Then Hetta was at his side, feverishly touching the wounds on his arm and shoulder. She was trembling, and he allowed himself to put his arms around her, burying his nose in her hair. Safe. She was safe.
She pulled away. “They bit you!” Her voice was higher than usual. “I have the antidote!” She was pulling a vial from her coat pocket as she spoke. The already tangled threads of fae machinations multiplied. “Your brother,” she said as he swayed with pain and confusion, trying to make this new piece of puzzle fit. “He came to the pub I was in and said he had the antidote to the venom of those things. Take it!”
Wyn pulled himself together. “No, I don’t need it. But Mr Thompson will.” He stumbled to the desk, spikes of agony shooting up his leg. “He’s under the desk,” he explained.
“But they bit you—and he said their venom was deadly to oathbreakers.” The vial was clutched tightly in her fist, her gaze riveted on the blood dripping down his arm, drenching the tattered remains of his shirt.
The desk was heavier than it had been before, and in the end he had to shuffle it away from the wall inch by inch. “I have my own antidote,” he said. “But I dare not use mine on Mr Thompson unless there is no other choice.”
He bent and dragged the bank manager from under the desk, propping him against the wall. He was semi-conscious, but the movement roused him, and he stared at Wyn with puzzlement that slowly changed to fear as he processed what he was seeing.
“Fairy!” he rasped, struggling away.
Wyn turned back to Hetta. “What did my brother say about the antidote? His exact words.”
“That it was the antidote to the venom of the lug-imp,” Hetta recited.
Wyn held out his hand for the vial, and Hetta relinquished it with reluctance.
“You’re sure?” Her eyes were dark with worry.
“I am sure.” He caught Mr Thompson’s face and forced open his mouth. The bank manager protested feebly. Wyn ignored him, tipping the entire contents of the vial into his mouth and then holding his lips closed until he swallowed. Mr Thompson shuddered, and then the tension went out of him all at once as he slumped into unconsciousness.
“Is that supposed to happen?” Hetta brushed past his wings to kneel beside him. Wyn slid the bank manager into a more comfortable position on his side.
“I don’t know how badly lug-imp poison affects mortals,” Wyn admitted. “The antidote will have neutralised it, but his body will still need to heal. It was probably only the pain keeping him conscious.”
“Why are you still in pain, then, if you’ve taken the antidote?” Hetta picked at his sleeve where blood dripped from his forearm. “We need to get this cleaned and bandaged.” Her expression grew thoughtful as she took in the jumbled disorder of the room, the smashed window, the broken and scorched bodies of lug-imps, and Wyn’s feathered appearance. “This is going to be somewhat difficult to explain.”
12
Glamour & Illusion
Running footsteps gave them a split-second’s warning before the door burst open, revealing the same maid who had so recently served Wyn and Mr Thompson tea. Both he and Hetta reacted instinctively, and so Wyn wasn’t sure whether it was his glamour or Hetta’s illusion that kept the maid from seeing his true form. He met Hetta’s eyes, a sliver of wry amusement at the shared impulse passing between them. Perhaps it was for the best that both had been cast, since his glamour was a sketchy effort, and he knew illusion took time to craft well. But the combination held, or possibly the wider scene of destruction proved sufficiently distracting.
“Merciful Mother Eostre!” the maid exclaimed, hands briefly covering her mouth in horror. Her wide eyes took in the remains of the lug-imps, the ruined mirror, the strewn books, the curtains billowing in the freezing air from the smashed window, and finally came to rest on Mr Thompson’s slumped form. “Mr Thompson!”
“Madam!” Wyn said firmly when it seemed the maid might go into hysterics. He didn’t dare stand in case it disrupted Hetta’s illusion. But he got the maid’s attention. “As you can see, Mr Thompson requires medical attention. Please go and send for the doctor at once.”
“But what happened? What are…” She pointed to one of the crushed lug-imps, which was oozing yellowish blood into the carpet.
Hetta stood, briskly brushing lint off her skirt as she did so. “Bad fairies, obviously. A surprise, I know—one so rarely sees them outside of tales. But it’s not important right now; what’s important is that Mr Thompson urgently needs a doctor.”
“Fairies,” The maid repeated faintly. Her gaze flew to Wyn, seeking some alternative explanation, but he merely nodded. “Oh, you’re bleeding too, sir.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Hetta said. “The doctor?” Her commanding manner seemed to reassure the maid, who took a deep breath.
“I’ll be back right quick, Lord Valstar,” she said, nodding and disappearing back out the door.
Hetta sagged in relief and let the illusion drop. Wyn rose. He had to lean against the wall to do so, leg protesting against taking his weight. Every muscle screamed as the shift in position washed fresh venom through his system.
“I can see through your glamour,” she said with some surprise, tilting her head.
“It would make sense,” he said, seizing gratefully on the distraction from the dizzying effects of the venom. “Faelands give strange and unpredictable gifts to their rulers, but they’re often related to the person’s base magic.” And Hetta had been a master illusionist before she became lord. “You call people’s innate ability to see through illusion the Sight—we call it the same for those who can see through glamour. Stariel may have gifted you both types of Sight now. You could check.” Human mages learned to use magesight in order to see the weaves of their own—and others’—magic, but unlike the Sight, it was an active rather than passive ability.
Hetta frowned, and he knew she was releasing her grip on her magesight. She blinked. “You’re right. Hmm.” Her gaze grew intent, and he felt her re-weaving the illusion around him. Human illusion and fae glamour might achieve the same effects, but they used different means. Illusion meant shifting light; glamour had no physical basis and relied on twisting a person’s perceptions. Humans without the Sight could use specially made glasses to see through illusion, if desired, but such devices were useless on fae glamour.
“Sit on the desk,” she told him. “I’m going to find some water and bandages.”
He sat, too tired to argue, feathers brushing the desk. It made him oddly uneasy to feel the heavy presence of his wings but not to be able to see them out of the corners of his eyes. If he moved them too quickly, he could see ripples in the air, showing glimpses of silver as Hetta’s illusion warped. He could not see his own horns, of course, but he assumed they would create similar distortions if he turned his head too quickly.
Mr Thompson’s breathing was definitely easier, and his colour looked better. He appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be deeply asleep. That was something, at least. Though it may now be slightly more difficult to convince him that I’m a trustworthy steward.
The ornate mirror frame lay in a pool of fractured glass. Wyn eased himself off the desk with a wince and went to it. Lifting it a fraction, he breathed in the copper, old-fashioned roses, and storms that made up Aroset’s signature. His sister had made no attempt to mask her magic.
However, the smell of Aroset’s magic was stronger than it should’ve been with the portal broken. He followed it, creeping his fingers along the edge of the frame until they snagged over something that shouldn’t have been there. A single crimson rose petal mocked him and helped explain how Aroset had been able to create a portal here. Portals were much easier in unclaimed lands, but there still had to be some kind of resonance between two places for them to work. No matter how hard a bargainer Mr Thompson was, Wyn didn’t think his office would resonate with a darksink. It was still a mark of Aroset’s power; none of his other siblings could have positioned a portal so perfectly
nor have held it open for so long, resonance-link or not.
He crumpled the rose petal in his fist and had just limped back to the desk when Hetta returned with a wave of excited and interested parties. He checked his impulse to take charge, for Hetta had things well in hand. Stariel chose true, he thought, a warm and complicated ache in his chest as he watched her.
In short order, Mr Thompson had been removed to a couch in another room to await the arrival of the doctor and Hetta had procured a basin of warm water and a pile of bandages and summarily dismissed everyone. Wyn sat quietly throughout. The temperature inside Mr Thompson’s office was now effectively the same as that outside, but he didn’t particularly feel it. Stormdancers had to be relatively immune to cold, to reach the high, freezing heights above the spires.
He rolled up his trouser leg without being asked and let Hetta fuss. She cleaned the wound matter-of-factly while he unbuttoned his ruined shirt and wrapped it around his forearm in a temporary bandage. Hetta’s gaze slipped up to his bare chest, and he felt an uncharacteristic urge to preen.
“Will these need stitches?” she asked, pulling her gaze back and dabbing carefully at his calf. The water stung.
“The one on my wrist might,” he admitted. His makeshift bandage was already stained crimson. “It’s the deepest, and the venom slows my normal healing rate. But I doubt we’ll find a needle not made of iron.”
She paused and bit her lip but didn’t press. Through the open window came the occasional sound of vehicles and the low chattering of people passing below.
He sighed and waited until she had wrapped his calf in a long white bandage and moved on to his shoulder. “You want to know about the antidote.” He had to lift his left wing slightly so she could reach the bite properly, and the intimacy made his heart stutter. Or perhaps it was merely blood loss.
“You said you had your own antidote already, but how did you know to bring it with you? What is it?” Hetta scowled at his shoulder.
“I didn’t,” he said. The puzzle pieces still didn’t fit. “My brother, the one you spoke with, can you describe him?”
Patience wasn’t one of Hetta’s particular virtues, and she let him see she wasn’t impressed with his evasiveness, but she answered nonetheless.
“Tall, long dark hair, your cheekbones.” Her lips curved. “Good-looking. Very green eyes.”
He stiffened, accidentally knocking the cloth out of Hetta’s hand. “Sorry,” he apologised, re-settling himself. A bubble of pained laughter forced its way out.
“Wyn?”
He couldn’t seem to stop now that he’d started, silently shaking with dark amusement.
“Wyn, if you don’t tell me what in Prydein is going on this second, I’ll—I’ll pluck your dashed feathers!”
“I’m sorry. It’s…” He tried to get his breath, but her wrathful expression set him off again.
She dropped the cloth and cupped his face in her hands, damp fingers warm against his skin. The touch centred him, stilling the threatening hysteria. “Wyn. Tell me,” she said gently.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you. It’s just—Rakken.”
“Rakken?” she asked, picking up the cloth and going back to her task.
“Rakken is who you met at the pub. Not the same person who sent the lug-imps.” He repressed another burble of mirthless laughter. “Though he must have had a hand in persuading Aroset to send them.” Oh, damn Rakken’s dark sense of humour. “He probably thinks this is all incredibly funny. Though, on the brighter side, at least one of my siblings doesn’t want me dead.”
“I’m afraid I don’t get the joke.”
“Lug-imp venom is deadly only to those who have broken their oaths. Aroset sent them as a message as well as a weapon of assassination.”
“Aroset?”
He’d never told her the names of his siblings. They felt simultaneously foreign and familiar on his tongue. “Aroset is second-oldest, the most powerful, and the most vicious. She is my father’s favourite. Rakken is third in line. He is…ambitious. Manipulative. Ruthless. Subtler than Aroset, who probably thinks that sending lug-imps to kill me is the height of sophisticated subtext.”
“I’m still not seeing any cause for hilarity,” Hetta said flatly.
“It’s…well, Aroset sent a creature she thought would be deadly to me, but she also sent one whose venom I specifically have an antidote at hand for. Which Aroset didn’t know, but Rakken at least suspected. Giving you that vial was both a back-up, in case he’d guessed wrongly, and him telling me that he set this entire thing up. Which means he thinks there’s some political advantage to be had from my being alive even though my father ordered me dead.” He pulled his feathers tight against his body and added in a low voice, “And he was testing to see how easily he could manipulate you through me.”
Hetta understood the implications of that immediately. “I’m not going to even pretend to be sorry for coming to your rescue.”
“What did you bargain for the antidote?”
She shrugged. “A kiss on the hand, as it turns out.”
He mutely held out his own hands, and she placed hers palm up in his. Lifting them, he could detect no malevolent magic, just the faintest trace of drenched citrus: Rakken’s signature. “It’s”—all right was wildly untrue—“probably a good sign. He must want to be on cordial terms with you, otherwise he wouldn’t have let you off so lightly.” And what did that mean, exactly, that Rakken thought he wanted credit in his ledger when it came to Hetta? Undoubtedly nothing good.
“You still haven’t told me what the antidote is.” She squeezed his hands in gentle rebuke.
He released her hands and gave a deep sigh. “The blood of a virgin,” he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Which I happen to have a plentiful supply of. And which my brother undoubtedly thinks is a hilarious thing for me to have to point out to you.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Oh,” said Hetta. Then, “Well, I did wonder if you might be.”
He turned to find her wringing out the cloth. “Dare I ask?” He repressed a wince as she reached for the deeper wound on his wrist.
“Honestly, Wyn, I’ve known you for years, and I’ve never seen you show particular interest in anyone in that way. Which you did say just this morning was deliberate.”
“Not anyone…just one person, actually.” Part of him shied from revealing that, the sheer depth of his vulnerability when it came to Hetta. Oh, she could hurt him so badly if she wished.
She looked up, eyes shining. “So your ‘condition’ is, in fact, my fault?” she teased.
“You assume I was referring to you? How do you know I have not been hiding a deep passion for your Aunt Sybil all these years?”
Her lips curled up at the corners. “Are you embarrassed? Your feathers are fluffing up.”
Had it really been so long since he’d taken this form that he’d lost his ability to conceal his physical tells? Thank the stormwinds it was Hetta who stood before him and not someone who would take advantage of the lapse. He forced his coverts flat and said lightly, “Well, I was worried you wouldn’t think it one of my more appealing traits. Fortunately, it’s a relatively easy condition to rid oneself of, or so I’ve been led to believe.”
Hetta laughed. “You’re still extremely appealing, rest assured.” She frowned down at his forearm, where red was seeping through the white crepe. “Though it would be significantly better if you weren’t bleeding everywhere. I can’t seem to get this to stop.”
Wyn wasn’t worried. “I’ve healed worse.”
He realised his mistake when she looked up, horror-struck.
“Yes, yes, I know: poor Wyn and his tragic upbringing. It’s not news, Hetta—it’s not even interesting. Please desist looking at me as if I were an abused puppy. It’s a blow to my already bruised ego. Think of how smoulderingly attractive you find me, rather. I am half-naked, after all.”
“Half-naked, half-hysterical with pain, and
bleeding,” she told him fiercely, and he knew he’d made her angry. Better anger than pity.
“Well, I am profusely sorry to be bleeding, if you were seeking an apology,” he said.
Hetta’s anger burned like gunpowder, explosive but short-lived. She glared at him and then it all drained out of her, exasperation taking its place. “Oh, how dare you put me in a temper when you look so pitiful. I can’t rail at you when you look like you’re about to faint.”
“I will endeavour not to do so then.” The pain was indeed making him light-headed, but he smiled, soft and fond. “I like it when you rail at me.”
She laughed again, though she tried not to. He’d always liked her laugh, the way it bubbled out of her in helpless, girlish eddies. “Be serious for a moment,” she said, wrapping another layer of bandage tightly around his forearm. “Your brother is playing a very unfunny game, and if this is what it’s like when he’s not trying to kill you, I’d rather not stick around to see what the sister who is trying to kill you does next. We need to get back to the estate.”
Wyn too would be easier with Hetta safely back on her own faeland. “I agree. But first—”
He found he had to close his eyes in order to concentrate properly. The magic flowed sluggishly in response to his tired will, but Hetta’s gasp told him he’d been successful. When he opened his eyes, the winds had gathered all the lug-imps and every bit of his blood within sensing range into an ugly, throbbing globe of air.
“I would appreciate it,” he panted, “if you would burn that.”
Fire pulsed from Hetta’s hands, and he spun it into the wind-ball. The flames burned white-hot for a second, temporarily lifting the temperature of the room despite the open window. Only a few fine ash flakes fluttered free when he let the winds die. They settled onto the carpet, pale grey against the darker material.
He slumped forward, fatigue seeping into his bones.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Hetta said, staring at the space where the globe had been. “How did you do that?”
The Prince of Secrets Page 11