They were shown into the bank manager’s office only ten minutes after arriving, which Hetta took as a good sign. When she’d lived and worked in the great Southern city of Meridon, she hadn’t even been able to open a bank account in her own name, even after waiting on the bank’s leisure for a lot longer than a mere ten minutes. Lord Henrietta Valstar evidently held more clout with such institutions than Hetta the no-name illusionist.
The bank manager, Mr Thompson, rose from his desk to greet them. He was a short, stout man with spectacles, perhaps fifty years of age. Mr Thompson knew well how the estate’s accounts stood, for he’d been instrumental in discovering the previous steward’s skimming. Wyn and Hetta had built a painstaking case for a loan since he’d last met with Hetta.
Mr Thompson addressed his remarks chiefly to Wyn, who gently deflected them back to Hetta. There was no malice in him, but it didn’t make his paternal attitude any less irritating.
After the pleasantries were done, Mr Thompson did finally address himself to her first rather than last, cocking his head to say, “I am pleased that you’ve been able to fill the steward’s position so quickly after that rather unfortunate business when last we met. However, I wonder if you will allow me to satisfy myself as to Mr Tempest’s experience, since Gridwell’s needs to assure itself that Stariel’s finances are in competent hands?” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Of course,” Hetta said. “That is why he’s here with me today.”
Mr Thompson hesitated. “I should like to talk with Mr Tempest alone.”
Anger flared, but she wanted this interview to go well. Stariel was in dire straits, financially, thanks to the efforts of the previous steward.
Wyn gave a minute nod. He would back her whatever she chose, but he thought she ought to let Mr Thompson have his way. She thought of Wyn’s warming spells on the cottages, and of the elektric streetlights of Alverness. She could sacrifice a little pride if it meant securing a loan for Stariel’s future, she told herself sternly, even if it made her want to do something childish like set Mr Thompson’s in-tray on fire.
“Very well,” Hetta said crisply. This was just one compromise, not surrender. Once they’d secured this loan, well, she would show Mr Thompson exactly how unwarranted his prejudice was. She’d dashed well make Stariel thrive under her management. In a minute or two she’d be able to remember all the nobler, more altruistic reasons for wanting this, but right now the most important one was so she could have the petty satisfaction of waving her success in Mr Thompson’s face.
Mr Thompson nodded, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that she might not agree with his high-handedness. “There is a very fine tea room opposite the bank, if you do not care to wait in the reception room downstairs, where you are most welcome, of course.”
Hetta had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him what she thought of being so dismissed. “I shall return in half an hour then.”
Mr Thompson’s expression told her that he would’ve liked to send her away for longer, but she ignored it, giving Wyn a fierce look on her way out. She just hoped he knew what he was doing.
Hetta ignored the tea room and chose instead to wait in the pub around the corner, purchasing a broadsheet from a newspaperboy before she did so. The pub was of the traditional sort found in every village, all low ceilings, dark wood, and gleaming taps, the smell of smoke and ale impressed into the walls. In Meridon, cocktail bars and dance halls were in fashion. While Hetta heartily endorsed the trend towards lighter, airier spaces playing modern music and serving delightful fruity drinks, there was something reassuring about a pub of this sort, which probably looked exactly the same now as it had five hundred years ago.
Warm air washed over her as she entered, and Hetta loosened her scarf with relief. The taproom was well lit with the new elektric lights. We must get those installed in the village, Hetta thought fiercely, feeling a bit better about giving in to the bank manager’s request. If all went to plan, by next winter Stariel would have them too.
Hetta was quickly ushered through to the lounge bar, where cheerful orange flames danced in the fireplace. She chose a seat at a table nearest the warmth, pulling off her gloves as she sat and asking for mulled wine. She stared blankly at her bare hands, her mind still back in the bank manager’s office. It was difficult not to think about the fact that Wyn could compel people if he wanted, though she wasn’t truly worried he’d give in to the temptation to do so, not when he was so uneasy with that side of his magic.
Unless she asked him to.
The thought drew her up short. Would he compel the bank manager, if she asked, if mundane logic failed? This would arguably be for the greater good. But she’d always be able to argue that now, as Stariel’s lord, wouldn’t she? If she started justifying things for that reason, where would she stop?
With a wisp of regret, Hetta let go of the idea. Deep down, she knew it had only ever been an idle fantasy anyway. Quite aside from the slippery slope it represented, she remembered what had happened with John Tidwell. Compulsion had stopped the immediate harm he’d intended—blackmail—but had also driven him to act in anger, injuring Hetta’s younger half-sister Alexandra in the resulting accident. Besides, relying on ethically questionable fae magic probably wasn’t a good way to begin her lordship, she told herself sternly.
The barmaid arrived to put down an earthen mug brimming with spiced red liquid, startling Hetta from her musings.
“There y’are, miss,” she said. “Just the ticket for a day like today. You can feel the snow coming. Maybe we’ll have a white Wintersol!”
“Maybe, though I hope it will hold off for today!” Hetta said, not correcting the girl’s address. It woke the same familiar-and-yet-not feeling Wyn did. He wasn’t all that had changed since her lordship. “Thank you.”
She wrapped her hands around the mug and brooded into the flames. Without thinking, she reached out with her land-sense, and mentally stumbled when only the tiniest ping of acknowledgement came in response. It felt like trying to catch something with numb hands.
On the one hand, lately there had been moments when she hadn’t been sure if her own emotions were mere reflections of Stariel, and it was reassuring to know for sure that here and now her thoughts were entirely her own; on the other, well, she’d grown used to the convenience of exerting her will and receiving instant information.
She spread her newspaper on the table, seeking distraction. Its pages were full of politics, gossip, and local affairs, mostly centred on Greymark, the largest Northern city. Alverness got a few lesser mentions, but more, she saw with amusement, than Meridon, Prydein’s capital, even though it dwarfed both Northern cities by an order of magnitude. North and South had been united under one crown for three hundred years, but one could be forgiven for thinking it had been only a few days.
Hetta had never paid much attention to politics, Northern or otherwise, but one article about the disagreement between the Lords Conclave and the Greymark Worker’s Union gave her pause. Stariel was the oldest and one of the larger estates in the North. Although its wealth had dwindled, the idea of Stariel—isolated, traditional, riddled with folklore—still held a certain amount of sway in the common psyche that probably had political capital, if Hetta wanted it to.
Her father had kept himself apart from politics, rarely attending the Northern Lords Conclave and casting his vote by proxy if at all. It had made it easy to forget that her responsibilities extended beyond just Stariel. But…perhaps there might also lie the answer to her increasing number of questions about her lordship. The gods knew very few people outside of Stariel realised quite how magical the estate was; could there be similar isolated estates whose rulers Hetta could ask for advice? Wyn might know if there were more human faelands, and perhaps Marius would have an idea of any relevant folklore about other estates. She made a mental note to ask them both, and to check when the Conclave was due to meet next. She had a funny feeling they needed to ratify her membership or some
such bureaucratic nonsense.
“Lord Valstar!” a deep male voice enthused from behind her. Before she could do more than glance up in surprise, the speaker had pulled out the chair opposite and seated himself across from her. He held a wine glass lazily in one hand. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
She stared at him. He was familiar and yet she couldn’t recall his name nor where she knew him from. But how could she have forgotten someone like him? For he was extremely good-looking, with rich brown skin, knife-sharp cheekbones, and a strong jawline. He wore his long dark hair tied back, the colour glinting with warmer, almost metallic tones in the firelight. She’d given both heroes and villains his sort of face and manner at the theatre—roguish heroes, and villains of the kind people secretly swooned over even as they condemned them. But it was his eyes that struck her most; vividly, unbearably green and filled with keen intelligence. She would have remembered those eyes, but they sparked no recollection. Why, then, did she have the sense that she’d met him before?
“Forgive me,” she said, “for though you seem familiar, I cannot recall your name.”
He laughed. He had a decadent laugh, dark and sinful as chocolate. It was the sort of laugh that made one feel both effortlessly witty and anxious to continue being so, just for the chance to hear it again. It struck another chord of familiarity and yet, again, she was certain it was the first time she’d ever heard it.
“It would be extraordinary if you did, since we have not met before, Lord Valstar.” The green of his eyes brightened. “I will try not to be insulted by your sense that you have met me before, for I know where that must come from.”
“Do you?” said Hetta, mystified. “Please do share this insight, for I’m quite at sea. You seem to know who I am. Will you introduce yourself?”
“No, I think not,” he said decisively, putting his wine glass down. “Not yet. He will be able to tell you well enough, and I don’t care to air my name about for those who might be listening at present.” He leaned back in his seat, an air of ‘your move’ about him.
His expression didn’t betray much as his gaze flicked over her. In another man, the assessment might have been sexual, but this one felt like he was toting her up, calculations turning behind those green, green eyes.
Hetta raised an eyebrow at him. She knew he was expecting her to demand answers but saw no reason to gratify him. Instead she completed her own assessment: almost unnaturally good-looking, expensive tailored dress, an air of command, extremely arrogant, oddly familiar, and reluctant to speak his name aloud.
A fae.
On the heels of that insight came another, and she wondered that she’d failed to see the resemblance until now. She mentally filled the space behind him with vast feathered wings, unable to help speculating what he looked like in his true form.
Her heart pounded, but she took a calm sip of her mulled wine and willed herself to convey only polite interest. If Wyn could do it, then so could she.
“There’s a strong family resemblance, Your Highness—is that the correct address?” she said, proud of how steady her voice was. She’d intended to startle him, and serve him right for being so deliberately obtuse, but he merely gave a slow, satisfied smile.
He inclined his head regally. “It is, Lord Valstar.”
Would he know if she reached for her pyromancy? Wyn had a sixth sense for magic, and she wasn’t sure how far that fae ability extended. She was keenly aware that her last encounter with Wyn’s court had involved a winged monster trying to eat her and Jack. If only she stood on Stariel’s lands!
Wyn! If his brother—he had to be one of Wyn’s brothers—was here, what did that mean for Wyn? He had five older siblings, he’d told her, but she knew nothing else about them. Except that they were definitely not one big happy family. Was this a diversion while the others attacked?
The man’s smile widened, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. Abruptly she was done with her pretence of calm, done with this game.
She stood, her chair thudding back. “I have no patience for cryptic. Explain yourself or I’m leaving.”
The man didn’t react to her sudden show of temper. He took another sip of his wine and viewed her through half-lidded eyes. “You should not be so hasty, Lord Valstar, for I’m about to offer you something.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a stoppered vial with a flourish. Whatever it contained was impossible to see through the elaborate worked metal of the container.
“Where I come from,” he said, “there are places known as darksinks.” He twirled the vial thoughtfully as Hetta wondered why in the nine heavens he was giving her an impromptu lesson on Faerie geography. “Unpleasant places, darksinks, and nearly infinite in their variety. In one such location there lives a type of creature known as a lug-imp. It has a painful and poisonous bite that is deadly to those who have broken oaths.”
Wyn. Wyn, who the fae Gwendelfear had called oathbreaker with venomous repetition.
“Ah,” he said as Hetta scrabbled at the table for balance, dizzy with sudden fear. “I see you know someone who meets this description.” His smile turned wolfish. “Yes, lug-imps are a singularly foolish choice for the Mortal Realm, where promises are made and broken with distressing regularity, but”—and here he shrugged, the gesture eerily similar to Wyn’s when he was pretending something didn’t matter— “one does not always get one’s way.”
She had to find Wyn. She drew fire into her veins until it crawled under her skin, straining for release. Usually Stariel gave her own natural abilities a boost, but the trickle from the land was thin and sluggish at this distance. It would have to be enough.
She turned away, but the fae stopped her with a hand on her forearm, strong as iron. She hadn’t seen him move.
“I said I had something to offer you, Lord Valstar.” He relaxed his grip on her arm and tilted the metal vial in his other hand, drawing her attention to it. “This is an antidote to the venom of the lug-imp, which you may need today.”
She couldn’t stop her instinctive movement towards it, but he’d pulled it out of reach before she’d done more than raise her arm from the table edge. No one in the pub reacted to their altercation, and Hetta felt a shiver of unease. Is he using just glamour, she wondered, or compulsion?
He tsked, settling his weight back in his chair. “You mistake me, Lord Valstar. I am no philanthropist, to give something for nothing.” He passed the vial from hand to hand with what Hetta considered quite unnecessary flourish.
“What do you want? Stop spinning this out like the villain in a bad melodrama and tell me, for Simulsen’s sake!” She had no patience for this game when deadly fae monsters might be attacking Wyn right now.
His eyes flashed, and his smile grew slightly edged. “And what if you do not like my price?” he asked.
“Then we’ll see if I can make you give it to me,” she said acidly. If he wouldn’t give her the vial… Wyn was at the bank, only a block distant. How long would it take to run there? Surely she would’ve heard some outcry if a tide of venomous monsters had already descended upon the building?
He relaxed suddenly, all charm and sunny smiles. “Ah, but I do not want you to do that, so I shall set my price low.” Hetta nearly stamped with impatience when he met her eyes. “A kiss: that is my price.”
“Fine,” she snapped, taking a brisk step closer. She would have leaned down, but he was suddenly standing and several feet away, laughing, his eyes glittering like poisoned emeralds. It was that chocolate-rich laugh again, warm and delighted, wrapping around her despite her irritation. Is this what Wyn meant by allure? she wondered.
“Oh, I can see why he likes you, Henrietta Isadore Valstar,” he said. And then, before she’d quite realised what was happening, he’d taken hold of one of her hands and brought it solemnly to his lips. He pressed a brief, chaste kiss there. “It is done.” And he held out the metal vial.
She snatched it from him in case this was all some bizarre trick, but he
made no move to stop her. She stared at him.
“Go,” he said gently, making a lazy shooing motion.
She turned and shoved her way out of the pub and into the cold afternoon, vial clutched in one fist. The gods save her from all melodramatic fae bar one.
11
Lug-imps
“Are you and Lord Valstar lovers?” Mr Thompson asked as soon as Hetta had left them alone in the office amidst black-and-white furnishings and rigidly ordered bookcases.
Wyn had to give the man credit for being so blunt. Particularly since he’d made sure to position a heavy desk between the two of them before insulting Wyn. And it was an insult. Prydinian culture had strong things to say about intimacy outside of marriage, particularly for women.
Where had Mr Thompson’s suspicions come from? They’d been evident in his demeanour since Wyn and Hetta arrived, which was part of why Wyn had acquiesced to his request to speak privately. But how had such gossip reached so far outside of Stariel when even there only the faintest murmurings were beginning? The back of his neck prickled. The whole thing smelled of fae intrigue, but how had they gotten this mortal involved? And for what purpose?
Wyn fixed Mr Thompson with a superior look, channelling an inner monologue to help convey the proper degree of frosty hauteur: You are not only a mortal but an ordinary one. I am a prince and my loyalties run deep. You dare to question my conduct?
“I am going to pretend you did not make that remark,” Wyn said, each word sharp as splintered obsidian. “And I suggest you do likewise. You may question my facility with accounts, my experience at management, or my commitment to ensuring Stariel’s prosperity, but I will not tolerate aspersions on my character or on Lord Valstar’s.”
The short man laced his fingers in front of him and leaned forward. He probably thought he was doing a good job of intimidation, but Wyn had been on the receiving end of stares from far more terrifying creatures than middle-aged bank managers.
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