The Prince of Secrets

by A J Lancaster

  At this, the maulkfae smiled, and it was again a disturbing gesture filled with far too many teeth. “Ah, but this I can help you with.” Their fingers twitched, and after a second, something appeared in their palm. They held it out to Wyn, who didn’t reach for it immediately. “Sensible, untrusting child. But take this gift. It will not harm you.”

  Wyn eyed the object they were holding out warily and didn’t take it. Harm was a very subjective term. “What will it do?”

  “If you whisper the name of the Maelstrom to it, it will take you there. And back again,” they added in an impatient tone when he was still reluctant to take it, “if you whisper FallingStar to it. It will work but once in each direction.”

  He took the object, which turned out to be a deep red stone in the shape of a teardrop, hanging from a long silver chain. It hummed only slightly to his leysight, the spell so cleverly coiled it was nearly undetectable. It was a reminder of the strength of Lamorkin’s magic, of the value of his mother’s bargain. A translocation spell contained within an object—a small, portable object, no less—was uncommon enough to be impressive in and of itself. But one powerful enough to penetrate the wards of ThousandSpire? Wyn closed his fingers around the cold stone with a shiver of unease.

  “Thank you, godparent,” he said, after convincing himself that he was thankful to be given an increased number of options.

  “Always so sincere,” Lamorkin said fondly, reaching out to touch his cheek with the tip of one claw. “Now, since I have been so very helpful, are you going to tell your beloved godparent what you’ve been doing since I last set eyes on you?” A particularly fierce blast of wind penetrated the lee of the hut, making their feathers dance.

  The cold tried to reach fingers beneath his own feathers, but he still held an insulating skin of magic about himself. Wyn smiled. “I think you have a fair idea, godparent. There’s no one like you for knowing all the gossip that flows into the courts.”

  They clucked. “I would hear it from your own lips. Courting a mortal! Mortals almost always spell trouble for faekind. I do not understand your fascination with them.”

  “One particular mortal, godparent. They are not interchangeable, you know.” His heart pounded. Lamorkin knew about him and Hetta; the courts knew about him and Hetta. Suspicious grocers suddenly seemed utterly trivial, the time he thought he’d have left here slipping away inexorably as the tide.

  Lamorkin harrumphed. “They might as well be. I cannot approve of this. Why, you will age if you stay here in the Mortal Realm. You might live only another century! A mere blink.”

  Wyn smiled, thinking of his human friends’ reactions to hearing a century spoken of as a short span of time. “I’m aware. Doesn’t the romanticism of it move you, a little?” he added slyly.

  His godparent narrowed their eyes. “Don’t be impertinent, godchild.”

  He bowed his head. “Indeed, godparent.” A gust of wind rattled the nearby shepherd’s hut. “I believe you will like her, my mortal.”

  “The queen of this unnatural realm,” Lamorkin said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, although ‘lord’ is her preferred term.”

  “You’re a fool, Hallowyn.” The exasperation in their voice made the echoes more grating than usual.

  “Isn’t that why I am your favourite? You appreciate a difficult task, and this may be the most difficult one yet, to help me come through this with my skin intact.”

  “I should have asked your mother for more,” they grumbled.

  Wyn reached out a hand to clasp his godparent’s fluid one. “I’m very glad you came. I had missed you.”

  “Hmmm,” was all they said, but he could tell they were pleased. They stepped back and repeated, with what Wyn considered unnecessary emphasis: “You will never pass through the Maelstrom if you insist on playacting as human.” Then, with only that faint popping noise to give warning, they disappeared.

  Wyn let the circle crumple in on itself as soon as Lamorkin left. Stariel roared into the vacuum, alert and outraged. It sniffed him, dissatisfied but still respecting the permissions Hetta had given him to be here. The weight of its inspection made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

  The amulet lay heavy in his hand, gleaming darkly, and he considered flinging it into some deep crevasse. Then he sighed and put the thrice-cursed thing around his neck. It was never wise to scorn a maulkfae’s gifts. He flexed his wings experimentally; they ached only slightly from the journey up here, and the return would be much easier, with the wind at his back. But before he could take off, the crunch of footsteps had him swivelling towards the sound.

  Jack came to a stop a few feet from him, hands tucked into the pockets of his great coat, and gave him a speaking look.

  “Any minute now,” he said, “I expect you’re going to explain what you’re doing up here inviting fairies in and setting Stariel into a panic.”

  9

  Cold Conversations

  Hetta might be the Lord of Stariel and therefore the person who commanded the power of the faeland, but Wyn had overlooked one important fact. All the Valstars were connected to Stariel and, excepting Hetta, none more strongly than Jack. On the up side, this meant he no longer needed to track Jack down for that conversation they were supposed to be having.

  “Ah. Yes,” Wyn said intelligently.

  “How are you not half-frozen?” Jack frowned at Wyn’s bare chest. “It’s making me cold looking at you.” Jack was dressed far more appropriately for the weather, bulky with layers. The ends of his woollen hat—one of Lady Philomena’s creations—were tucked under his thick scarf so that only the tips of his brilliantly red hair were visible.

  Jack’s faithful dog, Shadow, wagged a tentative tail at Wyn, tilting her head this way and that at his wings. Eventually she decided that despite his altered appearance, he was the same person who could occasionally be counted on to bring her titbits, and she bounded towards him. Jack’s frown deepened, but he didn’t call her back.

  Wyn’s godparent’s words about playing human still rang in his ears, but there didn’t really seem to be any alternative. He shifted to his mortal form and immediately felt the bite of the wind. Icy air washed down his spine, vulnerable without the shield of feathers. Hurriedly, he pulled on the shirt and coat he’d tied to his belt for this purpose, smoothing himself back into some semblance of mortal respectability.

  Jack hunched against the cold and gave Wyn a distinctly unimpressed look. “We may as well go into the hut, since we’re up here, and then you can tell me what in blazes is going on.” He turned and stumped towards the small shepherd’s hut.

  Shadow nuzzled Wyn’s kneecaps apologetically before sprinting after her master. Wyn followed. The wind grabbed hold of his garments as he stepped out of the lee of the hut, cutting off abruptly as he entered the single stone room. It was only a little warmer than outside; no one had been inhabiting the place for some time now. He didn’t shut the door, since the shutters fitted to the windows made that the only source of light. Shadow lay down next to the cold hearth and perked her ears expectantly at the two of them.

  There was a rough wooden table and stools inside the hut, but Jack made no movement towards them. Instead he leaned against one wall and folded his arms, fixing Wyn with a penetrating stare. He had the same grey eyes as Hetta—the colour common among the Valstars—and his expression briefly mirrored hers; disconcerting, as they didn’t usually look much alike. Hetta and Marius both took after their father, with Lord Henry’s more narrow, angular features. Jack had a square jawline that he tended to jut out when he was being stubborn, which was often. His thick brows were a shade or two darker than the bright red of his hair, and they were currently pulled together in a harsh hawk’s scowl. There was more than just disapproval there; Wyn had the sense he was being weighed.

  The silence of the room deepened, and Jack’s scrutiny took him back to a memory, years ago, of the first time they’d gone together to the pub in Stariel-on-Starwater, the largest vill
age that fell within the estate’s bounds. They’d been youths then, Jack the only person other than Lord Henry who knew Wyn’s true nature. The secret had sat badly with Jack, and yet it had also made Jack feel some degree of responsibility towards him.

  That night, Wyn had been anxious to fit in. There had been a good-natured arm-wrestling competition that Wyn would’ve been content to merely watch, but Jack was having none of it. So Wyn joined in and, carefully and with extreme good cheer, lost more than he won. This made him popular, and he found himself being declared ‘a good sort’. Jack, too, had appeared to be enjoying himself. It was only later, as they were making their way back to the house long after nightfall, that Jack drew to a halt and said rather abruptly, “It’s not good sport to lose on purpose.”

  Wyn had a hard head for liquor, but mortal alcohol hit rather more strongly than its fae equivalent.

  “What?” he’d said, at a loss. He didn’t understand Jack’s anger; it had been a frivolous competition with nothing riding on it. He was fae—of course he was stronger than mortal men, but it would’ve been foolish to flaunt that. But Jack dragged him over to a tree stump next to the path and insisted that they go again, burning with some fierce emotion. So Wyn pressed Jack’s forearm down onto the stump as if it were willow wand.

  “Good,” he’d said, grimly satisfied, and stumped back to the road, only a little unsteady on his feet.

  “Did that make you feel better?” Wyn had asked, his tone light, as he tried to work out what was in the other man’s mind.

  Jack’s mouth had gone hard, all signs of inebriety replaced with sudden, shocking sobriety as he weighed Wyn up. “Do you always do whatever you think will make people like you better?”

  “In general, yes.” Wyn intended his answer to come out teasingly, but instead it fell like a confession into the darkness. He waited for Jack to take umbrage, but instead Jack threw back his head and laughed and laughed.

  “Well, at least you’re honest about it.” Then he’d slung an arm around Wyn’s shoulders, drunken camaraderie returning. Wyn had thought the unsettling conversation over, but before they parted, Jack had fixed him with a pointed finger and said, quite seriously, “Don’t ever lie to me because you think I’ll find your answer more pleasing.”

  And Wyn had said, just as seriously, “I will not.” He’d meant it, though it was impossible not to when he was physically incapable of lying.

  And now they were here, adults rather than half-grown youths, but the expression on Jack’s face was the same as it had been all those years ago, as if Wyn were a puzzle he couldn’t decipher.

  “What,” Jack said eventually, “was that thing you were talking to?”

  “That person,” Wyn said, with a curl of disapproval, “was fae. My godparent, to be precise.” How strange, to guard a secret so closely for years and yet find that he could release it with such ease. But it was a secret with no value here in the Mortal Realm, and certainly not to the Valstars.

  Jack’s fierce expression faltered. “You have a fairy godmother?” He reflected on his own words and gave a bark of laughter. “A fairy godmother!”

  “More or less.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “For goodness’ sake, speak plainly. I’ve no patience for your word-spinning tonight.”

  Wyn gave an ironic bow. “Very well, I will clarify: when I said I was speaking to my godparent, I meant exactly that. My godparent is a natural shapeshifter, not limited to a single ‘true’ form. Nor,” he added, when Jack looked no more enlightened than before, “a single ‘true’ gender. So ‘godmother’ is not entirely accurate.” That wasn’t the whole reason, but if Wyn attempted to set out the full nuances of fae culture on the issue, they would be here all night.

  “Oh,” said Jack. Then, to Wyn’s surprise, he added, “like your High King, then.”

  “Ah, not quite.” Wyn had told Jack about the High King several years ago, on a night when the pair of them had been unusually inebriated on sloe gin. Jack had made a disparaging remark about the Southern monarchy and then, in a fit of abnormal curiosity, asked, “I don’t suppose there’s a fairy king, then? Or queen.” Not wishing to explain his own relationship to royalty, Wyn had told Jack about the High King while he grinned with drunken affability. He hadn’t expected Jack to remember.

  At Jack’s flat look, Wyn gave a faint smile. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m not intentionally trying to exasperate you. Although it seems I exasperate you very well without trying—stormwinds know where we might end up if I was deliberately attempting to thwart you! The High King is a shapeshifter, yes, and also not limited to a single gender or form. But he generally prefers to assume either a male or female gender and remain as such for long periods of time.” And occasionally others, he didn’t add. “At present, he is the High King, and has been for at least two decades, in mortal time. Before that he was the High Queen for approximately half a millennium.”

  “But how—” Jack looked torn between disgust and fascination, then abruptly remembered he was supposed to be interrogating Wyn. He shifted irritably. “Damme if I know how you do it, but you always seem to slide away from the subject at hand! Why were you talking to your godparent, regardless of sex? And how did they get into Stariel? I’ll wager you had a hand in that.”

  “I was seeking information about the current state of the fae courts. There is something going on, though I seem only able to catch the edges of it.”

  Jack straightened, and Shadow responded to the alarm in her master’s stance by rising and going to butt her head against his knees. “They can’t attack us here, though, can they?”

  “No, but consider how many of your kin do not usually reside within Stariel’s bounds. Or how often you are not within them yourself. Stariel is not the world.”

  Jack ruminated on this, fondling Shadow’s ears. “It’s about you,” he said slowly. “The fae want you.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Jack shook his head. “How is this good for Stariel, Wyn? Or for Hetta? What about your oath to protect the estate?” He huffed. “Not that it’s not a relief to know you can be selfish, but did it have to be this?” He sounded more exasperated than angry as he answered his own question. “Of course it did. You never do things the simple way, do you?” He wrinkled his nose. “But really—Hetta?”

  “Are you questioning my taste?”

  “Your sanity, morelike.”

  “I had heard that proper mortal etiquette was to sing your female relatives’ praises and then threaten to skewer potential suitors, rather than to suggest said relatives are not worthy of courting,” Wyn pointed out, amused.

  “Aye,” Jack agreed, his lips curving despite himself. “Consider yourself threatened then.” He sobered, crossing his arms and settling his weight back against the wall. “Normally I’d say it’s your own business, but…blimey, Wyn. It’s an unequal match. You must see that?”

  Wyn tilted his head. “Unequal for which of us?”

  “Both,” said Jack. “I mean, how does this end? You can’t marry her, and you can’t not marry her once the news gets out. And it will.”

  “Why must I marry her? Why can’t I marry her?” Wyn said, deliberately obtuse. They could argue over the mortal reasons for ‘must’, but Wyn alone knew the reason why he couldn’t, curse the ties that bound him. What were Jack’s reasons? Did the prospect of scandal and the fact that Wyn was fae matter to him so much? Or did he too fear that any connection to Wyn would only endanger Hetta?

  But Jack didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he surveyed Wyn through narrowed eyes. “Because I’ll bloody well shoot you, otherwise.”

  Wyn laughed, taken by surprise.

  “I mean it, Wyn. End it. The sooner the better. Or you’ll break her heart when you leave. Don’t tell me you want that.”

  Wyn froze, feeling a desperate longing to be high above the Indigoes again, with the world made small and simple below. “What makes you think I plan to leave? Stariel is more home to me than anywhere else in
the world.”

  “You’d be that selfish, then? Bring fairy politics and monsters down on all of us? See Hetta suffer the scandal of being seduced by a servant—you know that’s what they’ll say. Or try and pretend to be human for her sake?”

  A little riled, Wyn retorted, “I have pretended well enough, for ten years. Besides, humanity is relative. You know that the Valstar line already lays claim to fae blood through your original forbear. Tell me, how human do you feel?”

  “More human than you,” Jack said, eyes flashing.

  Abruptly, Wyn regretted his temper and attempts to needle Jack. They were only thinly disguised ways to direct his own guilt outwards, and Jack didn’t deserve them for trying to protect his cousin and family. Wyn raised his hands in submission. “I’m sorry—I should not have spoken so. It is only that I am…somewhat sensitive about the topic.”

  Jack glared at him. “That’s exactly what I most dislike about you, Wyn. You can never just have a proper row, can you? Sometimes what you need is a good row.”

  “If my affability offends you, I am sure one or other of your relatives will be happy to oblige you with an argument on any number of topics.”

  “Affable, my ass. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve made no promises to break things off with Hetta.”

  Wyn was silent.