The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  Ms Orpington-Davies looked annoyed. “I won’t be the last to approach you; others will think of it soon enough, and many of them will be far less open-minded.” She sprouted notebook and pen. “But speaking of society reporting, our readers are very interested to know more about Prince Hallowyn. Is it true he’s engaged to your sister?”

  Oh, to the hells with it. He relatched the gate with them both firmly on opposite sides. It would give him a head start. “Good day, Ms Orpington-Davies.”

  He fled, as fast as dignity would allow. Damn it, she was right, though—there would be more where she came from. He needed to warn Gregory. And Hetta.

  By the time he made it to his little brother’s accommodations at Maudlin College, without the reporter in tow, thankfully, the sun had risen sluggishly above the town. He spent some time knocking before Gregory opened the door to his room with bad grace. There were dark shadows under Greg’s eyes, and he absorbed Marius’s warning with monosyllabic grunts.

  “So just—watch yourself, will you?” Marius finished.

  Gregory just rolled his eyes and mumbled that he wasn’t an idiot and of course he wasn’t going to talk to the press. Where did my even-tempered little brother go? Greg had thrown off Marius’s efforts to help him adjust to life away from Stariel, determined to be independent. The age difference between them yawned, an uncrossable chasm.

  Brotherly concern prompted him to ask, awkwardly, “How are you going, otherwise?”

  A shrug. “Fine. You don’t need to babysit me.”

  Not exactly an answer to inspire confidence, but Marius didn’t see what else he could do, so he left Greg to enjoy his hangover alone. So far, he was doing a brilliant job of looking after the sibling in closest geographic proximity to him. How was he supposed to do any better with the ones so much further away?

  I just hope you know what you’re doing, Hetta.

  4

  Real Estate Issues

  Wyn left the anchor under wards in the greenhouse and wished he could leave his worry behind with it. Instead, he carried it as a cold weight in his chest as he, Jack, and Hetta made their way to the Heathcote. Another complication, at a time when that was the last thing they could afford. Did DuskRose suspect he was currently attempting to contact the High King via Lamorkin? Did they know Hetta’s position in the mortal world was far from unassailable? Oh, they couldn’t take Stariel from her, but if the Conclave opposed her, it seemed unlikely the mortal queen would continue to support their union.

  Especially since I unintentionally misled her.

  By the time the three of them arrived at the old Heathcote cottage, the fog had thinned out, but it was still damp here on the Moors. Hetta held up a sketch map of the local waterways in one hand, and she looked from it to the cottage thoughtfully. The cottage’s occupants, Mr and Mrs Healey, stood nearby, watching with cautious interest. The baa of sheep and newborn lambs came at intervals, muffled by the fog and the hills, making it hard to tell where any one sound originated.

  Hetta seemed entirely recovered from the earlier episode of dizziness. And she did eat something before we left, Wyn consoled himself, sneaking a look at her profile as she frowned at the cottage. That was important, wasn’t it? Eating for two, that was the phrase people used. If only he’d had more time to read the books; but there would be time later. There was still time.

  “And this’ll stop it flooding?” Mr Healey was saying doubtfully. A path of churned mud led to the cottage. The Healeys had been fighting a war of slow attrition against the nearby stream, and this year they’d lose it, if something wasn’t done. In the warmer parts of the estate, the earliest-blossoming fruit trees, apricots and cherries, had begun to bloom, but the apple tree by the Heathcote cottage was yet to join them. Its branches stood bare and left glistening by the fog.

  “In theory I can shift the drainage pattern,” Hetta said, lowering the map. Her gaze unfocused.

  Stariel’s attention gathered around them, and Wyn drew in a sharp breath at the sensation. Jack did likewise, throwing him an inscrutable look for their shared reaction—their shared land-sense. They both belonged to Stariel now.

  “Hmmm. Stariel is rather reluctant to shift the drainage.” Hetta’s grip on the map loosened, and only Wyn’s quick move saved it from ending up in the mud. Hetta didn’t seem to notice as she turned to the farmer. The pine and new grass in her signature had strengthened, and the unfocused look in her eyes made Wyn uneasy, as if it weren’t only Hetta looking out of them. “How do you feel about the cottage moving instead? I think that would make things significantly easier.”

  Mrs Healey looked extremely alarmed. “Won’t that damage the cottage?”

  “I’m only moving it a few feet,” Hetta assured her absently. “It’s just the way the land falls. If it were slightly more here, I could tweak the drainage pattern only a little…there.” There were odd echoes in her voice.

  Faeland and faelord, he thought. His faeland; his faelord, the two signatures becoming indistinguishable: pine, damp earth, spring grass, and a hint of coffee. The leylines began to glow and swell, as if a current somewhere upstream had been diverted. He bent towards the magic, like a flower turning instinctively towards the sun, clamping his teeth together with the effort of keeping his wings from spreading forth.

  When the leylines shifted, in Faerie and Mortal both, the earth under the cottage rippled, and the tenants gasped. He heard them only distantly, hypnotised by the re-aligning drainage patterns and plant roots; moving the cottage ten feet was a superficial feat in comparison.

  The world re-settled, altered, the great stir of magic dispersing. The cottage stood safe but now located on a natural rise in the field. The old apple tree beside the door had shifted with it, with one notable change. Its previously bare branches were now thick with pink-white blossom, green leaves unfurling even as they watched.

  A giddy feeling gripped him, as if he’d just knocked back half a bottle of whiskey. Hetta’s cheeks were flushed, her lips pink and parted softly in wonder, and stormwinds, he wanted to shed humanity and kiss her with all the fierceness of the storm.

  Until she swayed.

  He moved without thought to catch her, scooping her up into his arms. The impulse caught them both by surprise, and Hetta blinked up at him with that echo of ancient faeland still in her expression even as the entirely womanly curves of her pressed against him. He held her tight against his chest and wrestled with an alarming urge to sprout wings and take off with her in his arms. In the sky she’d be safe, his instincts suggested. No, he told his instincts firmly. She wouldn’t be. Not with my mediocre flying skills, aside from anything else.

  He knew the moment the woman won out over the faelord, because Hetta gave an impish smile and wriggled.

  “Not that this isn’t impressively manly, but you can put me down now. I just misjudged a bit, unpicking myself from Stariel, and the magic came free rather suddenly.” He was doing a poor job of hiding his thoughts, because she quickly added, “It’s not…anything else. I’m fine. And yes, that does count.”

  “You all right, Hetta?” Jack asked with a frown.

  “Yes,” Hetta said firmly. “Just a momentary dizziness.” She smiled brightly at the tenants. Too brightly? But now wasn’t the time to ask.

  Mr and Mrs Healey watched with interest as Wyn reluctantly replaced Hetta on her feet. Mrs Healey had one hand to her breast, and a deep, heartfelt sigh escaped her as she looked from Wyn to Hetta.

  “That’s so romantic,” Mrs Healey murmured. Her gaze went to Hetta’s engagement ring. “May we offer our congratulations?”

  “Thank you,” Hetta said; Wyn echoed her. Jack’s mouth twisted, but he remained silent; he wouldn’t argue about the wisdom of Hetta’s decision in front of others. “Let’s go check that everything shifted properly.”

  They checked the cottage. The tenants were cautious at first, but eventually they concluded that the cottage had shifted without damage. Wyn got Hetta to sit down, by dint of insinu
ating to Mrs Healey that it would be appropriate to take tea in the cottage to celebrate its new and improved location.

  Jack watched Hetta with slitted eyes but didn’t object. Mr Healey was effusive in his thanks, which Hetta accepted uneasily. Wyn knew she wondered sometimes if she was worthy of her position. You are, he tried to communicate silently. A thousand times more worthy than my father was of the Spires; more worthy than your own father was of Stariel. More worthy than me.

  He was getting distracted, watching Hetta too closely. She said she was fine, he scolded himself sternly. You are fretting too much. But the state of calm equanimity that had never before failed him felt as far away as full moon.

  “These are rather beautiful teacups,” Hetta remarked, examining hers. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this pattern before.”

  Mrs Healey beamed. “My nan left them to me. She got them as a wedding gift when she married my grandfather.” She slid a sideways glance at Wyn, who chose not to react. First the stationmaster, now this. Was there something in the water today that was making everyone mention weddings?

  They were about to take their leave when Mr Healey sized up Wyn and said, “Been seeing strange creatures around… sir.” Wyn was growing tired of that pause of uncertainty, though he was glad the man had settled for addressing him as steward rather than prince. Perhaps he ought to send round some sort of notice clarifying the matter?

  “What sort of creatures?” Wyn asked.

  Mr Healey’s shoulders went up, but he looked Wyn straight on. “Fairies, I think.”

  Perhaps Wyn should include a helpful footnote on fae terminology in that same notice.

  “Can you describe them?” Hetta asked.

  Some of Mr Healey’s tension eased; he hadn’t been sure he’d be taken seriously. “Little things,” he said, bringing a hand up to demonstrate. “Big ears, gold eyes. And other ones, like small deer but with only the one horn.”

  “And colourful coats. They were beautiful creatures,” his wife added.

  “The horned ones are called starcorns,” Hetta said, her expression softening. “The ones with the ears—” she looked to Wyn.

  “Brownies,” he confirmed. “They have a fondness for milk, if you want to bribe them to keep out of the pantry. Sometimes they can be persuaded to do household tasks for the same. The large brooding man with the wings is my brother, but please don’t try bribing him with milk.” They all laughed. Nervous laughter, admittedly, but it nonetheless cut a fine thread of tension in the small cottage.

  “They’re not dangerous, these…starcorns and brownies and the like?” the farmer asked.

  “No,” Hetta said firmly.

  Wyn couldn’t have mortals thinking fae were safe. “Some fae are dangerous,” he warned. Hetta frowned at him.

  “Some people are dangerous, fae or human,” she said.

  For some reason, Mrs Healey was smiling as she looked between them, but it was her husband who spoke. “That’s fair enough,” he said.

  “Are you trying to make life as difficult for yourself as possible?” Hetta asked as they walked back to the pony cart.

  He didn’t pretend not to understand. “It’s safer that they don’t think of fae as tame things. Not all fae are like starcorns—not even most, not by a long shot.”

  She frowned but to his surprise didn’t continue the argument. Did she look paler than before? Her fingers dug into his arm. He made a wordless sound of inquiry—it didn’t count if he didn’t actually ask the question aloud, did it?—but she only shook her head.

  “I thought the wyldfae usually hid themselves from people?” Jack asked.

  “They do,” Wyn confirmed. “But there are a great many more wyldfae here now than there have been for the past three centuries. And some wyldfae may be feeling…playful. Or curious, at least, to see mortal reactions now that the Iron Law has been rescinded.” The High King had lifted the Iron Law only last year, around the same time the old Lord Henry had died.

  The thought caught at him. When exactly had the Iron Law come down? So many things had occurred in the interim that he’d never wondered at the coincidence, that the death of Stariel’s old lord should coincide so closely with the return of Faerie. But he was suspicious of coincidence on general principle.

  Jack heaved a sigh. “Wonderful,” he complained. “Just wonderful.”

  Hetta swallowed when they reached the cart. “I think,” she said faintly, “that you should go to the Dower House without me.”

  “Hetta, please, don’t—” Wyn objected, but she released his arm and vanished in a swirl of pine and coffee. He glared at the blank space she’d occupied, stretching his leysight as far as it would go, but it didn’t extend as far as the house. Still, Stariel was unruffled, which meant she had to be safe; the land would be in uproar if she wasn’t. “Seven stormcrows.”

  “Bloody unnerving when she does that,” Jack agreed. Hetta had learnt how to translocate within the faeland recently, and she’d been using it more and more since. “She all right? She didn’t look well, before.”

  “She said she was fine,” he said plaintively, which made Jack give a bark of laughter.

  But Jack’s amusement was short-lived. He turned away from the spot Hetta had so recently vacated to look once again at the blossoming apple tree, his brows drawing together. Wyn knew that expression, and knew moreover that it did not bode well, but all Jack said was, “Well, we better get on then.”

  Jack remained ominously quiet as they took the pony cart to the Dower House, and Wyn used the reprieve to try to pull himself together, once again pushing down the restless curls of his magic. What was wrong with him today?

  The estate agent met them on the steps of the house. The building had seen substantial refurbishment recently; the workmen would complete the last of the repairs this week. The agent wasn’t from Stariel, and he gave Wyn a speculative once-over as they made the introductions. At least the man’s thorough appraisal held no hint of fear, and he managed to maintain a cautious professionalism as they toured the house.

  Jack was less professional, growing progressively more irritable with every room. Wyn knew he—alongside most of Hetta’s relatives—wasn’t much in favour of the house being rented out to strangers, however much it might help the estate’s finances, but it was unlike Jack not to put aside private dislike in the face of public scrutiny.

  By the time they reached the second floor, Jack was glowering like a thunderhead. Wyn took advantage of a moment when the agent was distracted by inspecting the bedrooms to pull Jack aside in the hallway.

  “Whatever is making you scowl at me so, can you put it aside at least for the next half-hour?” Wyn asked in an undertone. “We aren’t exactly presenting a united front, and we need this to go well. For Stariel.” The initial bank loan had already been spent—on repairs to the Dower House, and phone lines and elektricity to the House and some of the nearer settlements. The further-flung parts of the estate were still without. The release of further funds depended on them showing the bank that the estate could indeed meet their cash-flow projections.

  A muscle in Jack’s jaw worked. “Yes, let’s think of Stariel,” he ground out, just as the estate agent re-emerged.

  “Does the upstairs bathroom run hot water?” The man looked between Jack and Wyn, as if he could read the tension there.

  Wyn’s words appeared to have had some effect; it was clear Jack was trying to put his dark mood aside as he responded. The problem was that Jonathan Langley-Valstar was a poor liar, and his smile held far too much gritted teeth to be plausible.

  Wyn applied himself to the task of compensating for Jack and putting the estate agent at ease. Such a thing had become harder, now people knew what he was, but harder was not impossible, and the man’s wariness eased as they walked through rooms covered with drop cloths.

  They paused in the entry hall, and Wyn asked if the agent had any further questions. The man rocked slightly on his heels, and Wyn anticipated what he was about to
say even before he asked delicately, “Ah, this fairy business…?” He shaped the word with a grimace, eyes darting everywhere but to Wyn’s face. “Any prospective tenants will want to know if they’re likely to encounter any…issues.”

  What issues did the man mean? Briefly, Wyn considered telling the man that Hetta had already evicted the flock of piskies that had previously inhabited the Dower House’s attics. But no; that wouldn’t be reassuring.

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked, aggressively.

  The estate agent coloured. “Just, well, it stands to reason…” He turned to Wyn, an unlikely source of sympathy. “Well, people will wonder. There was that attack in Meridon, after all. A creature, at the palace.” Again, that sweeping gaze behind him, as if wings might have subtly snuck in at some point in the last hour. “And that woman with the red wings.”

  My sister, Wyn didn’t say. Aroset had tried to kill him and Hetta with lightning in a crowded part of the capital city. They’d survived thanks to Marius, who’d given Aroset a nasty case of psychic backlash at a crucial moment.

  “Neither is a danger to the public any longer,” he said instead. It was the single good thing to result from ThousandSpire’s curse. A hollowness formed under his sternum. Cat had to still be alive, didn’t she?

  “And Stariel is safe from fairies regardless,” Jack put in. Wyn met his eyes—there was something too complicated there for him to read.

  The estate agent looked between the two of them. “Right,” he said, in the tone of someone who isn’t entirely convinced but doesn’t want to keep arguing about it. “Well, thank you for the tour. You’ll be hearing from me.”