The Prince of Secrets

by A J Lancaster

  Mr Thompson persisted. “You have been with the Valstars for nearly ten years, and you started as one of the under-servants, am I right in thinking?”

  “That is correct.” Interesting—Mr Thompson must have a strong basis for his suspicions, stronger than mere idle hearsay, to pursue them so doggedly.

  “And now you are steward—that’s a commendable rise in position in roughly a decade, wouldn’t you say?”

  Wyn chose to smile coldly. “Are you suggesting I was trading bed-favours with Lord Henry for all that time? For it was he who appointed me butler and then later house manager. Or did your rather impertinent question refer to the new rather than the old Lord Valstar?”

  Mr Thompson choked. “No, no, of course I wasn’t suggesting that.” His face crinkled in disgust, but he didn’t back down. “But you can’t deny your rise in status is decidedly odd. What was your background? Who recommended you for the position?”

  Wyn spread his hands. “Merit, and the difficulties of attracting experienced staff to such an isolated estate. I recommended myself, Mr Thompson. I realise that Mr Fisk’s performance has made you anxious to reassure yourself about the new holder of his office. But it seems to me that the simplest way to do this would be to let me take you through the estate’s current accounts and our future plans. The most immediate issue, you will see, is cashflow.” Wyn pulled the first ledger from the pile and opened it. “This is the tenancy records and expenses for the estate, both for the village proper and the tenant farmers. I am proposing to keep separate records in the future, as the nature of each is quite different and in the past issues have been obscured because of the conflation of the two. I have done some preliminary estimates of the most urgent works required in the village and how the outlay might be offset. As an initial venture, we are proposing to see to the most urgent repairs of the Dower House so that it might be leased out and thus provide a regular rental income. Here you can see our calculations…”

  He had judged correctly; Mr Thompson was a man who respected numbers and those who understood them. Suspicion still lurked beneath the surface, making him aggressively question every suggestion Wyn made, but Wyn hadn’t overstated his abilities. He was new to this role, but he had been managing the household accounts for years. He also conceded with grace where he was wrong, subtly flattering the older man’s experience. But he was not often wrong.

  “The per-metre rate for putting in the elektricity lines seems lower than I would expect,” Mr Thompson said.

  “It is. Lord Valstar spoke to the lines company, and they were willing to reduce the installation cost due to the large nature of the job and the fact that no trenching work will be required.”

  “Why not?” Mr Thompson asked, and then answered himself before Wyn could. “Lord Valstar’s land-sense.” The subject brought Mr Thompson’s suspicion back in full force, though Wyn still wasn’t sure why. Exactly what had he heard about Wyn and Hetta—and from whom? The bank manager narrowed his eyes. “One hears of such things, of course. It must have been strange for you, accustoming yourself to the peculiarities of Stariel Estate.”

  Wyn shrugged. “One grows accustomed.”

  There was a soft knock at the door, and a maid entered carrying a tea tray. From it wafted a pungent and instantly recognisable scent. Wyn only just managed to stop his instinctive jerk away, the smell burning in his nostrils.

  “Will you take tea, Mr Tempest?” The eyes of the maid were guileless, but Mr Thompson’s held a thread of anticipation. He leaned forward, watching Wyn closely for a reaction.

  “Thank you, we will,” Mr Thompson said quickly. “Both of us.” The maid poured them both cups, set one down in front of each of them, carried the tray over to the side table, and left without further ado.

  Wyn eyed the liquid and thought furiously. Mr Thompson was a great deal more than merely suspicious of Wyn’s motives. Wyn needed to act quickly to reassure the man, so he picked up the delicate china cup without hesitation and faked a sip. The bitter smell jangled unpleasantly, sending a wave of disorientation through him, and he put the cup down with a clatter and a moue of disgust. He misjudged the act slightly, and a splash of hot liquid spilled into the saucer.

  “What kind of tea is this?” he demanded. Did Mr Thompson really think he could serve yarrow tea without comment? Any normal mortal would notice the strong taste. The tea might have made a lesser fae drop their glamour to reveal their true form, but Wyn was no such thing.

  “Yarrow,” Mr Thompson said, disappointment making his mouth droop.

  “Well, I cannot say I care much for it,” Wyn said firmly, pushing his cup aside. He repressed the urge to stride to the window, lift the frame, and hurl the entire tea tray out. The smell scratched against his eardrums. Yarrow wasn’t like iron—it didn’t negate fae magic so much as interfere with Wyn’s sense of the world.

  I can do this, he told himself. He could sit here with the stench of yarrow reverberating through his skull and argue over interest rates. His thoughts moved strangely, billowing like fog as he tried to concentrate. The yarrow meant something…Mr Thompson had deliberately served it to Wyn.

  Which meant he suspected what Wyn was. Which meant…someone had told him? Or had he simply guessed? There were people in the North who still held to old superstitions, even though the High King had only very recently lifted the Iron Law. The same High King who had told ThousandSpire and DuskRose to marry their children and cement peace. Focus! The High King was not important right now. Interest rates!

  No, wait…not interest rates. Yarrow! Why had Mr Thompson served him yarrow tea? Concentrate!

  Mr Thompson was speaking seriously of percentages now, Wyn having passed his little test. Wyn latched on to the numbers with grim determination. It was easier to calculate cumulative interest at three-and-a-half percent over five years than it was to pull himself through the chain of logic necessary to deduce Mr Thompson’s motives. He could do that later, away from the yarrow’s mind-fog.

  Wait—something snagged at his him, and he unconsciously reached for his leysight, trying to draw meaning from currents garbled by the yarrow. The plant must have been plucked at high noon at midsummer, to have this much potency. But even through the disorientation, something made his feathers stiffen—wait, he didn’t have feathers currently. Did he? It would be so much easier to think in his native form.

  No, he mustn’t change forms. That would be a terrible idea: Mr Thompson would definitely know he was fae then. He stifled a giggle. But underneath the influence of the yarrow, deeper instinct struggled to communicate, like a flare sent up amidst vast, roiling stormclouds. He found himself staring at the great ornate mirror frame above the sideboard. Swirls of gilded leaves and roses were worked into the design. Was it important? His reflection showed eyes slightly more vibrant in colour than they should have been—fae bleeding through.

  Roses…Mr Thompson broke off in mid-sentence as Wyn stood, strode to the window, and pushed up the sash. Great quantities of cold, clean air sucked inwards and, more importantly, great quantities of yarrow-tainted air sucked out.

  He could finally taste what the yarrow had been masking. Aroset’s magic—crushed rose petals and copper amidst the storm-scent that was common to all his father’s line—seeping into the room through the mirror-frame. That was all the warning he got before the mirror’s surface rippled.

  “Get down!” he yelled at Mr Thompson as the portal opened. The short man had begun to rise in protest, but at this he froze, mouth falling open in surprise to be so shouted at.

  The other side of the portal was dark, but Wyn still couldn’t quite believe where it connected to until the first lug-imp came lumbering through on too-small wings. Surely even Aroset wouldn’t connect a darksink directly to the Mortal Realm? But there was no denying the smell of her magic nor the species of darkfae coming through the portal.

  If an insect and a toad had a grotesque terrier-sized child, that child would be a lug-imp. Their bodies were ovoid, head joi
ned to body without any discernible narrowing at the neck. The first through the portal gaped wide jaws as it caught Wyn’s scent, showing a mouth over-stuffed with razor teeth. Its tiny wings had to beat so fast to keep it aloft that each individual flap blurred into a thrum.

  It made a beeline for Wyn. Of course. It would have to be lug-imps, wouldn’t it?

  “Avanti!” Wyn cried. The air thickened obediently, and the lug-imp’s rush slowed as its wings met resistance. It was only partially effective, as the lug-imp quickly compensated and began to push forward again, like a swimmer through jelly.

  Mr Thompson stood at the end of the room furthest from the door. The ornate mirror hung halfway along the wall opposite Wyn by the window. With the lug-imp’s path temporarily slowed, Wyn could try to dart around it towards the door to escape, but that would leave the bank manager alone with a swarm of darkfae. Had Mr Thompson broken any promises?

  Three more lug-imps wriggled out of the portal, snuffling as they came through. Two eagerly followed their compatriot towards Wyn, but the third picked up a different scent and made straight for Mr Thompson, its eyes burning a bright and sickening yellow. Well, that answered that question.

  Wyn lunged towards the bank manager, who was reaching for the tea tray. Mr Thompson triumphantly hoisted the teapot, removed its lid, and awkwardly threw the contents at the lug-imp. The lug-imp simply diverted its flight path away from the spray of liquid and, quick as a hornet, rushed at Mr Thompson’s legs.

  Mr Thompson cried out, and Wyn dove, tearing the lug-imp away, his heart pounding. Had it broken skin? Would its venom have the same effect on a mortal as a fae?

  The lug-imp writhed in his hands, its skin reptilian and moist, and tried to sink its teeth into Wyn as well. Wyn drew back his arm and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a sickening crunch, knocking accounts books from the shelves. Slowly, it got to its stumpy feet, its wings hanging at a broken angle. It growled and began to lurch towards him, teeth snapping angrily.

  The injured lug-imp was the least of his worries. More were pouring from the portal every second, the thrum of their stunted wings loud as a kicked beehive. How long could Aroset hold the portal open for? Wyn released another surge of air magic, sending a trio of darkfae crashing into the windows, shattering the glass and tumbling one out into the afternoon. Drat. There would be mortals out there—mortals who made and broke promises without a second thought.

  And Hetta. She would be out there too.

  Working magic in his mortal form was clumsy, and he was out of practice with storm magic besides, but he grit his teeth and grasped after the stray lug-imp with fingers of air, sweeping it back inside the room. The distraction cost him—another lug-imp took the opportunity to swarm across the floor, underneath his thickened air shield, and sank its fangs into his calf.

  Pain lanced from the bite, bright as fire. He tried to tear the lug-imp off but couldn’t get a grip on its slippery skin. Its fangs sank deeper, and the pain ratcheted up a notch, a knife twisting in his leg. Whirling, he took up one of the heavy accounts books and knocked the lug-imp loose.

  He stumbled backwards to lean against the bookshelves, leg threatening to crumple. Mr Thompson was in worse straits. The bank manager had lost his footing at some point and sat, panting, with his back against the desk, white face pulled in a rictus of silent agony. Evidently lug-imp venom did affect mortals.

  “Dammit!” Any strong emotion could fuel elemental magic, temporarily at least, so Wyn balled up his pain and shoved it into his spell, the winds singing in response. He needed to close the portal. To do that, he needed to get past the swarm of angry lug-imps, held at bay only by the wind he had summoned, and increasing in number by the second.

  Dare he summon lightning? The thought of frying the swarm in front of him was grimly satisfying. But it was too great a risk. Lightning was difficult to handle at the best of times, and he was out of practice and in his mortal form besides. He would likely electrocute the swarm, himself, and anyone else in the building.

  Mr Thompson was the first problem. The bank manager curled forward over his injury, practically insensate. How fast would the poison act? Wyn made his way to the other side of the desk, fending off lug-imps with a combination of gusts of wind and a heavy accounts book. The desk was a sturdy piece, difficult to move even with inhuman strength, and the action left him briefly unable to defend himself. He kept the air currents shifting, but the lug-imps were surprisingly able fliers, and another starburst of agony radiated out from his shoulder as one managed to get close enough to bite. He shoved the desk against the wall, trapping Mr Thompson underneath it in a wooden cage that would hopefully protect him from further injury, and turned. The lug-imp at his shoulder clamped tight, and he had to use both hands to wrench it free. Ligaments snapped as he forced its jaws apart, and it released with a high-pitched screech of pain, its lower jaw hanging unnaturally loose.

  The pain was incredible, the venom pumping through his system with every heartbeat. He took the pain and diverted it once again into his magic, filling the office with an angry whirlwind. The light-fitting swung in dizzying circles, shadows dancing in its path. Lug-imps thumped against bookshelves and into the ceiling, only to get up and throw themselves towards him again. Little warning fires lit behind his eyes—he couldn’t keep channelling the pain into his magic forever, not without consequence.

  Wyn limped through the whirling air currents towards the portal, where the squat bodies of more lug-imps were still emerging. The frame’s ornate design dug into his hands as he grasped hold of it and yanked. It resisted with more strength than the simple nail it hung from should have possessed, but he persisted, even when a lug-imp’s muzzle came through right by his arm and latched on to his forearm, its teeth digging deep into the muscle until he feared they’d reached bone. His magic shook with the effort of repurposing the pain.

  With a cry of triumph, he pulled the frame free of the wall and brought it down hard on the floor, stomping his heel into it for extra measure. The glass broke, taking the connection with it. It wasn’t the most elegant way to dismantle a portal, but it sufficed.

  He tried to shake the lug-imp off, but it just clamped harder, refusing to surrender its prize. He hammered it against the wall where the mirror had lately hung, but he could feel his strength ebbing away as the venom reacted with his blood, draining power.

  Black spots appeared on the edges of his vision as he kept dashing the cursed lug-imp against the wall, struggling to simultaneously keep his air shield up, the winds shifting. At least no more lug-imps would be coming now the portal was deactivated. That left only twenty of the things, all straining to reach him through the tempest, yellow eyes bulging. Only twenty. He could do this, though he was already shaking with the effort it took to keep them all from coming at him at once. With a crunch, he at last managed to make the lug-imp on his forearm release its jaws, but it was only temporarily dazed and quickly rose, flinging itself into the air and attempting to take another chunk out of him. He dodged, reflexes slower than they ought to be.

  There was only one choice, really, so he took it, shedding his mortal form between one breath and the next. Wings unfurled, forcing their way through his shirt, the fabric ripping as feather and bone extended. Everything became sharper and more confusing at the same time, as new senses flared to life and were bombarded by the cacophony of magics in the room. The energy that he had struggled to channel in his mortal form suddenly flowed properly, like a leaking bottle abruptly coming unstopped.

  Unfortunately, the pain was also fiercer in his native form. He snarled at the horde of lug-imps in the vague hope it might intimidate them. It didn’t.

  His blood sizzled with the venom, making him fully aware of how unstable a mixture it was. But it was easier to twist the pain into magic, into the flows of air, which was fortunate, since his wings made him a much larger target for the lug-imps. He snapped back his primaries just in time to avoid a lug-imp colliding with the outer arch of his wings.
Whirling, he let storm magic wash over his feathers and out, gusting the lug-imp off course.

  This was when Hetta arrived.

  The door slammed open and she stood there, expression determined rather than surprised, still wearing her hat and scarf, the coffee and frozen pine of her magic eddying around her.

  “Cover your eyes!” she cried.

  He shut his eyes and flung up his arms, both anticipating what she was about to do and wondering how she’d guessed that lug-imps were particularly sensitive to light. But she was, after all, a master illusionist, weaver of light. Perhaps it was simply an obvious tactic for her regardless.

  Even with his hands covering his face, white seeped through the cracks between his fingers, leaving after-echoes on the insides of his eyelids. The lug-imps shrieked in sudden pain. When the light faded, he opened his eyes to find them disoriented in their blindness, blundering into the furniture and glancing off the walls.

  He met Hetta’s eyes. Rage burned in them, rage driven by terror. When she summoned fire, it wasn’t fed by Stariel but by that rage. Pyromancy was elemental magic, could be fuelled by emotions in a way most human magic couldn’t. It came from Hetta’s long-distant fae ancestor; he should probably tell her that at some later point, when they were not in the middle of a fight, when the world didn’t quiver so badly.

  Together, they dealt with the remaining lug-imps. Hetta’s fireballs made a cleaner death than Wyn’s systematic crushing, and he wished briefly for his sword, though it had been years since he’d held it.

  Wyn stared down at the last lug-imp under his feet, realising dully that it was done; the lug-imps were all dead. Round brown bodies and charred bones littered the room like grotesque fallen leaves. He let the winds die. The pain, diverted for so long, screamed back with a vengeance, and at once he was aware of every bite and scratch, of the venom churning violently in his blood as it pumped its way through his veins.