The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  The queen sighed. “I will talk to Set. But you should remember that I never left.” Her tone grew soothing, low and hypnotic. The prince’s harsh expression eased, his tensed shoulders suddenly drooping.

  The queen picked up the bandages and began re-bandaging the wound. The prince sat passively throughout. “Remember that I have always been here, that everything will be fine. Remember that we are happy.”

  The lines of the prince’s face slackened, his eyelids fluttering, and the queen eased him back down onto the bed. He curled into himself, black wings settling around his limbs like a blanket. The queen stood staring down at him as the dawnlight softened into day.

  When she turned away, her gaze went straight to them, piercing through wood and shadow and glamour as if these defences were nothing. They shivered under the piercing green of her gaze.

  “I don’t like spies, Lamorkin.”

  “It is my nature—and our bargain,” they said, alarmed enough by the queen’s expression to need to remind her.

  “Mother?” a small boy’s voice. Both of them turned. He was so young and shiny-soft, this chick of theirs, a doveling in a nest of hawks despite all their attempts to teach him sharpness. Even his wings hadn’t yet lost all their downy baby feathers, soft bits of fluffy white still scattered amidst the silver.

  The boy looked from his mother to the bed where his injured brother lay, the same uncertainty that had been in the court’s oldest prince’s face now echoed in its youngest’s.

  “What are you doing?” he asked his mother. He hadn’t seen Lamorkin, hidden under their glamour.

  What would happen, they wondered, if they simply stole him from this nest, spirited him to somewhere safe? But that was foolishness; no such place in this world. They would have to keep him alive long enough to grow his own teeth and claws.

  Lamorkin met the queen’s eyes. “I have decided my price; I am calling in my favour.”

  The connection snapped, clean and swift as a knife, and Wyn staggered back, something cold and hard in his curled fingers. His chest felt hollow with absence, and for a moment he didn’t know where or when he was. There had been…a room in the palace at ThousandSpire, and, and someone he knew was hurt, but…but it was gone.

  His eyes were wet, and he lifted a wondering hand to his face to wipe away tears he didn’t remember shedding. Blinking down at his hand, he saw he held a heart-shaped stone, clear as glass. He could feel the magic in it, the characteristic elegance of Lamorkin’s magic.

  Lamorkin looked at him, and their expression was as soft as he’d ever seen it. They tapped his cheek fondly.

  “You have until the stone turns black. Goodbye, Hallowyn. And good luck.” With a pop, they disappeared.

  Where they had been, an ink-black feather hung in the air, spinning lazily until Wyn reached out and caught it.

  14

  The Heartstone

  “Honestly, do fae take lessons in making dramatic exits and entrances?” Hetta said, glaring at the spot Lamorkin had recently vacated. “They’re not even gone from the estate! I can feel them in their room upstairs.” Hetta had offered Lamorkin lodgings on the basis that they were sort of part of Wyn’s family. Since he put up with any number of her strange and eccentric relatives, she could house a few of his on occasion—the non-murderous ones, at least. Aroset wasn’t invited.

  But Hetta’s faint knowledge that Lamorkin was still at Stariel meant Wyn’s godparent had left them on a cliffhanger on purpose. Stariel rumbled a question at her. She was pretty sure she could translocate other people about the estate if she wanted, but, firstly, it would be rude. Secondly—it reminded her a little too strongly of how Wyn’s father had popped people about on a whim. How could she emulate someone like King Aeros?

  Even if Lamorkin deserved it.

  “They have a peculiar sense of humour.” Wyn stared at the feather in his hand, a black slash of ink. Hetta had a good eye for colour, and she’d only seen a black that rich once before, in the wings of Wyn’s oldest brother when she’d been locked in a cell in the Court of Ten Thousand Spires.

  “It’s Irokoi’s,” he confirmed.

  But Hetta was far less concerned with the feather than Wyn. Whatever Lamorkin had done had shaken him. His brown skin had taken on a paler hue, and he kept staring unseeing at the feather. She crossed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. Normally he ran slightly hotter than she did, but now he was cool to the touch.

  “You’re not all right.” A statement rather than a question.

  “I remembered something, when the bond came loose between Lamorkin and me.” He shook his head. “My mother.”

  “A good memory or a bad one?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know—the details have fled. A…painful one, perhaps.” He took a deep breath and straightened, separating himself from her to bring his open hand up between them. On his palm lay a heart-shaped stone the size of a coin, clear as glass, glittering like a diamond. It couldn’t be a diamond, could it? It was far too big.

  Stariel perked up, highly interested in whatever it was.

  “This is for you,” he said. “You should wear it next to your skin.”

  She gasped at the ice cold stone as he placed it in her palm. “It feels…strange.” The stone began to swiftly warm, until it was the same temperature as her hand. Little shivers—like an echo of static—ran across her skin towards the stone. It had been perfectly translucent, but as she watched it grew opaque and turned to white with the faintest hint of blue. “Is it taking in the surplus storm magic?”

  “Yes. It will turn black when its capacity is overrun.” His eyes were dark, and he answered her next question before she could voice it. “I don’t know how long it will last. Long enough for us to complete the High King’s task, I hope.”

  There was a tiny hole in the stone, and she removed the necklace she wore and threaded the chain through it, tucking it securely under her blouse. It rested against her collarbone, slightly warmer now than the rest of her.

  “So Lamorkin is no longer your godparent?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t know what to say; she knew how he felt about Lamorkin, the sole fae who’d been on his side for all those years. Paid to be on his side, and Wyn had loved them despite knowing that, which all felt unbearably sad. Though, given Lamorkin was currently haunting Stariel’s bedrooms, perhaps Wyn’s love wasn’t one-sided, when all the prices and oaths were taken away.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That seems inadequate.”

  He shook his head. “It was time. They have done their duty by me and more.”

  Hetta touched the stone at her throat. “What did you mean about knowing why the High King wants us to get far too many approvals?”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “It’s…justice, of a sort. He asks us to reforge what my broken oath shattered: common ground between two warring courts. And to remedy a situation I indirectly caused: ThousandSpire’s curse.”

  That might make sense by what she knew of fae logic, but: “ThousandSpire wasn’t your fault—Cat did that!” How dare the High King hold them to ransom for it?

  “She wouldn’t have had to if I had taken the throne.” He took her hands. “I don’t regret my choice, but I’m sorry to be the reason the High King asks so much of…us.” He grimaced at the last word, but he’d said it anyway, so she threw her arms around him and hugged him close. “Ah, this isn’t the reaction I expected to the news of my liege’s demands.”

  She pulled back so she could look up into his eyes. “We’ll do this. Free ThousandSpire and bludgeon both them and DuskRose into approving of us.”

  Honestly, this task was so typically fae, a puzzle box of layers and unnecessary complications. Not that she’d expected anything as simple as a, a request for a dowry or something, but still!

  When had her personal life gotten so very political? It made her half-long for the simplicity of her life back in Meridon. If she
’d decided to marry in her misspent youth, it would’ve been a matter between only her and the nearest monk-druid. Why hadn’t she appreciated that luxury more at the time? Irrelevant that there hadn’t been anybody she’d wanted to marry amid her various love affairs; it was the principle of the thing.

  But at least they had a concrete direction now, even if it was an exasperating one. Thinking out loud, she said, “I suppose there’s no question of whether we’re going to DuskRose’s ball or not, then. Though DuskRose’s queen isn’t going to give us her approval just for the asking, is she?” Fae were never that generous, in her experience. Bar one.

  Wyn’s fingers tightened around Irokoi’s feather. “DuskRose’s approval may actually prove simpler to gain than ThousandSpire’s. At least DuskRose currently has a ruler. ThousandSpire…even if it were free, it refused to choose any of my siblings.”

  “Well, it can’t have you back.” Though ought she to consider it, given the circumstances? But Wyn was already shaking his head.

  “No, it can’t. That is, I don’t think it can be undone, even if I wanted it.”

  “Good.” Her emphasis made him chuckle. “Maybe ThousandSpire will reconsider one or other of your siblings now that option’s been taken away? Though hopefully not Aroset. In any case, it can’t choose anyone while it’s under a curse, can it? So we find Irokoi and he can hopefully tell us how to undo it, and then we worry about finding it a suitable ruler who approves of us.” There were a few too many ‘hopefully’s in that. She gestured at the feather. “Is there a reason Lamorkin didn’t simply tell us where Irokoi is, if they know?”

  “I suspect they’ve said and given all they can.”

  Of course simple communication would never do when there was a more convoluted option available. “Still, I’m assuming we can use the feather to find Irokoi?”

  “I hope so, yes,” Wyn said. His expression grew pained. “But I will need Rake’s help. Again.”

  Rakken was fully dressed this time when they knocked on his door and seemed entirely unsurprised to see them, though his eyes widened at Hetta’s appearance.

  “You’ve stabilised the energy fluxes. How?”

  “Never mind that. What matters is: can we find Irokoi using this?” She waved the feather under Rakken’s nose.

  His eyes brightened, but he shot Wyn a sharp look. “Your mysterious godparent, I assume?”

  “Yes and no. Will you help?”

  Rakken laughed, a bitter sound. “And why do you need my help, brother?”

  Wyn closed his eyes, as if summoning patience. “You’re a better mage than I.”

  Rakken looked darkly satisfied. “Yes,” he agreed. “I am. If you hadn’t wasted so many years playing at being human—”

  “So you’ll help, then,” Hetta said, cutting him off.

  He met her gaze, and the rage burning in him was terrible. “My priority is Catsmere and the Spires. So yes, I will help you find Irokoi.”

  She gave him the feather.

  He held it up to the light, riffling the filaments before tucking it into a pocket and stepping out into the hallway.

  “Where are you going?” Hetta demanded.

  “Outside. There’s too much interference from the house leylines for this sort of spell.”

  Wyn took her hand as they followed Rakken through the house. The warmth of him anchored her, even as the fatigue of the day began to creep in. A few people were still awake and moving around the house, she could feel in a vague way, but most of the small people-sparks were abed. It made her think longingly of her own as they reached the entrance hall and she hastily pulled on a coat while Rakken waited impatiently.

  Outside, the full moon shone down on the rising fog and made the world strangely claustrophobic. They made their way around to the side of the house, where the raised terrace ran parallel to the lake front. Hetta hadn’t had to worry about losing her footing since she’d become lord, but it still didn’t make picking her way over the pavement in the dark and damp a pleasant experience.

  Rakken sank down onto the lawn without regard for his clothes, with the kind of arrogant uncaring you probably only got from never having to think about your own laundry.

  A minor whirlwind whipped about him like a snake, tearing a hair-thin line in the grass. A faint hint of citrus gathered, and Stariel rumbled in protest. she reassured it.

  She shivered, and Wyn put an arm around her. Burrowing against his warmth, she thought longingly of her own bed and held back a yawn. How could she be tired when there was important fae magic happening? But as the seconds stretched into minutes, the initial rush of relief that had driven her into action was fading, and her limbs grew heavier and heavier, until Wyn was half supporting her.

  Rakken’s magic swelled within his makeshift circle, but nothing much else happened. After what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes, he shook his head and rose to his feet in a rustle of feathers.

  “The spell needs more power.” He narrowed his eyes at Wyn. “I suppose I shall have to make do with the raw material on hand. I will need you, brother, and the Standing Stones.”

  The Standing Stones. She wrinkled her nose, looking out into the damp night. The location had never sounded less appealing, her bed never more so.

  Wyn looked fondly down at her. “You can go to bed, love. I will wake you if we learn anything.”

  She wanted to protest that she wasn’t so weak-spirited, but it came out as a muffled yawn instead. “All right. I admit the thought of tramping about in the cold doesn’t appeal much.” She groaned. “And I’m supposed to be meeting the linesmen early tomorrow.” It had been easy to forget, what with everything else. Guilt rose. It’s fine; I can be a good lord and find the High King at the same time. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. She fixed Rakken with a meaningful look. “No trying to strangle each other.”

  15

  Tracking

  Wyn watched Hetta disappear into the house with a complicated mix of relief and anxiety that he managed not to voice. He could be reasonable. He could. The book said increased tiredness was normal. But what was normal, for a half-fae child giving off very abnormal amounts of stormcharge? She has Lamorkin’s heartstone now, he comforted himself. They would both be fine.

  He began to walk in the direction of the Stones. Rakken fell in beside him, and they walked in silence through the thickening fog. The edges of the lake blurred into the darkness beneath the trees where the Home Wood met the shore. Their footsteps were nearly silent in the soft earth, the world so quiet the small rustling of Rakken’s feathers was audible.

  The approval of ThousandSpire’s ruler… Oh, the High King couldn’t have chosen something that would bite deeper. If he’d taken the throne…but no, the High King would no doubt have asked for something different then.

  A strange image came to him, of King Aeros’s hands on his wings in kindness rather than anger… Why would he imagine such a thing? Was it a dream? A memory? But the image slipped away even as he tried to grasp it more firmly.

  “Was Father…better, before Mother left?” he asked.

  Rakken shifted his wings irritably. “I don’t understand why you cling to your fantasy, why it’s preferable for you to believe that she abandoned us.”

  “It’s better than believing Father killed her.” He knew Rakken’s theory.

  The dismissive sound Rakken made echoed in the mist. “It wasn’t Mother’s absence that sent Father spinning towards madness. He was growing harsher, more sadistic even before that. If Mother does live, she merely chose an opportune moment to escape before he could grow even worse.” His tone was flat. “An understandable act of self-preservation but not one I can forgive.”

  The rising fog blanketed the fields, the crown of Stone Hill rising above it like the back of a misshapen turtle. They traipsed up the gentle slope, the night utterly still around them. Wyn didn’t need to look at Rakken to know his eyes would be glowing. He knew his own would be
the same as he leaned on his leysight for night vision, but there was no one here to see it.

  Rakken hissed a directive to stop before they crested the hill, but Wyn hadn’t needed the warning. He wasn’t foolish enough to wander carelessly into his brother’s spellworking, and the scent of Rakken’s magic was strong here, soaked into the earth. Moisture beaded on the surface of the stones, painting them a gleaming black.

  The Standing Stones marked the location of Stariel Estate’s most sacred ceremonies, but Wyn had also used them twice now to forge a portal to the Court of Ten Thousand Spires. That use had not only made the divide between Faerie and Mortal thinner here but also imbued the location with magical residue.

  The lines of Rakken’s spellwork glowed to Wyn’s leysight; intricate, beautiful work, though Wyn kept that opinion to himself. Rakken didn’t need his ego stoked any further, and Wyn had felt like an uneducated fledgling too frequently in the last few days. He tried to decipher the patterns, feeling wholly outclassed. He’d gained many skills in the last ten years, but few of them had been magical, whereas Rakken had become an even more apt sorcerer. I suppose I could always challenge him to a napkin-folding competition to make myself feel better.

  “Is that Belchior’s reverse loop?” Wyn pointed at a sigil near one of the fallen stones, dredging up old memories.

  Rakken didn’t bother to respond as he strode through the circle, the spell-threads curling back from his feet as he walked, neat as pinions sliding into place. Is he doing that just to intimidate me? Probably safe to assume so.

  Rakken turned narrowed eyes to Wyn, fixing meaningfully on the parts of him that were most human. With a sigh, Wyn shrugged out of his coat and changed. Changing was always akin to stretching a cramped muscle, but this time the relief was so excruciatingly sharp that it made him dizzy. His senses flared to life, sight and sound, and that deeper awareness of the world that Rakken had spoken of. Wyn fanned his wings in and out. In daylight they were a riot of blue and silver, iridescent as a peacock’s. In the dark they looked black, and Wyn had a sharp pang of worry for Irokoi.