The Prince of Secrets

by A J Lancaster

  Lottie started. “Sorry, sir.” She hurried out of the kitchen but didn’t carry on into the house. Wyn heard her pause out of sight but still within earshot. Good: he wanted her to hear his conversation with the cook.

  Clarissa heaved a sigh and pulled out a large lump of dough. “Well, I don’t hold with gossip,” she said—fortunately, being mortal, she could tell such a whopping untruth without any ill consequence. “And I don’t know what’s got into his head. Anyone with sense can see you’re just as qualified as Mr Fisk was—and more!” She scowled at the memory of the former steward, who she hadn’t liked even before it came out that he’d been stealing from the estate.

  Wyn chuckled. “Thank you, but my ego doesn’t require stroking on such a front. I am confident enough in my abilities. I’m more concerned that I may have inadvertently offended someone or other without realising.”

  “It’s just narrow-minded Northern folks. Some of them are as foolish as hens when it comes to newcomers.”

  Wyn paused to stack the dish he’d been holding. “I admit I had hoped nearly a decade of service might put me outside that category.” Northern countryfolks’ attitude towards change had more in common with the fae than they realised.

  “You’d have to be born here, I’m afraid, to qualify for some,” Clarissa admitted. “But don’t worry, the novelty will wear off once people see your promotion had nothing to do with favouritism.”

  “Favouritism?” He heard Lottie take a sharp breath outside the door, but it hadn’t been audible to Clarissa, who kept kneading the dough in practised motions.

  Clarissa eyed him. “Well…everyone knows you’re friendly with Lord Valstar. Not that anyone’s suggested there’s anything inappropriate with that!” she hurried to reassure him, which he didn’t find particularly reassuring.

  “I have known Lord Valstar for many years. I’ve no doubt she will be an excellent lord.” He carefully transferred the completed stack of dishes to the correct cabinet. “And I intend to fill the role of steward to the best of my ability. I hope you’re right that I am merely the novelty of the moment.”

  Clarissa looked relieved at this response. “Besides,” she added, “anyone who knows you knows you’ve not a scandalous bone in your body. And if they don’t, I’ll certainly tell them so. It’s not as if you’re one for chasing skirts or anything! You might as well be one of those monkdruids.” She heaved a sigh at the thought. Wyn had no doubt she would’ve liked to matchmake him with someone or other, given the least encouragement.

  “Er…thank you for your defence of me, Clarissa, although I think this conversation itself may be veering into inappropriate territory.” The rebuke was a gentle one because she’d known him for so long, but he wasn’t about to encourage open speculation on his love life.

  Clarissa grinned but acknowledged his point with a nod.

  That Clarissa thought him asexual wasn’t an accident. Greater fae naturally exuded a charm designed to attract, but he’d solved the problem by twisting that allure sideways. He still attracted people, but it was with a platonic appeal, a low-level suggestion saying: I remind you of your uncle/brother/friend/child. It had seemed wise to avoid the complications that came with the non-platonic sort of attraction, given both his nature and position here. Yes, and what a marvellous job I’ve done at avoiding those complications, as it turns out, he reflected.

  However, at least Clarissa’s comments meant none of the staff had seen him kissing Hetta. That made things simpler. No low-level suggestion would override the evidence of their own eyes, not unless he resorted to full-blown compulsion, and he would not compel his staff.

  “Well, I hope I can rely on the staff to squash such rumours.” He wrinkled his nose. “It will be harder to persuade a suitable housekeeper to take up residence if we appear to be an unbridled hotbed of scandal.”

  “Do you want me to have a word with the girls?”

  Wyn shook his head. He knew she would regardless, and he meant his next words for Lottie. “I hope that’s not necessary. They’re a sensible bunch, and they do this household credit, and so I shall tell the prospective applicants.” Perhaps that might spur the housemaid to be more thoughtful about what stories she spread in future, though he was probably being overly optimistic. Ah, well. There were far worse faults than gossiping, and it was useful to know who could be counted on to spread information quickly.

  Clarissa sighed. “When are the applicants coming for the interview?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

  “After Wintersol.”

  “It’ll be good getting another body. I don’t know how you manage half of what you do. And how you’re supposed to do Mr Fisk’s job now besides. It’s not right to run you ragged!”

  “I am not run ragged,” Wyn said firmly. “Though I admit I will appreciate the help.” He tilted his head. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider?” Wyn had tried to persuade both Clarissa and the senior housemaid to take up the position, for it was hard to get staff up here, and he was unsure of the quality of the applicants, but both had been resolute in their refusal.

  “No,” Clarissa said, thumping the dough for emphasis. “I’m in no time of life to be haring around managing servants. I’m happy as I am: chief cook and bottlewasher.”

  “A most excellent bottlewasher,” Wyn said, earning a laugh. “And a most excellent cook.” He bowed. “Now I must leave you. The accounts won’t do themselves.”

  He made sure not to cross the kitchen too swiftly, and the housemaid had removed herself by the time he passed through the doorway.

  Now he just needed to deal with the overly interested brownie following him.

  6

  Housefae

  Wyn took a circuitous route to the ballroom and pretended not to notice he was being followed the entire way. The Wintersol Tree stood in one corner of the large room and, sure enough, the children had already knocked several of the decorations off since the morning. The low-angled rays of the setting sun sparkled as they hit the stranded ornaments. He rescued them while observing the housefae out of the corner of his eye.

  Now, was this unnatural amount of attention simple curiosity or something more sinister? Were there spies from his father’s court among them? Or from the Court of Dusken Roses, whose princess he’d vowed and then failed to marry? If so, I hope they enjoy hearing about my stellar potato-carrying abilities.

  It struck him, suddenly, that Lottie’s mother was exactly the old-fashioned sort who would put milk out for brownies, and that brownies loved to gossip. Now that the High King had revoked the Iron Law, he could no longer depend on Faerie and Mortal gossip remaining separate. Sooner or later, the two would cross over. Stormcrows.

  The central heating system didn’t run through this room, and its two glass walls made it frigid when it wasn’t filled with people, but it wasn’t the temperature that sent a chill through him. Information was power, in Faerie and Mortal both. What if his father found out exactly what this estate—and more importantly, its lord—meant to Wyn? What if he chose to strike at Wyn through Stariel because of it? He leant down and picked up a stray ornament, curling his fingers around the fragile construct of wood and ribbon. His father must not find out that Wyn was…attached. At worst, he must assume Wyn was using Hetta for his own ends, that the relationship was cold-blooded political strategy on Wyn’s part, that there was nothing here that could be used against him. And that I will cut ties and leave without compunction if and when necessary.

  He swallowed and carefully replaced the ornament on the tree, outwardly oblivious to anything else. The evergreen was symbolic of immortality to Prydinians, supposedly keeping dark spirits away during the lengthening nights leading up to Wintersol. Wyn had wondered more than once if the tradition had roots in Faerie; several types of darkfae disliked pine. The sticky resin scent bloomed in the air as his fingers brushed the tree’s needles, reminding him of Hetta’s magic. She’d been busy today as well, and they’d been unable to fin
d much excuse to be in each other’s company. How had her conversation with her cousin Caroline fared? It could hardly have gone worse than his own as-yet non-existent one with Jack.

  There! He caught a flash of movement under one of the many chairs lining the edges of the ballroom. Brownies, like many lowfae, were quicker than ferrets.

  He was quicker, obviously.

  Spinning away from the tree, he reached under the chair and hauled the brownie out by its scruff.

  “Eep!” it squawked as it struggled, little fists flailing against his fingers. It wasn’t foolish enough to use its claws. It also wasn’t a brownie. Urisks were related to brownies, but the solitary creatures tended to favour the outdoors. What had brought this one inside?

  The urisk was entirely androgynous, about the length of Wyn’s handspan, and heavily furred. Its lower half ended in neat goat-like legs, while its upper limbs had tiny hands with retractable claws. Its face was faintly goat-like, with a wide, flat nose and large, tilted eyes that burned with a feverish desire to escape as it writhed.

  “Lemme go! Lemme go!”

  “Why were you watching me?” Wyn asked it, a thread of power colouring his voice. The instinct to dominate over the smaller fae was so strong that the compulsion was done before he could think better of it. Hetta would be disappointed in him.

  The urisk answered without hesitation—not that it could do otherwise: “They want to know!” The tufts of its ears twitched. Wyn didn’t even need to ask the next logical question, his power subconsciously swelling out and magically flattening the poor creature into submission.

  “Everyone! Everyone wants to know everything! In FallingStar and out. It’s good currency. Didn’t mean no harm! Just watching! You’re not even doing anything interesting now anyway!”

  “Names,” Wyn asked grimly.

  “Some faraway courts. Ten Thousand Spires. DuskRose. That’s all I know! That’s all I know!” The little creature trembled in fright.

  “You are of FallingStar,” Wyn told it. That was how the fae knew Stariel: The Court of Falling Stars. “You should show more loyalty to your lord than to spy on her people.”

  “You’re not of FallingStar. And we’ve no reason to be loyal to the mortal lord when she’s banned us from the house for so long.”

  Always, unintended consequences. “She wasn’t responsible for that. I was. You have her to thank for your free run of the house now. Tell the other housefae that I will put milk out for them every evening if they stop following me. Otherwise I will be forced to take…” he paused for effect, “alternative options.”

  The urisk’s ears flared in surprise. It probably hadn’t expected Wyn to let it go at all, but he placed it gently on the ballroom floor after delivering his threat. It didn’t need to know it was a toothless one.

  It looked up at him, eyes big and wary, then decided to take its chances. It fled, tiny hooves skittering on the smooth surface. Wyn watched it go. He needed, he thought with a sinking feeling, to talk to his godparent.

  7

  Feathers and Shirts

  In the usual way of things, Wyn would be waylaid by fifty-seven different people before he reached the front door. Of course, since right now he wouldn’t mind putting off speaking to his godparent, the house was deserted, even when he detoured to the cellars to collect a suitable gift.

  The grand entryway echoed as he changed his shoes for boots more suited to the outdoors and let himself out. His normal point of egress was at the back of the house, but although he might mentally bemoan the lack of distractions, he was committed enough to his chosen course not to actively derail it by attempting to exit via the kitchens.

  He pulled up a simple glamour as he walked across the lawns. They were damp with dew, the day already darkening. Would it be better to leave this until tomorrow? But tomorrow he needed to leave early to drive with Hetta down to see the bank manager, and he needed more information before they left the safety of Stariel’s bounds.

  One of the few advantages of living in the fae courts—and to Wyn’s mind, there were few indeed—was that clothing there was designed to accommodate the various needs of shapeshifters. Here, in the Mortal Realm, it was either destroy his shirt and coat or remove all his clothing from the waist up. Reaching for his bowtie, he recalled Hetta’s nimble fingers, and a ghost of that sensation spun around him as he untied the strip of material and unbuttoned his shirt. Mortals were curiously body-shy, compared to the fae, but he’d observed that that seemed to only add to the allure of showing skin.

  How would Hetta react, should she happen to wander into this part of the estate right now? Or in a few moments more, when he shed his mortal form? His musings, which had begun to grow heated, came to an abrupt, chilly halt.

  He shook his head to clear it, using the cold as a focus. He’d chosen a sheltered spot in a stand of trees beside Starwater, but the air was still sharp in the deep shade. Ice shards glittered in the lake’s surface. He wasn’t as susceptible to the cold as a human, but in his mortal form he wasn’t completely immune to it either, and it was nearing the heart of winter.

  Shifting to fae form didn’t require effort so much as…relaxation. Warmth spooled out through every sinew, followed swiftly by elongation as he unfurled his wings, taking satisfaction from the flexing of bone and muscle. Even in shadow, the silvery-white feathers glimmered, the weight of them both familiar and strange. He reached a hand up to touch one of his horns, idly considering the smooth, metallic texture, the slightly heavier feel of his head as he turned it this way and that. This was his native form, and yet he’d spent the last decade in his more human one, growing from youth to adult. A few weeks ago, when a draken attacked, he’d assumed his fae form for the first time in years.

  Again, he wondered what Hetta would think of him like this. She’d seen his fae form only once—during the draken attack. They hadn’t discussed it, but afterwards he’d felt her subtly withdraw from him for a time. Sometimes he caught her looking at him as if imagining the space around him filled with feathers. I suppose it’s unreasonable to expect her to accept me like this without a blink when this form is strange even to me now.

  “Ah, Marius,” he said aloud to the silent lake, remembering his friend’s words. “Why must you be right so frequently?”

  He folded his shirt and coat into as neat a bundle as he could and tied them about his waist for safekeeping before making his way down to the lake edge. Away from the trees, he spread his wings, wrapped his magic around him like a cocoon, and launched into the sky. He was far too large a creature with far too wide a wingspan to defy gravity from such a starting position, and he drew on the magic of his birthright to aid him. It was a magic peculiar to the stormdancers—the greater fae of the Spires—bearing him upwards for those first few vital downstrokes.

  The air resisted his efforts, chill and unhelpful. He had to struggle for height, leaning on his magic further, and his wings protested at the unaccustomed exertion. It grew a little easier as his muscles warmed and he gained enough altitude to take advantage of the headwind.

  Disused senses flared to life: an awareness of wind currents, pressure, and the moisture content of the air. Colours swirled, beyond the limits of human eyesight, and a glorious awareness of magic set his skin afire. The dual nature of Stariel—mortal estate and fae court—became a thousand times more apparent than usual.

  He had keen senses even in human form, but this was to that as a sunshower to a hurricane. The tight anxiety in his chest eased, replaced with sparkling wonder, and he let out a delighted laugh. The ground fell away, a patchwork of brown-and-green muddy fields spread before him as he climbed higher and higher. Buildings became picturesque miniatures of themselves, and tiny doll-figures shepherded equally doll-like sheep. The bright blue-green of the Stariel evergreen woods took on the appearance of cake decorations. Across the lake, the pale stone of the Dower House drew his eye, a central feature in his and Hetta’s current plan to persuade the bank to lend them funds. Would
it be worth circling it, to see if a birds’ eye view would give better insight into the repairs needed before it could be rented out? But he resisted the temptation to procrastinate; there was an already neatly totalled list of repair estimates in Hetta’s desk drawer.

  The air was thin and difficult, with winds at cross-currents, absent of the warm, lazy thermals that made for effortless gliding above the rocky needles of Ten Thousand Spires. He had to fight for every downstroke, muscle rather than magic, clawing height from the chilly mountains inch by inch.

  It was glorious.

  He angled his wings, tacking one way then the other and resisting the wind’s efforts to turn him about as he arrowed towards the Indigoes. Progress was slow, but heady anticipation kindled in his chest as he imagined the rapid, wild descent on the return journey, with the wind at his back, rushing straight down the mountainside.

  Exhilaration took a beating when he landed in a clumsy tangle of limbs where the hilly terrain of the northern Sheepfold grew into the rockier feet of the Indigoes. I am sadly out of practice. He straightened himself out, uninjured but glad both of his glamour and the spot’s isolation. In this season there weren’t even sheep here to witness his ignominious landing; they’d all been moved to lower pastures for the winter. Thank the high winds’ eddies—he suspected no amount of princely poise could cover rolling in the dirt like an upended chicken. A dignified prince indeed, he thought wryly, fastidiously shaking his wings to free them of loose stones and bits of grass.

  Calling up a bit of air magic to help with the task, he folded his re-smoothed feathers back into place—and paused. His hand moved almost of its own volition, plucking one of his secondaries free with a tiny prick of pain. The feather lay in his hand, silvery-white, and he stared at it for longer than he should have before shaking his head. No. What was he thinking? He could not give Hetta one of his feathers, not when he hadn’t committed to staying. And not least because she’ll think it a very odd gift, he reflected. It was an old, rarely invoked stormdancer custom, denoting a trust deeper than mere intimacy.