“What did she call you? Hallow—”
“Don’t say it!” Wyn brushed a hand through his hair, agitated. “My name, it leaves a kind of trace that others may track me by. I hope they may not already do so.”
Hetta’s mind had run ahead of her. What kind of names were Gwendelfear and Hallowyn?
“Who are you?”
Wyn met her gaze again and said quietly, “You know, Hetta. You know because that’s not the question you want to ask. Ask it.” He’d gone taut as a bowstring, that sense of alienness quivering through him again.
Hetta swallowed. “What are you?”
Wyn closed his eyes. “Yes. Yes, that’s the right question.” He wound, if anything, tighter, as if he would crystallise with sheer rigidity. “I am fae, and the youngest son of King Aeros, the King of Ten Thousand Spires. The short version of the tale is that many people want me dead. Particularly those of the Court of Dusken Roses, as Gwendelfear is. I have been in hiding from them for nearly a decade. Do you want the long version?”
He opened his eyes at the sound of Hetta’s laugh and blinked, confusion washing over his features, bringing humanity back with it.
“Hetta?” He took a tentative step forward.
She waved her hands at him, stopping the giggles by sheer force of will. “You,” she gasped as she tried to catch her breath. “You’re a fairy prince. Of course you are.” She’d thought that nothing could overshadow the revelation that she wasn’t the Lord of Stariel; she’d been wrong.
“Yes.” There was no mirth in either his expression or his stance. That one word contained such grim depths that it cut through Hetta’s threatening hysteria like a cold blade. “I am a fae prince of the Court of Ten Thousand Spires.”
She stared at him, a thousand half-formed objections on her lips.
He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you want to say that the fae aren’t real; that I can’t possibly be one; that I must be joking; that one or both of us is insane; or possibly that this is all a dream and you will wake up any minute now. And those are all entirely reasonable sentiments to have, but I think they must wait until after I deal with Gwendelfear.”
“What do you mean, deal with Gwendelfear?”
“I will bind her so that she cannot speak my name, and then once she has woken, I think we should try to find out what she knows about Stariel. The boundaries are weaker than they should be—that’s why she was able to cross them with only Gregory’s permission and still retain her powers, which shouldn’t have been possible. If you were truly the Lord of Stariel then you could cast her out and prevent her from entering Stariel again, but as it is, I don’t think rescinding your invitation will be sufficient.”
“If Gwendelfear needed permission to cross the borders, how did you enter Stariel the first time?” This was the least of the questions Hetta wanted to ask, but it seemed as good a place to start as any. A fairy prince. She kept staring at him, but he grew, if anything, more human rather than less, that wildness folding away, leaving only Stariel’s primly dressed butler in its place.
“Gwendelfear is of the lesser fae. The greater fae are able to resist such defences for a time, though it is not easy.”
“You said they want you dead. Is that why Gwendelfear is here?” It seemed too extreme to be quite real, that anyone should want Wyn dead, or that the delicate-featured young woman could be an attempted murderess.
Wyn’s hands moved restlessly. “No, I do not think so. That is what I was trying to find out, but I don’t think she even knew I was here before today. There’s something else going on. She crossed into Stariel from the mortal border, which should have been impossible.” He paused. “I would leave you now if I thought it would keep you safe, but I fear there is danger here for Stariel even discounting my presence.”
“What in Prydein is a ‘mortal border’?”
“Ah—the estate’s border on this plane. Such as that between Penharrow and Stariel,” he added at Hetta’s blank look.
Hetta looked down at the girl she’d given refuge to. “Is there any truth to the stories about iron harming fae? No, that’s silly. I would’ve noticed if you—”
“It doesn’t hurt us, but we can’t work magic on it,” Wyn said quickly.
“Then I think the old dungeon might be the best place to put her, for the moment. Then you are going to do your ‘binding’, and then you and I are going to come back here, and you are going to explain everything.”
Wyn looked momentarily surprised, and then the merest flicker of a smile kindled in his eyes. “My Hetta. Ever pragmatic.”
Hetta held out a finger. “Don’t you ‘my Hetta’ me. I haven’t forgiven you yet for lying to me.”
Wyn nodded, acknowledging the reproof.
* * *
If previously asked, Hetta would have said it would be impossible to spirit an unconscious body through the house without anyone noticing, but this turned out not to be the case.
“Glamour,” Wyn said succinctly.
Wyn’s glamour was different to illusion. Illusory magic spun light, and masters of the art could render themselves effectively invisible, though only when standing still. It was almost impossible to sustain a convincing illusion while moving because of the need to constantly change the image. But this wasn’t illusion as she knew it. There was no physicality to the glamour, except that as they walked it began to smell oddly like rain with a hint of spice. Hetta could see Wyn carrying Gwendelfear in his arms perfectly well. But no one else did; Wyn’s glamour seemed to work on people’s perceptions. It was deeply unsettling to meet Aunt Sybil in the hallway and have her gaze slide past Hetta and Wyn as if they were not present at all.
The old dungeon looked more like a storeroom than its namesake. After moving some boxes, however, Hetta discovered that the set of shackles she remembered discovering as a child was still there. The keys hung on a hook on the wall beside them. Wyn lowered Gwendelfear to the ground and pressed the tip of one finger to her forehead. “By your name I bind thee, Gwendelfear of DuskRose, not to speak my name.”
Hetta felt the thrum of power in the air, and that alienness washed over Wyn again. She stared hard at him, certain that she’d seen feathers, but after a moment, she concluded she’d been mistaken.
“And it’s that easy, is it, to bind someone not to speak of you?”
Wyn gave a low laugh as he shifted Gwendelfear next to the wall. She stirred a little but did not wake. “No. I am only able to with this one because my power so eclipses hers. She is one of the lowliest members of DuskRose. I would never try this on any of the greater fae.”
As the shackles touched her, Gwendelfear changed. Hetta gasped, but Wyn didn’t falter from his task. The girl—the fae—woke just as he finished, in a kind of confused panic, pulling sharply against the constraints and hissing. She looked up at the two of them with eyes that couldn’t be mistaken for human. They were still blue, but now the colour filled the space where the whites of her eyes had been, and the colour was more vibrant than before. Her black pupils had become oddly deformed, with several symmetrical lobes, almost like the petals of a flower. Her skin had grown paler, with a greenish undertone, and her hair was no longer brunette. Instead it was the green of lakeweed, threaded through with lighter, yellowish tones.
Gwendelfear’s blue, blue eyes fixed on Wyn.
“You!” She writhed. She started to say something else, but her voice failed, and her tongue caught in her mouth. “You dare bind me! You should run, Oathbreaker. DuskRose knows I am here, and they will find you. They will find you and they will hurt you.” Her eyes flicked to Hetta. “And those who shield you.”
Wyn shifted towards her, radiating menace. Hetta stopped him with a hand on his arm. He stilled but didn’t take his eyes from Gwendelfear.
“How are you here?” he growled. “You crossed into Stariel via a mortal border. Do you openly flaunt the High King’s law?”
Gwendelfear’s eyes widened. “Oh, you don’t know, do you, Oathbreaker? Did y
ou think you would be safe here?” She smiled, showing subtly pointed teeth. “The Iron Law is revoked, Oathbreaker.”
Wyn froze. Hetta added ‘the Iron Law’ to the list of things to ask about when they were out of Gwendelfear’s hearing.
Recovering swiftly, Wyn narrowed his eyes at Gwendelfear. “Why are you here in Stariel, specifically?”
Gwendelfear gave a merry laugh. “As if I would tell you just for the asking!” She closed her mouth and smirked at him. And that was the last thing she said, despite Wyn’s prodding. Hetta could tell he was reluctant to ask too much, lest he reveal information Gwendelfear didn’t yet know.
“I welcomed you into my house,” Hetta said after Wyn ran out of questions. She fixed Gwendelfear with a stare. “I welcomed you into my house and offered you shelter from your so-called persecution. And you’ve repaid me by threatening my friend and my family. Will you explain what your purpose is here?”
Gwendelfear’s expression remained neutral, as if Hetta hadn’t spoken. Apparently she had no conscience to appeal to. Hetta tried again. “What did you do with the Stone?”
A flash of surprise crossed Gwendelfear’s face and she said, “What stone?” in a faintly puzzled voice before her eyes widened. “The Star Stone!” She glanced between Hetta and Wyn. “You have lost it!”
Hetta had difficulty reading her expression, but it was clear the fae was thinking rapidly.
“Are you saying you know nothing about it?” Hetta pressed, but Gwendelfear had now recovered from her initial outburst. She pressed her lips together, saying nothing, but her eyes glittered with interest. Hetta had the uneasy feeling that they’d given her far more than she’d given them.
Hetta gave Wyn a meaningful look. He nodded. They left the room, bolting the door shut from the outside. Wyn frowned at the doorway as if he could will its occupant to speak through sheer concentration.
“I wish you hadn’t said that. Now she knows the Star Stone is missing, she’ll realise something went wrong with the Choosing.”
“Now we know it wasn’t her who took it,” Hetta pointed out. “Unless you think she faked that surprise?”
Wyn’s gaze turned inward. “No, I don’t. Although we already know she’s a reasonable actress, so I am not willing to bet heavily on it.”
“No, I suppose we shouldn’t,” Hetta agreed. “How very inconvenient.” She reached out and prodded him gently when he seemed about to get lost in thought again. “Now come upstairs. You have a lot of explaining to do.”
22
The Court of Ten Thousand Spires
“I suppose I should begin,” Wyn said, “with the war between the Court of Dusken Roses and the Court of Ten Thousand Spires.” He stood by the window in her study, staring outwards, as if he couldn’t tell his story whilst looking at her.
“Gwendelfear called you Spireborn,” Hetta observed. “And a prince.”
“Yes. I am the sixth child of the King of Ten Thousand Spires. Nowhere near the throne in birth rank. Neither a great warrior nor a great mage. Unambitious. A liability in the Spires.” He paused, and his expression grew pensive. “To understand the courts of Faerie, you have to understand something of our nature. Faerie and the Mortal Realm lie one atop the other, like two pieces of fabric, separate but together. In places, the boundaries are weaker, like patches in the fabric, and Faerie shines through. In others, the doors to Mortal are closed so firmly that you would never know what lies beneath the surface.”
“I gather that Stariel is one of these places where the boundaries are thinner, then?”
Wyn shook his head. “Not precisely. Stariel is a faeland.” At Hetta’s frown, Wyn looked sheepish. “My apologies. I’m not explaining this very well.” He crinkled his nose at the view and then began again. “Faerie is divided into kingdoms: the faelands. I come from one such—the Court of Ten Thousand Spires. Gwendelfear is from another—the Court of Dusken Roses. Stariel is another faeland, or, as we know it, the Court of Falling Stars.”
At Hetta’s blank look, he tried another tack. “Lord Valstar. It’s a corruption of FallingStar.”
Most titles were called after the places they came from. It was one of Stariel’s peculiarities that the official form of address for the Lord of Stariel was ‘Lord Valstar’ rather than ‘Lord Stariel’. It wasn’t because of her surname; she would have been addressed so even if her last name had been Smith. However, any old estate came with a history of accumulated oddities, so Hetta had never given this particular one any thought.
“Am I to take it that my family are, in fact, fairies?” Hetta asked, pained. She’d been coping quite well with these fantastical revelations, but she thought that might be her limit.
He burst into startled laughter. The sound filled the small room, warm and touchable, and Hetta gave her heart stern instructions not to soften in response. Remember how he’s lied to you!
“Don’t you dare laugh! This entire tale is so fantastical that I wouldn’t believe a word of it if I hadn’t seen her change with my own eyes. How am I supposed to know what’s a reasonable question to ask? I’ve only known fairies are real for half an hour!”
He wiped at his eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, Hetta. It was not really so unreasonable a suggestion. It was your tone. You are taking this much better than I’d hoped, despite my addle-brained telling of it.”
“Well, get on with your addle-brained telling, then.” Hetta eyed the whisky glasses on her desk, untouched from earlier. No, better not, she decided with regret. A clear head was required for this.
He sobered. “To answer your question: no, the Valstars are not ‘fairies’. Or at least, not anymore. And I should correct your usage of terms. We are the fae; our land is Faerie. Your original suggestion was right, in some part. Stariel is a place where the boundaries between Mortal and Faerie are loose. This was even more so in the distant past, when one of your ancestors—a powerful mortal mage—laid claim to this land in both realms and was granted the right to hold it by the High King. He married a fae woman—so there is a smidgeon of fae in your bloodline—but the Valstar connection with Stariel traces back to him.”
Wyn frowned. “But I am getting side-tracked. As I was saying before, you need to understand something of our nature.” Hetta got the impression he was choosing his words with the kind of care a surgeon takes over his instruments. “We are…not human. In Faerie, time passes differently to the Mortal Realm. It means we can live to great ages, if we remain within its bounds. The oldest fae have much power and much knowledge, but they…lose something in that process. The oldest of us are cold, deadly, beautiful, and utterly without empathy.”
Wyn’s tone had become inflectionless, and Hetta rose to go to him, pulled by some small signal of distress. He took her offered hand and squeezed it, but only briefly, drawing back.
“No, let me finish this while I may. You need to know.”
“Will you…” Hetta couldn’t quite phrase the question, caught by what he’d said about ‘great ages’. Would it be bad-mannered to ask?
Wyn threw her a slightly mischievous look. “I age like a human while I am here. And if I stay, I will die in something like a human span, although perhaps a generous one. The Valstars, too, are known for their longevity. Convenient, no?”
Hetta gave a burble of laughter, this one genuine. “You’re getting far too ahead of yourself. You were telling me about the war between your court and the Court of Dusken Roses.”
“Hmmm.” The light from the dying November sun lit up his hair in a pale halo, casting golden shadows over his brown skin, the contrast undeniably attractive. “Yes. Whilst political machinations and backstabbing and assassinations and so on are commonplace between fae courts, all-out war is not. For a long-lived race, we are mightily afraid of dying. But we also hold our grudges dearly. I do not know precisely the cause of the enmity between DuskRose and ThousandSpire; whatever it was, it had been firmly bedded down with blood and vengeance by the time I was born.
“As the youngest o
f six children, my father had no need of me. That kept me safe for a time. I was…careful, and I managed to avoid the worst of the traps that young, vulnerable fae can face.” Hetta got the impression that his words covered a much darker and more complicated version of his upbringing than he was admitting to. “But by the time I was of age, the war between the courts had grown to such proportions that the High King intervened.”
“You mentioned him before, to Gwendelfear. Something about an ‘Iron Law’?”
“Yes.” Awe tinged his expression. “The Iron Law is revoked. Storms above. I did not anticipate that.”
“Yes, but what is this Iron Law?”
“The High King rules over all of Faerie. He issues few laws, but when he commands, Faerie obeys. You know what the fae are, Hetta, but you thought them a mere tale. The Iron Law is the reason for that. Centuries ago, he forbade any passage between Faerie and Mortal. I wondered, when Gwendelfear first came to us, but I did not know for sure until today that the law no longer stands. It is…a change so monumental I do not know what the full ramifications will be.”
“You came here before it was revoked, though,” Hetta pointed out. “Are you an outlaw of some kind?” He didn’t look like an outlaw—or a fae prince, for that matter. He looked like a handsome but respectable man, waistcoat smoothly immaculate and bow tie crisp.
He grimaced. “It was not my intent. Stariel is a faeland, and I did not enter it from the mortal plane. I was prepared to argue that I had not technically broken the High King’s law, if necessary. I was…very desperate.” His amusement dimmed as his gaze went distant, remembering.
“Desperate? Because of the war between your court and the other one?”
“Not exactly. Sorry.” He gave her another sheepish look. “I make a poor storyteller. As I was saying, the war between our courts—two of the most powerful in Faerie—grew to such proportions that it attracted the High King’s attention, and he chose to intervene. He brokered an uneasy peace and decreed that the courts should cement it by uniting the two royal lines.”
The Lord of Stariel Page 14
