A chill went down Hetta’s spine. He spoke of something much wider than Stariel and the two courts Wyn owed a debt to.
“So you see, it is more important than you thought, the relationship between your realm and mine.” He swirled his tea thoughtfully. “An alliance with another faeland could benefit your people, in this changing world; an alliance with a mortal faeland could benefit mine.”
The door opened again and Wyn appeared, expression slightly harried. He shut it behind him and glanced between his brother and Hetta.
“I think your brother is doing his best to be as cryptic as possible,” Hetta summarised. “He was saying something about the fae coming back to the world and talking of alliances as if we were staging a medieval war.”
Wyn’s gaze locked onto his brother, and some message Hetta didn’t understand passed between them. Whatever it was, it alarmed Wyn, and he said, voice tight, “Hetta, how many housefae are nearby?” His eyes burned with silent meaning. Why didn’t he simply tell her what he was getting at? But then she understood: he was worried about eavesdroppers. Hadn’t Prince Rakken said a similar thing back at the pub? “I do not care to air my name about for those who might be listening.”
What a horrible level of paranoia to live with! But Hetta obediently reached for Stariel and felt about for the tiny sparks of the housefae. There were an abnormal number of them in proximity to her study, and she pressed down upon them and suggested that they should move along. They did, squawking objections.
Hetta opened her eyes. “No one is now listening to us,” she said, keeping a heightened connection open to Stariel. “So you can say whatever melodramatic thing you felt you couldn’t say before. But who are you keeping secrets from?”
Wyn and Prince Rakken exchanged another meaningful glance.
“Our father,” said Wyn uneasily, as if he didn’t like saying the words aloud despite her reassurance. “King Aeros.”
“I thought you were here on his behalf?” Hetta asked Prince Rakken, confused.
Prince Rakken glanced thoughtfully around her study. The faint scent of citrus and storms pricked the air for a heartbeat as he reassured himself that no one was listening.
“I am here on behalf of the Spires,” he said, emphasising the last word.
Wyn froze. “You cannot mean…”
Prince Rakken’s lips quirked into a crooked smile. “Oh, Hallowyn, you always were far too easy to shock.”
Despite Wyn’s stillness, or perhaps because of it, Hetta knew that he was afraid. Hetta was too confused to be properly alarmed.
Prince Rakken saw it, the fear, and gave a bitter laugh. “How well Father’s lessons have stuck with you, little brother. Even now, you blanch to think of him.”
“You cannot…” Wyn trailed off again. He wrapped his arms around himself as if he were suddenly cold. “You are not alone?”
“I am not alone,” Prince Rakken said meaningfully. Or at least meaningfully for Wyn; Hetta was still entirely at sea.
“Are either of you going to actually explain what you’re talking about?”
“You will not involve Hetta in this,” Wyn said to his brother, voice low and menacing, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “You will not involve Stariel in it.”
“Oh, Hollow, if you did not want them involved, you should never have come here.”
Wyn didn’t flinch, but she knew the jab had to have hit him hard. “What if I leave?” he said slowly, without looking at Hetta. Her stomach dropped.
Prince Rakken’s gaze was pitying. “You think that will make the fae lose interest in this faeland and its rather fascinating mortal lord now? Perhaps I wasn’t clear: this is happening, with or without your involvement. All it affects is the timing. You said you would kill for this mortal lord; why do you flinch now?”
“What are you talking about?” Hetta got up and put herself bodily between the two of them.
Wyn sagged against the door. “He is talking about treason. And, I think, murder?”
Prince Rakken didn’t answer, watching Hetta’s reaction intently.
Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up, and she checked the urge to cry: “What are you talking about?” yet again. Hetta had dealt with some fairly unexpected things in the last two months, but this was…
“I think,” she said, trying to collect her scattered thoughts, “that you had better tell me exactly what you are proposing, without all the hedging about.”
“I am proposing…” Prince Rakken paused and looked at his brother.
Wyn made a ‘go-on’ sort of gesture. “You won’t convince me you can successfully stage a coup, Rake, if you can’t even bring yourself to speak the words aloud.”
“It is because I watch what I say aloud that I will successfully stage a coup,” Prince Rakken said.
And Hetta finally, finally, understood what they were talking about. “You want to depose your father and take over the Court of Ten Thousand Spires.”
Prince Rakken nodded.
Wyn’s facade fractured for a second as he burst out, “It is madness you speak of!” He turned wild eyes on Hetta. “You don’t understand. Our father…his power is stronger than any fae I know bar the High King. Even Rake and Catsmere together do not stand a chance against that. Even all of my siblings together do not stand a chance!”
Prince Rakken removed an invisible speck of dirt from his shirt collar. When he spoke, his voice was low but firm as steel. “Your broken oath did not stunt only your own power, Hallowyn. ThousandSpire labours under the weight of an unfulfilled promise also. Our father is…not all that he should be, not what he once was.” He smiled. “And I am more than I was.”
“That is still not enough, Rake. Or has the Maelstrom granted you powers beyond your age?”
Prince Rakken shrugged. “Facing the Maelstrom with no guarantee of outcome…that would be madness. I am not yet so desperate.” His focus sharpened on Hetta, eyes brilliant as spring leaves. “But facing my father, on a faeland not his own, with four of his children and, perhaps,” he shot a look at Hetta, “a powerful pyromancer at my side…that is not madness.”
“Four?” Wyn said sharply. “You have talked Irokoi into this as well?”
Hetta was struggling a little to keep up with all the names and references, but she understood well enough what Prince Rakken wanted.
“Let me get this correctly: you want Wyn and me to help you kill your father?” It didn’t sound any better when she said it out loud.
“You want a way to free this one of his oath; a way to keep your land free of ThousandSpire’s influence,” Prince Rakken said, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “And I do not require you to do the deed.” He shot her a mirthless, dagger-sharp smile. “Cat and I will take care of that. I merely require a compelling reason for Father to leave his faeland.”
Wyn laughed. “And why would he do that?”
“Because,” Prince Rakken said smugly, “he can hardly expect FallingStar’s lord to agree to swear fealty to him by proxy. Lord Valstar would be within her rights to demand a face-to-face meeting, on her own territory.”
“And then you…what? Murder your own father?” Hetta said. What am I becoming? she thought, faintly horrified that she could even contemplate such a thing and yet apparently not horrified enough to discard the idea out of hand.
Wyn was roiling with agitation now, as if he would pace if not constrained by the dimensions of Hetta’s study.
“Don’t make me a party to this, Rake.”
“It’s actually Lord Valstar’s participation I need most, not yours,” Prince Rakken said, meet
ing Hetta’s eyes. An awareness passed between them, as if Rakken recognised the bit of Hetta’s soul that didn’t recoil from the things that it ought to, a shared understanding that they would cross lines if necessary to protect their own. Hetta didn’t much like that piece of herself. “Help us, and we will give you Hallowyn’s debt if Cat or I gain ThousandSpire’s throne. The blood will not be on your hands,” he added, soft and persuasive. “This is my plan, not yours. And, if it helps, even my soft-hearted brother here cannot tell you the world won’t be better off without our dearest father ruling the Spires.”
“Maybe talking about killing people is a perfectly normal thing where you come from, but it’s definitely not normal or acceptable here,” Hetta said.
“I do not suggest this course of action lightly. I assure you I have no wish for it to become normal behaviour for any of us. But I told you, Lord Valstar: this is a time of change. And is your true concern here maintaining a semblance of normality?” He shot a look at Wyn. “Or is it my brother’s conscience that holds you back?” Hetta caught the subtext, loud and clear, and wasn’t especially happy with it, though it was probably true. In his bones, Wyn was good, despite his secrecy and tendency to manipulate, good in a way that Hetta wasn’t sure she could lay claim to. The irony of it bit at her as she met Wyn’s eyes and he jerked his head in a fierce negative.
“Well,” Prince Rakken said, as if the tension in the room hadn’t ratcheted up a thousandfold. “I can see you have much to discuss.” He shrugged. “But I have business elsewhere in any case. I will give you twenty-four hours to persuade my brother to set aside his weakness. I will see you tomorrow.”
“I haven’t agreed to it,” Hetta said.
Prince Rakken ignored this, pausing before he got to the door. “And Lord Valstar…be careful what words you speak aloud. The world has ears.”
They argued as Hetta felt the spark of Prince Rakken’s presence disappear from the estate.
“He’s planning this anyway, Wyn. I don’t like it either, but tell me you don’t think it could work!” Hetta’s stomach roiled. How could she even be considering this? It was awful; everything about it was awful. But she couldn’t forget the draken Wyn’s father had sent, nor the lug-imps Aroset had let loose on his command; King Aeros had been perfectly happy to murder his son. If King Aeros was no longer around, Wyn would be safe, finally, and so would everyone else. A fierce, protective bit of her hummed at that, Stariel rumbling agreement.
“That’s not the point!”
“What is the point then? Your father wants you dead, Wyn! Tell me that you don’t want your brother to pull off his coup!”
Wyn’s mouth thinned into a line, the rest of him simmering with the same tension. “I don’t want Stariel to be a venue for murder, Hetta. That is what we’re talking about here. Murdering my own father.”
It did sound much worse in those terms, but Hetta still refused to shy away from it. “Yes, and he seems perfectly happy to murder you! How is it better to wish your brother success but not help him just so we can keep our moral high ground?” Was she really arguing in favour of this? Stariel’s awareness swarmed around her, drawn by her distress, and she soothed it.
“I don’t wish to be like my father!” For an instant that expression was back, the same fear she’d seen on the tower under the snow moon, and it made her want to shake him until he saw sense.
“Don’t be foolish; you aren’t at all like your father, and you have to know that.”
He tucked his fear away with an attempt at a wry smile. It looked a lot like a grimace. “Well, in fairness, Hetta, you haven’t met him.”
“I don’t need to.” But she could see his point, even if she disagreed with the comparison. She sagged down onto the seat Wyn’s brother had so recently occupied. “Is there some other way to depose your father, then, without killing him? Because it seems like that might solve a lot of this.”
Wyn sank down beside her with a sigh. “The bond between faeland and ruler is permanent, once formed, so far as I know.”
It was both reassuring and not. Hetta reached for Stariel, feeling the pulsing energy of the land as if it were her own heartbeat.
He put an arm round her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. My not-so-brilliant plan to leave if this all got too dangerous for Stariel has collapsed in on itself, and so I am left with no plan at all.”
“Well,” she pointed out, “we have a whole twenty-four hours to think about it.” She paused. “I said I wouldn’t do anything without your agreement, and I meant it. We’ll find some other way.”
His arms tightened around her. “Thank you. That is…more reassuring than you know.” She felt him sigh again. “I wish I could bring something other than trouble to Stariel. As a prince, I have only brought you danger. And I seem to have failed to do you any good at all in my role as steward. All I seem to be able to do is rack up obligations. And scandalise bank managers.”
Hetta frowned. “Well, it’s not as if the bank was ever very convinced by my lording, anyway, so I think it’s a bit much to take the responsibility for that entirely on your own shoulders. It also doesn’t change the fact that this estate would fall apart without you—would have fallen apart long since!” Finances would just have to wait, though that creeping sense of guilt stole over her again. Shouldn’t a good lord prioritise the estate’s interests over individuals? Her soul rebelled, refusing to compromise. Why couldn’t she have both?
He paused. “Regardless, it seems we have twenty-four hours of breathing space in which no one is trying to kill me. I would like to use some of that time to resign my position.” Hetta immediately un-burrowed herself so she could glare at him properly. He held out a placating hand. “Hear me out, please. If I am not your steward, then the bank will probably give you a loan.”
“That is honestly the least of my concerns right now. We can worry about the bank later, after we’ve figured out this life or death situation.”
He continued, relentless. “Now that your family and the staff here know what I am, the news will spread. Very soon the district will know, and soon after that, the entire North, possibly the entire country. If that comes to pass, you won’t get the treatment you should get. Especially if I am still employed here.” He paused. “And…if somehow, miraculously, I escape from this bloody oath, I would have us be other than liege lord and supplicant,” he said, echoing her own words back to her.
“I would still put you to work, you know.”
He smiled. “I know. But I do not like loose ends, and someone warned Mr Thompson of my identity. I would like to know who, and why. Rakken claims it wasn’t him.” He paused. “And I would like to assure myself that he truly is recovering.”
The sound of the gun going off, the sudden red flower blossoming from his wing. “If you—”
“I promise to do my utmost to avoid being shot again. Mrs Thompson caught me off-guard last time,” he said persuasively.
She narrowed her eyes, though she could already feel herself being talked into this madness. “And what about our resident princess?”
Wyn spread his hands, the words dragging reluctantly from him. “You can try if you will to discover what she considers a fair price for me.”
Hetta appreciated that he trusted her to bargain on his behalf, even if her interactions with Princess Sunnika so far hadn’t made her optimistic about getting a straight answer. “Is she going to be offended if I don’t sit by her side and babysit her?” Hetta had no intention of leaving Princess Sunnika unsupervised, but it wasn’t as if she had nothing else to do, and Stariel could supervise perfectly well from afar. Maybe she should enlist Marius’s help in that; so far he’d been much better at seeing through fae motives than she had.
Wyn looked out towards the lake, and something seemed to harden in him. “I think it may be wise to remind Faerie that mortal affairs do not necessarily revolve around it.”
She made one last attempt at protest. “I still
think this is a terrible idea and that we could find better uses for our day of grace.” Prince Rakken’s plan loomed over them, filling all the spaces between words.
His eyes were very dark. “I just…let me do this one thing for the good of Stariel, my love.” He set the word down with the fragile, testing weight of a snowflake, and a taffy-soft emotion swelled in her in answer.
“Oh, very well then, you impossible man,” she grumbled. “Go and martyr yourself in the name of finances.”
30
Steward of Stariel
Wyn set down outside Mr Thompson’s home the next day with only a few awkward steps to take his momentum, boots scuffing the pavement. At least he hadn’t ended up in a tumble of wings this time. He was getting better at landings, flexing long disused skills.
The street of terraced houses was deserted, most of its occupants already elsewhere on the grey, cold morning. Am I being foolish, spending my day of grace so? he wondered. But he had no other brilliant ideas, and this felt like something he needed to do, a small thing that was still within his power to control.
It had been easy enough to acquire Mr Thompson’s address from the bank, though the experience of wandering its austere hallways winged and shirtless, unnoticed by primly dressed secretaries and bankers, wasn’t one he’d soon forget. Human sensibilities had apparently rubbed off on him, for he’d felt self-conscious even though no one could see him through his glamour.
A set of steps led straight from the street to Mr Thompson’s front door, the iron guardrails to either side distorting his leysight. He folded his wings back and changed, pulling on the shirt he’d brought with him—an ordinary one; he hadn’t wanted to ruin Hetta’s gift with exertion. But before he could move from the pavement, the door opened. In its shadowed frame stood Mrs Thompson, glaring belligerently down at him, a pistol in one hand.
Wyn quickly held up his hands in supplication. “Please don’t shoot me again.” Even though he currently didn’t have wings, the recent memory of the bullet scraping against bone spiked through that phantom location.
The Prince of Secrets Page 28