The Prince of Secrets

by A J Lancaster

  The door opened with a thud, and Jack, Marius, and Caroline tumbled into the room, all clearly half-expecting to encounter a battle-scene. They drew up short at the sight of Rakken lounging on the settee beneath the window.

  Jack, never one to let a good bluster go to waste, rapidly regrouped. “What’s going on?” he demanded of the mid-point between Hetta and Rakken.

  “This is Wyn’s older brother, Rakken.”

  “Prince Rakken Tempestren,” his brother corrected. “Of the Court of Ten Thousand Spires.” Wyn watched him quickly tot up the three new Valstars. Jack, he noted down as the leader of the trio. Caroline, he wasn’t sure what to make of. Marius, he dismissed, a judgement that both irritated and relieved Wyn. It was better not to draw Rakken’s attention, but it irked him to see Marius undervalued yet again.

  There was a beat of silence, and then Marius said in a strange tone, “Prince?”

  Oh. Of course. Wyn hadn’t spelled out the full details of his origins to the others. It had seemed an unnecessary complication. “Ah…yes. Did I forget to mention that?”

  Marius gave him an incredulous look. “How exactly do you forget that?”

  Caroline’s expression had much in common with Marius’s, and from the slightly bemused curve of her lips, Wyn felt moderately certain she was replaying their earlier conversation about his employment prospects.

  “It did not seem important,” Wyn apologised. The incredulity didn’t lessen.

  Rakken laughed. “So they do not know exactly who’s been sweeping their floors and taking away their plates for all these years? It seems some introductions are in order.” He flourished a long-fingered hand at Wyn. “This is His Royal Highness Prince Hallowyn Tempestren, stormdancer and youngest child of King Aeros of Ten Thousand Spires.”

  “In any case,” said Hetta, “that is quite beside the point.” Her fingers tightened on Wyn’s and she took a deep breath. “Tell me what you want for Wyn’s release.” When Jack tried to interject, she held up a hand to stop him. “Not now, Jack. Questions later. I want to know this now.”

  Jack shuffled angrily to slouch against the wall, glaring at Rakken and Hetta in equal measure. Rakken shrugged, unruffled, and the late morning sun picked out the gold threads in his dark curls. Caroline and Marius were both transfixed by the sight, and Wyn fought the urge to choke. Apparently at least some Valstars did find his brother attractive. Wyn couldn’t help meeting Rakken’s eyes to see if he’d noticed. He had, of course, by the sardonic gleam there. Stormwinds.

  Rakken considered Hetta, tilting his head so that the contrasting sun-and-shadows sharpened the planes of his face, bringing them closer to his usual fae appearance. It filled Wyn with deep unease. Rakken might look mortal, but if Father had truly appointed him ambassador, he brought the weight of a fae court with him here, to this household of mortals completely unprepared for such things. A hard knot formed in Wyn’s chest.

  Rakken spoke evenly, enunciating every syllable with slow, cut-glass deliberation. “This is my father’s offer. In exchange for my brother’s oath debt, you swear fealty to him and Stariel becomes a vassal state of ThousandSpire. Beyond the oath of fealty, he is willing to let you retain management over your own lands and people.”

  Wyn moved so fast he even surprised Rakken. “Be thankful I am near certain you have no intention on following through on that offer. The Valstars gained their right to this land direct from the High King; do not pretend you think it is wise to try to subvert that.” Standing over his brother, he let his magic rise, petrichor and cardamom blossoming in the air. He might not be all that he was meant to be, but he was still stronger than he’d ever been. Strong enough to give Rakken pause, he hoped.

  “I’m not negotiating with you, Hallowyn, but with Stariel’s lord. She’s the one who asked the price of your oath-debt,” Rakken said coolly past Wyn, ignoring the wash of magic. “And if you care so greatly about the High King’s decrees, you shouldn’t have left the Spires.”

  Wyn didn’t move, though the remark stung. If he’d stayed in the Spires, he’d be dead. He had let himself be cheered too much by Rakken’s current preference for him living over dead, let sentiment make him forget the lessons of the past.

  “Well, regardless of which of us you’re negotiating with, the answer is the same: No,” Hetta said firmly, and relief at the quick refusal made the knot in Wyn’s chest ease a little. “What point would there be in freeing Wyn from ThousandSpire’s yoke only to put Stariel under the same one? No, thank you. Wyn is right: you can’t possibly have thought I’d accept that. Ask for something sensible.” She frowned at Wyn, the question in her eyes mirroring his internal debate between pride and reason—Are you going to let me do this?

  Wyn bit back the instinctive negative and instead gave a tight nod. It was rational to at least try to bargain, now that they were here, he told himself sternly. But, oh, he hated it every bit as much as he’d expected, and his magic thrummed under his skin.

  And then Marius said quietly, “Wyn, he doesn’t know.”

  There was silence, or as much silence as four humans and two fae in a small room could contain. The windowpanes rattled with a particularly strong gust of wind.

  “I assume you are referring to me, Marius Rufus Valstar?” Rakken said with extreme dryness. Wyn shot him a narrow look for the use of the full name. None of the mortals would know he was being rude, but that was no excuse.

  But Marius wasn’t paying any attention at all to Rakken. His focus was entirely on Wyn, expression intent, trying to communicate…something, biting his lip to keep from blurting it out. Marius wasn’t sure whether his intuition would help or harm, and he didn’t want Rakken to know it before Wyn did.

  What did Rakken not know?

  Oh. The taste of cardamom faded from the back of Wyn’s tongue as he let his magic fizzle out. Oh.

  “You don’t know,” he said to his brother with a kind of wonder. Rakken’s eyes narrowed.

  “It would be helpful to establish which specific thing your brother doesn’t know,” Hetta said, her voice trembling with a familiar note of fond amusement.

  “He doesn’t know the reason Wyn left. He doesn’t know his father was planning to kill him,” Marius said, unable to keep the words in any longer.

  Rakken’s eyes widened fractionally, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he held himself back at the last second.

  Wyn gave the confirmation Rakken’s pride would not let him ask for. “It’s true,” he told him. “What Marius said is true. Father was planning to kill me after I married Princess Sunnika and frame DuskRose for it.” He had to give his brother credit; he adjusted to unexpected information quickly. Probably no one else in the room realised how disturbed he was. Wyn could not help it; he grinned at his brother like a loon. “You don’t want me dead.”

  Rakken rolled his eyes. “I’ve already said your death profits me nothing. To repeat the sentiment seems excessive.”

  “That has to be the lowest bar for familial affection I’ve yet encountered,” Caroline said. “Ah…not to take away from what is clearly a sentimental moment for the two of you.”

  Rakken shrugged and turned back to Hetta. “In any case, it does not change my offer.”

  “Hmm,” Hetta said, weighing him up. “Well, if that’s the case, you can dashed well get out of my house. I’m going to leave the two of you here alone for half an hour.” She fixed Wyn with a meaningful look. “And when I come back, I shall expect you to have either come up with a better proposal, or you can leave.” She rose.

  Rakken rose with her. Hetta’s impatience irritated him, but he didn’t let it show in the unruffled tone of his voice. He brushed a stray lock back from his forehead, as leisurely as if he had all the time in the world. “I shall…consider whether there might be an alternative offer I could make. But I’m not sure what purpose leaving me alone with my brother serves, Lord Valstar. I assure you, it’s unnecessary.”

  “I’m not doing it for you,
Your Highness,” Hetta told him.

  “Hetta—” Wyn began, but she cut him off. They exchanged a heated look, in which Hetta said in no uncertain terms that she trusted him to keep his brother occupied for half an hour while she spoke to the others away from Rakken’s interested gaze. In answer, Wyn tried to convey that Rakken not wanting him dead didn’t mean he and Rakken would be playing happy families any time soon. He wasn’t sure whether she got the message.

  “All right, everyone. Come away and I’ll explain some of this to you.” And for the second time in not so many minutes, Hetta swept out of a doorway before anyone could object. Jack, Marius, and Caroline trailed her out. Caroline shut the door with a thoughtful glance at Wyn.

  Rakken examined the closed door for a moment before collapsing back onto his seat with a sigh. “Mortals are so impulsive, aren’t they?”

  “If you didn’t want Hetta angry with you, you shouldn’t have deliberately provoked her,” Wyn said calmly. “You can scarcely complain about a result you set out to achieve. Are you satisfied with your little test, or do you mean to continue to be a curiously disagreeable ambassador?”

  Rakken smiled, and this one was sincere, softening the mask. “So playing with mortals hasn’t made you entirely foolish.”

  “They’re not as easy to manipulate as you think,” Wyn warned.

  “Perhaps you’re not as clever as you would like to think, then, if you find it so difficult.” Rakken raised an eyebrow at Wyn, still standing. “Are you intending to loom over me for the next half hour?” He somehow managed to imply that Wyn was the one being childish, even though Rakken was the cause of this entire charade.

  “How long has this ‘Lord Featherstone’ business been going on for?” It was the least of what Wyn wanted to know, but perhaps beginning somewhere small might be more effective.

  “Really, brother, do you expect me to divulge all my secrets merely for the asking?” A spark of humour lit Rakken’s eyes.

  It was going to be a very long half hour. “At least reassure me that the real Lord Featherstone is alive and well.”

  “So soft-hearted, still? But yes, since you ask. He is.” By Rakken’s standards, this was an expansive mood, so Wyn pushed his luck.

  “What do you want, Rake?” He went and perched uneasily on the desk, not nearly as far away from his brother as he’d like now they were alone. “Really?”

  Rakken smiled, the proverbial cat with cream. “Directness. What a novel approach.”

  “Well, what else do we have to talk about?” Wyn pointed out. “Other than your less-than-hilarious attempt to not kill me.”

  “It was entirely hilarious, I assure you. And you should definitely thank me for that. Aroset is so unoriginal sometimes. She would have sent draken again without my prompting, and I know how you detest collateral damage.”

  Wyn thought of Mr Thompson, curled up in agony against the wall. “The bank manager was wounded also.” What Marius had reported had only partially reassured him; what if Mr Thompson didn’t fully recover from the poison?

  “For which you had an antidote on hand, thanks to me.” His eyes gleamed, daring Wyn to point out that he’d provided only sufficient antidote for one person, if Wyn had not already had his own.

  Wyn refused to react to his brother’s needling. “Mortals do not heal as quickly or as well as fae. The bank manager is still recovering, and the fact that more mortals weren’t injured was due in large part to luck.”

  Rakken shrugged. “Don’t tell me you would rather Aroset had set the town alight with drakkenfire.”

  Wyn pressed his lips together but didn’t argue. Rakken was right, in a way; one could only channel Aroset’s destructive tendencies, not remove them. But he’d never agree that the harm of innocents was acceptable.

  Rakken read him easily enough and shook his head. “Ah, sentimental little Hollow. Is that why your lord has left us here together, do you think?”

  “I think she thought I might be better able to cut through your attempts at obfuscation without an audience to impress. She will kick you out, you know, if you stick to Father’s original offer and refuse to budge.” Wyn held that reassurance close.

  Rakken waved a hand. “Oh, don’t be disingenuous, Hallowyn. Of course I knew she wouldn’t accept that.”

  “Then you may as well tell me what long game you’re playing.”

  “I may,” Rakken allowed, the amusement draining from him. “But I won’t. Not yet.” He searched Wyn for something, but Wyn didn’t know if he found it. “Give me a little time. I need to…consider alternatives. You may of course assure Lord Valstar I will mind my manners in the meantime.”

  What game was Rakken playing? He might be here nominally on behalf of their father and ThousandSpire, but Rakken would always act firstly to promote his own self-interest.

  Wyn sighed. He still had, by his estimation, at least twenty-eight more minutes to try to extract something useful from Rakken, but all their interactions so far had only emphasised how badly out of practice he was at that.

  He looked past Rakken, out to the view of Starwater. The wind had whipped small white caps in the lake’s surface. Beyond that the forest was dusted with snow, the white growing thicker as the terrain rose to the west. He thought of the roads still to be cleared, of the news they’d received of the infant born down in Stariel Village during the night, of the plumber due to come out to the house this week. He thought of the way Hetta’s skin had looked under pale moonlight, the delicate curves and lines of her, of the way her pulse had fluttered in the hollow of her throat. My love, he’d said to her, a truth as inevitable and inarguable as gravity.

  “I do not want to leave,” he said eventually. “But I will, if the price is too high to stay.” He took a deep breath, let it out, met Rakken’s eyes. “And if I have to, I will kill you to prevent you harming Henrietta Valstar.” The vow shivered in the space between them, potent with the lightning-and-rain scent of his magic.

  Rakken’s eyes widened, but that was the only outward sign of shock he showed. Wyn could feel his own pulse racing, though he didn’t break eye contact with his brother, letting the challenge sit there without explanation or apology. He had meant the words; he could not have said them otherwise. And yet…what kind of creature did that make him?

  After a moment Rakken looked away. “Love then, is it, Hallowyn?” He said the word distastefully, as if handling something noxious. “How terribly cliché of you.” A warning hint of citrus in the air. “You may be more useful to me alive than dead, but my tolerance does have limits, Hallowyn.” It wasn’t an idle threat; Rakken was considerably older than Wyn, and age brought power, in Faerie.

  Strangely, the trading of threats made Wyn relax. Perhaps it was merely a relief to speak plainly, or as plainly as things had ever been spoken between him and Rakken. He smiled. “It’s good to see you, brother.” Rakken was right; he was sentimental.

  Rakken grumbled. “It’s unreasonable to expect me to say the same less than ten seconds after you have threatened me.”

  “Oh, don’t pretend to be such a fragile flower; I did not say I wished to kill you. And we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I thought you actually intended harm to Lord Valstar. I’m merely laying out the limits of what I will tolerate. You should thank me for making your job as ambassador so much easier.”

  “I’m not sure I like what mortality has done to you,” Rakken complained. “You used to have more respect for your elders.”

  Wyn thought of the other siblings he’d left behind and, irrelevantly, of the Valstars gathered around the Standing Stones, and, despite everything, a thread of…something plucked at him. It wasn’t nostalgia; he didn’t have the necessary fond memories to draw upon for that. He had no illusions that his family had developed any degree of warm connection in his absence, and it would be foolish to yearn for it. But whatever the feeling was, it prompted him to ask, “Speaking of, what have I missed in the last decade in ThousandSpire?” He tried to tell himsel
f it was only a desire for information that might aid Stariel. “Has Aroset maimed anyone else? Has our mother returned? Is Cat still…”

  Rakken’s eyes narrowed. “Still what?”

  “Still Cat, I suppose.” Catsmere was the sibling Wyn had been closest to. This was possibly the one point he and Rakken had in common, since Rakken’s twin sister was the only person Rakken truly cared about. Cat had always had a gruff fondness for Wyn, though she also thought him too sentimental. Wyn wondered if Catsmere’s affection would influence her twin at all.

  Rakken had clearly shared the same thought. “Trying to manipulate me, brother? Cat has little sympathy for oathbreakers.” He made a thoughtful noise. “Though she may have more now, when she learns your flight was not as unreasonable as we thought.”

  It had never occurred to Wyn that his siblings might not know why he’d fled. They’d always appeared so much more knowledgeable about everything than he was—particularly Rakken, with his vast network of lowfae informants. Which reminded him: “The catshee was yours, I assume?”

  Rakken frowned. “What catshee?”

  Interesting. Maybe it had merely been coincidence that Wyn had needed to take down the housefae-repelling spell only two days before he’d been attacked. “And Mrs Thompson? Was she yours too?”

  A small crease formed between Rakken’s brows. “I take no responsibility for the spontaneous and foolish acts of mortals,” he said in disgust.

  “I did try to tell you that you can’t always control what they do,” Wyn pointed out. If Rakken hadn’t been responsible, who had? It seemed too subtle for Aroset, involving the bank manager’s wife.

  “You take far too much delight in my not being in control of a situation that ended with you shot with iron,” Rakken countered. He was right, though Wyn wouldn’t admit it aloud. Rakken watched him for a moment. “Aroset has not maimed any more of us,” he said abruptly, coming back to Wyn’s original question. “Irokoi is still as he was.”