the attack in her chambers three weeks earlier, before her first visit some three months earlier. This was a market full of people who hushed when she neared, who whispered so she could not hear their words, who sometimes shouted so she could not help but hear them.

  Beside her, Leska shifted the wrapped parcels in her arms. Surrounding them were four guards, assigned to Rinka from Alban’s own personal guard, despite her protestations. They matched stride, boulders in the shape of men. At first Rinka had been irritated at their appointment to her.

  Now, she was forced to admit, she was glad of their presence.

  Leska inched closer. Rinka felt the cold buzz of her magic, on high alert. “Perhaps next time you find yourself needing new clothes,” she suggested wryly, “we can summon Madam Farber to the castle instead.”