The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  “Is he likely to tell us anything, though?” Hetta asked.

  “He owes you a steep debt for giving him sanctuary here. You could demand this information and much more before it would equal the value of that.”

  Hetta blinked at him. “That’s…not why I gave him one of the spare bedrooms, but useful to know.” She frowned down at herself again. “The static happened earlier today as well, though that might’ve just been coincidence. But I’d like an answer sooner rather than later if there’s one to be had.”

  “I do not want to wait till morning either,” he confessed.

  She gave a weak smile. “Good thing the fae don’t care about unmarried mothers.”

  He hugged her, wishing he had words to convey all he felt. She was right; Rake wouldn’t care about that. He wouldn’t be scandalised by her pregnancy, but Wyn had no idea what his reaction might be beyond that, not in the violent mood he’d been in lately. Would Rake help them? If it had been a full fae child—but it wasn’t. How much would that matter to his brother? Would he see it as yet another betrayal on Wyn’s part? He wished, not for the first time, that Catsmere were here; he felt surer of her reaction than her twin’s.

  They dressed. Hetta had come to his room after the household had gone to bed but hadn’t bothered to change into her nightclothes first. There was a routine to it now, a comforting familiarity that filled Wyn with softness despite his worry. He’d never given much thought to mortal women’s undergarments before—other than as a line item on a laundry list back when he’d been filling the role of housekeeper—but the shapes and textures of Hetta’s fascinated him: the blush of her skin through the sheer fabric of her chemise, the soft silken sound stockings made as she drew them up her legs. Wyn found the mortal attitude towards nudity tiresome, but he had to admit it added an extra dimension to seeing Hetta like this. It was the intimacy rather than the eroticism of it that made his pulse quicken.

  Or rather, not only the eroticism. He wasn’t a stone.

  Mine, his instincts whispered, with a possessiveness he wasn’t sure what to make of. It had too much in keeping with those odd moments earlier in the day, when he’d struggled to keep from turning Jack into a smoking crater. Or to keep from launching skywards with Hetta like a cantankerous eagle.

  “I didn’t realise putting on a sock required such intense concentration,” Hetta teased, startling him out of his reverie.

  “Perhaps no one has ever taught you proper sock-donning etiquette then,” he said primly, finishing the task and pulling on his shoes. “Butlers are known for their understanding of correct attire, after all.”

  “You’re not a butler anymore, Wyn.”

  “I remain in possession of excellent butlering skills. And I am still the steward.” What did he hope to achieve by raising the point? They both knew his status at the estate had evolved into something more complicated. Hadn’t it? The thought rose, unbidden: Does Hetta wish that there wasn’t a child and that I’d accepted ThousandSpire’s throne? Hetta loved him, he knew, but it didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t chosen this freely, any of it.

  Hetta held his gaze, but in the end only said, “I prefer fiancé.” She held out a hand. He took it.

  They made their way through the hushed darkness of the house, and Hetta summoned a small magelight to bob above them as they crept downstairs.

  “I don’t know why I thought being lord would mean less sneaking through my own house in the dead of night,” she reflected.

  He chuckled. Around them, the house creaked as the storm wore itself out on the stones.

  “Did you sneak around the Spires at night, as a child?”

  Memories bubbled up. ThousandSpire was a dark court, which meant the night there was a time of deep, still power. He’d been a quiet child, skirting the edges of the court after it descended into sadism and savagery. After his mother had left. But he didn’t want to speak of that. He fished about for a softer memory, before everything had gone so horribly wrong, before he’d fled his home court in fear of his own father.

  “Irokoi used to take me night-flying before he lost his eye. Before Mother left.” And just where was his oldest sibling? Irokoi had appeared via astral projection and given Wyn a cryptic message to pass on to Catsmere: sleep is not death. Wyn had come to the unhappy conclusion in the weeks since that Koi had known what Cat was planning, but he still didn’t understand why. Maybe Lamorkin would know when they returned.

  “Catsmere told me about your mother. She said King Aeros was worse after she disappeared.”

  “I don’t remember him very well before that.” It made him uneasy, speaking of his father, and he checked the urge to draw up his leysight. His father was dead; he could not touch them now.

  Hetta squeezed his hand. “Where do you think she went?”

  It was an old question, an old hurt, its sharpness worn smooth and hard from years of wondering. He didn’t want to talk of it, but perhaps it was better to speak the words in the dark now, so that they might be over and done with.

  “I like to believe she had a compelling reason to leave, that she still lives, and that something prevents her from returning.” A bitter and childish hope, he knew, but the alternatives seemed worse: that she was dead; that she stayed away by choice. “I try not to dwell on it.”

  He’d helped kill one parent and the other had abandoned him, willingly or not. What kind of parent will that make me?

  8

  Embroidered Dragonflies

  When Hetta knocked on Rakken’s door, he answered it wearing an extremely immodest dressing gown. It wasn’t so much the fact that it was silk, black, and embroidered with golden dragonflies as that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He was in his fae form, and the garment was constructed to allow for wings, but it meant the only thing preventing the garment from sliding down his body was the knot behind his neck—and it didn’t look like a very secure knot. A distracting quantity of muscular brown skin was already on display.

  She couldn’t help a feminine flutter of admiration, though she hoped none of it came through in her expression. She’d grown resigned to the fact that Rakken oozed sensuality in the same way pigs couldn’t help their stench. It was simply a mildly irritating fact of life, or possibly a character defect. At least I know it’s not just me. Even self-righteous Aunt Sybil had a distressing tendency to melt into silliness in Rakken’s presence.

  Rakken’s eyes gleamed. “Did you knock merely to enjoy the view, Lord Valstar?”

  “I have no taste for half-plucked pigeons,” she said, because he deserved it. Wyn laughed softly behind her.

  Rakken’s wings rustled, the sheared primaries not so obvious with them folded behind his back. Had she offended him? Maybe he was sensitive about his damaged wings and that was why he never appeared without them glamoured to perfection.

  But Rakken chuckled, a deep, sinful sound. “Ah, yes, you prefer your prey unfeathered. And bruised, apparently.” He noted Wyn’s eye.

  Throwing a fireball at him would be childish, she told herself. Particularly when they wanted his help.

  “That’s none of your business, Rake,” she said.

  “I have not given you leave to call me thus, Lord Valstar.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be my brother-in-law, it’s ridiculous to keep calling you ‘Your Highness’.”

  Both fae froze. Sometimes she was reminded forcibly that Rakken and Wyn were brothers; they reacted similarly to strong emotions, analysing the situation before they’d let themselves act. Rakken broke out of it first. He leaned one arm against the doorframe and considered the pair of them through half-lidded eyes. The hem of the silk robe lifted a couple of inches. Hetta fixed her gaze firmly on the lintel.

  “A bold prediction,” he murmured. “Given I cannot imagine the High King is pleased enough with Hallowyn to grant him such a favour, even if you had any notion of how to find him.”

  “The High King must also know how to free ThousandSpire from its curse,” W
yn pointed out. “So you should be glad we’re trying to find him.”

  Only the sudden brightening of Rakken’s eyes betrayed his interest; they glowed briefly in a way that was more than metaphorical. I shall have to ask Wyn about the specifics of why that happens. Without making him feel sensitive about it—she was fairly certain he didn’t know he sometimes did it too when they were alone.

  “Ah—and that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? It’s all about your precious mortal—though stormwinds know how you can justify dragging her into this, when you claim to care about her so. Do you fool yourself that the High King will favour this match?” Rakken smiled, and it wasn’t one of mirth. “Or can you tell me that your primary motivation truly is Cat and the Spires?”

  “I’m trying very hard to resist the urge to singe your eyebrows off, but I will if you keep being so deliberately provoking. What does it matter how Wyn prioritises the various things that all matter to him a lot, including saving Catsmere?” They shouldn’t have come. How could she reveal vulnerability to someone so crackling with animosity?

  “If ThousandSpire matters so much to him, then why does that dusken rose still live?” Rakken shifted. How could the sound of silk on bare skin be so loud? She met his gaze, which actually helped matters, because there was nothing sensual in his expression. His eyes were hard and cold. “Why are you here, Lord Valstar?”

  She shook her head. “For nothing. I’ve changed my mind. Good night, Your Highness.”

  Before she could turn to leave, Rakken reached out and grasped her wrist, quick as a cat. A spark of elektricity sizzled over her skin with an audible crack. Rakken jerked back, the gold threads in his dark hair glowing for a second before the energy dissipated.

  Stariel swirled around her, unsettled just as much by the faint citrus of Rakken’s magic as the sudden static. Wyn stepped in front of her, his stance uncharacteristically aggressive, and she tasted the spice of his magic on the back of her tongue. Despite everything, she pressed a hand to her mouth to prevent a burble of laughter escaping. It was just so very posturing.

  Some silent message passed between the two brothers, and Rakken’s eyes widened. The citrus faded, though the storm lingered.

  “High King’s horns.” Rakken looked between Wyn and Hetta, and a slow smile spread across his face, the softest she’d ever seen there, as if he was too genuinely taken aback to add his usual edge. “You are with child, Lord Valstar.” It wasn’t a question.

  She put her hands over her stomach and was then immediately annoyed at herself for the impulse. How had Rakken known? She hooked her arm into Wyn’s in gentle rebuke, but he didn’t abandon his position between her and Rakken.

  “I am,” she said reluctantly. Did she look pregnant, somehow, already? It was probably just some magical fae thing, but it made her self-conscious anyway. Two people in one day figuring out her secret didn’t bode well. “Congratulations on your future uncle-ship.”

  Rakken blinked. “Indeed.” He blinked again. “A half-human niephling.” He turned introspective, playing absently with one of his lapels. It didn’t improve the dressing-gown situation; or rather, it improved it in an entirely inappropriate direction.

  She fixed her gaze on Wyn’s shoulder to resist the nearly overwhelming impulse to look down.

  “Does your brother know?” Rakken asked her suddenly.

  “I have two brothers, you know,” she said. She knew which brother he was asking about, but the gods knew Rakken took every opportunity to answer her questions with that sort of fae nonsense. Besides, she didn’t trust Rakken’s interest in Marius—not since the revelation that her brother was telepathic.

  But Rakken didn’t dignify this with a response, merely raising one cool eyebrow and letting the silence grow.

  She sighed and shook her head. “Neither of them knows yet. Don’t you dare tell Marius before I do.” Not that she was sure how Rakken would achieve that, since Marius was in Knoxbridge and the two weren’t in communication, but it seemed worth giving the warning anyway.

  “I doubt anyone will need to tell him once he sees you in person. Or is he to remain absent for some time yet?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Why did he care when Marius returned? It could be simply because Rakken wanted some warning of his arrival, but she’d never gotten the impression that the telepathy worried Rakken. Not like it worries me, she thought guiltily. But it wasn’t unreasonable to find it unsettling, was it? One ought to be safe to think whatever one liked in the privacy of one’s own mind. Especially from one’s older brothers.

  I’m sure Marius wouldn’t look at people’s thoughts on purpose, she told herself sternly. Though as Marius had no idea he was telepathic and no conscious control over the ability, the thought wasn’t that reassuring. She hadn’t liked keeping it secret, but Rakken had warned that Marius might lose whatever subconscious control he’d gained if he found out about his ability.

  “Why do you wish to know?” Wyn asked, and there was a thread of something in his voice that Hetta couldn’t quite interpret; a hidden bait he was daring Rakken to rise to.

  But Rakken answered with unruffled ease. “I should like warning of telepaths crossing my path.” He considered Hetta critically and made a thoughtful sound deep in his throat. “Interesting. The energy fluxes are more unstable than they should be, aren’t they?”

  “That’s why we are here,” Wyn said tightly. “Is that…normal?”

  Rakken canted his head, the smell of his magic intensifying. Stariel grumbled. she reassured the land.

  “I don’t think so, but I need to examine you more closely.” He held out a hand commandingly for Hetta’s.

  “Can we do this somewhere other than the hallway?” Her heart beat rabbit-fast. Rakken didn’t think it was normal. What did that mean?

  Rakken straightened. “Very well, but not here. My wards will interfere. The Green Drawing Room will suffice.” He gestured for them to remove themselves from his doorway. Apparently Rakken saw no issue with striding through the house in a state likely to cause a riot.

  Wyn sighed. “Stop needling Hetta and put some clothes on first.”

  Rakken shrugged. “As you wish.” He shut the door.

  Hetta slipped a hand into Wyn’s. “Sorry.”

  His russet eyes were amused. “For what? You’ve no need to apologise for Rake.” He looked pointedly at the door and raised his voice. “Rake is the one showing poor taste and an even poorer sense of humour, pretending he does not know the conventions as a guest of this house.”

  Rakken pretended he hadn’t heard Wyn when he re-appeared a little later, dressed. He’d adopted Spires fashions for the past few weeks. Possibly only because that comprised the bulk of his wardrobe, but she knew he owned at least some mortal clothing because he’d worn it in Meridon. Was it all a dig at Wyn not accepting his fae side? Or was it simply that Rakken felt alone here, cut off from his homeland and his twin? It was hard to believe Rakken was that sentimental, given that the only emotion that occasionally broke through his dispassionate mask was rage, but she knew from experience that anger could be used to hide a wealth of other emotions.

  They went to the Green Drawing Room. This had been her mother’s favourite room, and the essential décor hadn’t been altered since she’d died—which meant it was now somewhat shabby. An old, gentle grief wedged its way into Hetta’s heart. She’d never known her mother. And now Hetta was—well, in a state that made one feel the lack more than usual.

  Rakken ignored them and sank down onto the rug with casual grace, crossing his legs and resting his hands palm-up on his knees. His wings draped behind him, but his shorn feathers didn’t touch the floor. He made an impatient gesture for Hetta to join him. Wyn stood sentinel by the door, tense as a bowstring.

  She sat down facing Rakken and took his hands. Citrus and storms rose, but whatever he was doing wasn’t intrusive. Even Stariel didn’t do more than eyeball it suspiciously before subsiding. She waited, trying
not to fidget. Around them, the house creaked.

  She was starting to recognise the nuances that distinguished Wyn’s storm signature from Rakken’s. Wyn’s was like rain fallen on long-dry earth; Rakken’s held more of a drenched greenery smell.

  Rakken’s eyes snapped open; his brow was furrowed.

  “What?” Wyn’s voice was all edges.

  Rakken spoke with a kind of care she wasn’t used to seeing from him, and it made unease shiver down her spine. “There is growing storm magic within you, Lord Valstar; I believe that’s what is causing the static.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “To you—no, I don’t think so. Or at least, not at present. Even mortals aren’t so sensitive, and the amount of charge is minute.”

  “And to the child?” Wyn asked.

  She saw the answer in Rakken’s eyes. “I am sorry, Lord Valstar. I think, if the energy fluxes aren’t stabilised…the child will not reach term.” There was an uncharacteristic gentleness in his expression, and Hetta wanted to hit him for it.

  “Why?” Her voice came out flat.

  Rakken tilted his head. “You are mortal, Lord Valstar. He is not. Perhaps it isn’t a stable combination.”

  “One of my ancestors was fae.”

  “True. Perhaps that, and your bond to this faeland, is why this was able to begin at all.”

  “I meant, if one of my ancestors was fae, then half-human, half-fae children are clearly an entirely possible combination. How sure are you that static isn’t a perfectly normal side effect in such cases?” She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.

  Rakken spread his hands, the surrender too easy to be satisfying. “True. Perhaps I am wrong. Even so—” He hesitated.

  “Say it,” Wyn growled.

  Rakken drew his wings tight against his back as he rose. “I think this is not a normal level of power, even for a full-blooded stormdancer child.” He looked old suddenly, the lines of his face sharper.