by AJ Lancaster
“Don’t pretend it’s the same.”
“Of course. Because I’m a woman.” She picked up a pen from her desk and stabbed it into the notebook in front of her with a satisfying wrench.
“Because the child will be half-fae and if the Conclave have any wits, that’s what they’ll care about, not bloody propriety! What will it even look like? Will it have wings?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know; Wyn doesn’t know. Nobody knows! There hasn’t been a child like this for three hundred years at least and there’s no one I can ask for advice!”
“Oh, Hetta.” There was only softness in the word. “I’m sure you’ll be a great mother. You’ve faced down literal monsters, after all; raising one baby can hardly be worse than that. And you have time to get the knot tied, before it becomes, er, too obvious.” A dry note entered his tone. “Plenty of firstborns are born improbably early, anyway.”
“But what if—” She didn’t finish, but he heard it anyway, homing in on that secret fear not with telepathy but with familiarity. It was an old heartache, intimate to the two of them, though Marius had never, ever blamed her for the fact that her birth had heralded his mother’s death.
“You’ll be fine, Hetta. Modern medicine is much better than it was, back when…well, anyway, it’s different now. You’ll be fine.”
“I know it’s silly to be afraid.” Equally silly was how reassuring she found his words, given that he knew even less about this process than she did. She blinked suddenly wet eyes, annoyed with herself. Why on earth should that make her cry?
“It doesn’t seem silly at all. I’m terrified,” he said frankly. “For one thing, the prospect of being an uncle makes me feel depressingly ancient.”
She gave a watery chuckle. “Well, never mind all that. Why were you calling me in the first place before I distracted you?”
“Oh, that.” Marius’s tone went dark. “More wonderful news on the public relations front.” He told her about the reporter approaching him. “I warned Gregory, but I wanted to let you know as well, in case they range further afield.”
Hetta wrinkled her nose. “Goodness knows what the locals will tell them, if they do.” She hoped any reporters would at least hold off until after Angus’s house party and the Conclave; being hounded by the press was unlikely to impress the Northern lords. “But how is Greg doing?”
Marius was a bad liar; she could tell by the long pause that he was censoring himself. “Er, well enough, I suppose. He doesn’t really talk to me much—gone are the days of my older-brotherly shine, apparently.” His aggrieved tone was genuine, she thought, but also camouflage.
“What don’t you want to tell me?” She hunted about and retrieved her pen so she could continue stabbing at her notebook.
Marius hedged. “It’s not your fault, Hetta.”
“What isn’t my fault?”
There was a long sigh down the other end of the phone, and she could see Marius run a hand through his hair. “I’ve been summoned.” All Hetta could think of was fae magic, but his next words clarified that he was talking of a summons of a more mundane sort. “The Earl of Wolver wants to talk to me.”
“What?”
“Yes,” he agreed darkly. “Apparently the queen, in her infinite wisdom, has made him Chief Inquirer into Fae Misconduct.”
Hetta had to stop herself from yanking on the phone cord. “She was supposed to punish him for what he did! Not put him in charge of…whatever he’s been put in charge of!”
“Quite. But I don’t think I can ignore it. He’s out of town at the moment, but he wants me to come up to Meridon when he returns. An official interview.”
Hetta didn’t want her brother anywhere near the Earl of Wolver, not after seeing the way he’d looked at him with such loathing. “Marius—”
“The earl is my problem to deal with.” His tone had gone brittle, and she knew his shoulders would be up around his ears. “And I wouldn’t have told you anything about it except I know you’ve the Conclave coming up, and I didn’t want you blindsided by the news if it spills over into that.”
Hetta glared at her office walls in lieu of her brother and the Conclave both.
“It’s not your fault,” Marius repeated. He paused. “You’ll tell me, won’t you, if there’s…anything else I can do?” Her brother was just as much at sea with the concept of pregnancy as she was. “I could try to take some leave and come up to Stariel before end of term.” Knoxbridge’s term had only just begun, and as a junior staff member with a patchy academic record, Marius’s position was precarious; it was a mark of his concern that he’d even mentioned the idea.
“No, I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. She knew how important Marius’s work was to him, how he mourned the years of ladder-climbing he’d lost when their father had decreed he put a halt to his academic studies. She looked out at the wind-ruffled caps of Starwater. “I’d better go, unless you have any more dramatic reveals to make.”
His voice hardened. “Can I speak to Wyn?”
“Jack’s already given him a black eye, if you were planning to chew his ear off.”
“Bloody martyr,” Marius groused. “But I still want to chew his ear off. Humour me this once, sister mine.”
Hetta rolled her eyes but nonetheless found herself irrationally cheered by this unreasonable behaviour. Honestly, I could do without these see-sawing emotions. “Oh, all right then. I’ll fetch him.”
13
Full Moon
Four interminable days later, Wyn held his breath as the full moon inched above the horizon. He and Hetta stood in Carnelian Hall, her hand warm in his. They summoned Lamorkin in the space between the fireplace and the dilapidated armchairs, freeing a little portion of Stariel’s lands from the wards against portals for a time. The connection between Wyn and his godparent felt oddly weak, as if it might snap at the merest touch.
“Lamorkin,” he called. “Lamorkin. Lamorkin.”
He’d tried to summon Lamorkin so many times without answer lately, and the connection when it finally unfurled was so thin that he feared a repetition of those failures.
But this time, his godparent answered.
The relief was so heady he nearly swayed as a portal opened with a snap in the unwarded circle. A glimmer of wintery daylight before the portal closed; Lamorkin had come from somewhere far, far away.
Lamorkin gave themself a shake of adjustment as the portal snapped closed and blinked up at him from the form of a delicate horse-like creature with six legs. Their fur was a soft fawn-brown, growing longer and more luxurious with every breath.
Wyn smiled. “Godparent. I am very glad you came.”
“Good evening, Lamorkin,” Hetta added politely, her hand tightening on his.
He appreciated the effort Hetta made to hide how much Lamorkin unnerved her. The rest of her family had been less restrained, at the single appearance Lamorkin had made to Hetta’s family before leaving on their mission: a family breakfast weeks ago. Lamorkin had gotten on alarmingly well with Hetta’s grandmother, and the two of them had spent much of the meal cackling and swapping increasingly awkward stories while the rest of the Valstars watched with expressions ranging from horror to fascination.
Lamorkin made a thoughtful noise low in their throat, a resonant, eerie sound of caves and songbirds, and shook out their long fur, which had taken on a subtle striped pattern in shades of purple.
“Hallowyn, Hallowyn, Hallowyn,” they chided, tilting their narrow head to the side. “Hallowyn Tempestren.” There was power in the true names of fae, and using one had a range of connotations depending on context. This one wasn’t that subtle; Lamorkin was needling him.
Wyn just smiled, still too relieved that they’d come to be so easily baited.
Lamorkin watched his reaction closely. “You do so like to play pretend-mortal, don’t you? It irks you to be reminded of your own nature, doesn’t it?”
“I know what I am,” Wyn said and then cursed himself for taking the bait.
He took a long breath. “Godparent, I—”
“How long does a godparent’s bond last, Hallowyn?” Their lips stretched in a mouth that was far too wide for their face, growing broader as they smiled. “Naughty, naughty, princeling,” they said slyly, looking at Hetta.
Oh. Oh. “But I am so young,” he complained.
By fae standards, that was. He felt faintly indignant. By rights, he should’ve been able to rely on a godparent for a good century more—in Faerie. Time moved more swiftly in Mortal, and he aged more quickly while he was here. He should have realised what else that might mean.
Lamorkin began to shrink, their extra limbs twining about each other and merging until they stood on only two legs.
“Young and powerful,” they agreed. “You’ve come into your full bloodfeathers.” Lamorkin sprouted feathery wings, and their features became fae-like and yet…not.
A child blinked up at them.
Hetta’s hold on his hand tightened into a death grip. The child had silver wings and dark horns, and Hetta’s grey eyes, big and solemn, and something of her in the shape of their nose, the arch of their narrow eyebrows.
“It’s a guess, Hetta,” he said tightly. “A guess. It’s not—Lamorkin cannot see the future.”
“I can extrapolate, godson,” Lamorkin said. They sounded eerily like Hetta’s younger sister Laurel, which probably wasn’t an accident. Lamorkin held the form, their mocking expression out of place on the youthful face they’d assumed.
“I would rather you did not.” He’d admit weakness so that Hetta didn’t have to, her grip tight enough to hurt. “Please.”
Lamorkin shook their head, rearranging their auburn locks. “Does it scare you, to see what you’re brewing? Perhaps it should.” But their lips pursed, turning blue and extending outwards into a long beak. The child melted away into a brightly feathered creature, and the tightness of Hetta’s grip eased.
“Yes, and on that rather ominous note, do you know how to help us?” Hetta’s tone was even, but he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse through their joined hands.
Lamorkin quirked a row of feathers at Wyn.
“She speaks for me,” he confirmed. Lamorkin was bound to aid him, not Hetta. “You are still my godparent, aren’t you?”
“For now,” Lamorkin agreed. “Not for very much longer. One cannot be both parent and godchild, Hallowyn.”
“I’ll miss you.” He meant the words—he could not speak an untruth—but if there was ever a time for flattery, this was it.
Lamorkin’s eyes crinkled, the closest they could come to a smile with their beak.
“So sentimental, princeling.” But he knew they were pleased. “Ask your question,” they instructed Hetta.
Hetta told Lamorkin about the static and what Rake had said. Lamorkin’s eyes grew thoughtful, into lamplike pools that they turned on Wyn.
“The instability isn’t surprising, with your sire, Hallowyn, now that I consider the matter. Aeros was already ancient when you were born.” They flicked their tail thoughtfully. “What is surprising is that this little spark has lasted this long without burning out. Perhaps you will be my godchild a while yet.”
“What if we get the High King to marry us?” His voice came out flat. “Rakken said sengra might help.”
Lamorkin tilted their head and was silent a long, long time. The walls grew closer, and Wyn longed to unfurl his wings and be gone, gone, gone, away and into the sky.
“Yes,” they said. They smiled, showing sharp teeth. “Yes, I think it would help.”
Relief and anticipation so heady it again threatened his balance. “Did you find him, godparent? Will he grant us permission to marry?”
“He has set you a task.”
“Which is…?”
He waited impatiently as Lamorkin grew taller, sprouting antlers and wings as ribbed as a great bat’s. Lamorkin settled themselves into their new form, flexing their wings and stretching the moment out. Hetta is right; the fae are too inclined to melodrama. It was certainly effective though; he held his breath, chest tight with anticipation.
When they spoke, their voice had deepened, and a shiver ran down Wyn’s spine. Was this the High King’s voice?
“The task is thus: if the rulers of ThousandSpire and DuskRose approve your union, present yourself to the High King and he will grant you a boon.”
Hetta made a sound of disbelief. “Does literally every royal we know need to approve my marriage? ThousandSpire doesn’t even have a ruler at present. The High King knows that, doesn’t he? Is this his roundabout way of saying no?”
“He is responsible for considering the balance of things; it is his nature and his role.” Lamorkin looked at Wyn. “You know why the High King has asked this.”
Wyn swallowed. “Yes.” All his wrongs coming home to roost. He couldn’t look at Hetta. “How much time do we have, godparent?”
Lamorkin shrugged. “Not enough.”
His lungs were cold, painful stone, making it hard to breathe. “I…is there some other way?” There had to be a way. He’d make there be a way.
Lamorkin pursed their lips. “There is a spell I may be able to do, to give you more time. But it is not an easy spell, little one. There will be a price.”
“I will pay it.”
“Wyn!” Anger flushed Hetta’s face, her eyes stormcloud grey. Like the eyes of the child Lamorkin had ‘guessed’.
He shook off Hetta’s hand, energy roiling beneath his skin. “No. I will pay the price. Not you.” This wasn’t a debt he was prepared to share, not when he was the cause of this. Not when he’d seen Hetta’s misery at the thought of losing the child.
“You could at least ask what the price is first!”
Lamorkin chuckled. “Your lover is right, little one. It’s reckless to make such promises in ignorance. But in this case, the price has already been paid, if you are willing.” Lamorkin held out slender hands tipped with golden nails.
Oh. His heart squeezed.
“You’ve been a good godparent to me,” he said, taking Lamorkin’s hands. Better than his own parents, though that wasn’t a high bar.
“What price?” Hetta demanded.
“The one my mother paid for Lamorkin’s guardianship,” he said softly. “Lamorkin is asking I forfeit the remainder of their term as my godparent in exchange for this.”
Lamorkin’s beetle-black eyes shone. “You are sure, godson?”
His throat was tight, but the words came without trouble. “I am. Thank you.” The price was more than fair, given that if the child lived, Lamorkin wouldn’t long remain his godparent anyway. Lamorkin could have reasonably demanded more, and they hadn’t, and he was deeply moved by this show of sentiment.
Lamorkin’s long ears flicked, their fingers pressing tightly around the bones of his hands, and he was on fire. It burned through him from that point of contact in the space between blinks, incandescent and burrowing down to his core.
His connection with his godparent was older than his oldest memory: a still point around which the world spun. Memories surged of that terrible night he’d left the Court of Ten Thousand Spires. Lamorkin’s eyes, wide and frightened, their visage utterly still. Go, they had said. Go now, or I won’t be able to protect you. Don’t tell me where you hide unless you must.
Images of that desperate journey flashed through him, and he was helpless to stop them: how it had felt as his broken oath ripped his power apart; the darksink he’d fallen into, where creatures had almost sucked him dry before he’d escaped; the hostile realms of Faerie he’d wandered, lost and alone; the pain of torn flesh and broken bones; and the fear of pursuit a constant drumbeat almost but not quite loud enough to drown the ache of betrayal.
Another memory spun loose. It wasn’t his, this time.
They watched from the shadows.
The queen sat at her son’s bedside. The eldest prince lay on his side, his back to his mother, his form mostly obscured by his black feathers. What could be seen of h
is head from this angle was swathed in bandages. It was barely daybreak, pink reflected light limning the gap at the bottom of the drapes, a sharp line of brightness in the otherwise dim room.
“The healers say there was too much damage; the eye will never heal properly.” Sorrow in the queen’s voice.
“I know. They told me. No more night flying for me.”
The queen put a hand on the prince’s wings in comfort, but he jerked away from the touch. She pulled her hand back. “What happened, Koi?”
He turned over at that, sitting up. He was lean and limber and bloodied, a young but grown thing compared to their own chick. A patch covered one eye, the other half-obscured by the white-blond hair spilling over his forehead. He pushed his hair away, freeing his undamaged golden eye to search his mother’s face.
“You don’t know. Why don’t you know? It happened here. You were here…weren’t you?” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
The queen went utterly still, not one of her feathers stirring.
The prince spoke slowly, as if scratching deep to find the words, each one emerging as a small revelation. “But you weren’t here, were you? You went away.” His eye widened. “And we forgot that you’d gone. Again. I remember now.”
The prince began to pull at his bandages, hissing and recoiling from the queen’s touch when she reached out to stop him, working frantically until the last of the white strips fell away to reveal a raw, oozing wound. The slash had cut from his temple to his cheek, directly through his eye, which was a swollen, purpled mess. An ugly ruin of promise. He gestured at it, his expression hard.
“This was your fault.”
“Is your mind turning on you again? Set did this to you, not me.” The queen’s voice was gentle.
“She held the knife,” the prince agreed. “Father encouraged her. He doesn’t like weakness, of course. But I think the real reason he encouraged it is because he thought it would bring you back here. And it did, didn’t it? So all you’ve taught them both is that violence is the solution. Again. It’s getting worse. What will they do next time, now they’ve escalated to bleeding their own kin?”
