The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  38

  Wings in the Library

  Wyn found Irokoi had already extracted himself from the circle of Valstar women and taken up position in the library. Irokoi sat on the main lower level, perched on one of the windowseats, wings draping over the worn fabric. He was reading one of the old lords’ journals with keen-eyed interest.

  For some reason, the sight sparked a primitive territorialness, a sudden urge to sprout wings and call up his magic in defense of…what exactly? Hetta didn’t need protecting from Irokoi and neither did the library books. What is wrong with me? He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the vanilla-y smell of old books. It didn’t dampen the impulse as much as he’d hoped. Hetta frowned at him, half a question in her eyes.

  “This feels like home to you,” Irokoi observed, setting down the journal. “I am glad you found somewhere to come home to.”

  “Ah—thank you.”

  “Which lord are you reading about?” Hetta asked, coming to sit beside Irokoi, who shuffled to make room for her. The stark view of the Indigoes framed them, snow still covering much of their slopes. It would retreat, day by day, until by midsummer, only the highest peaks would be dusted white. The snow still covered his father’s unmarked grave.

  Irokoi canted his head. “The one your oldest brother is named for, I believe. Speaking of, where is he?”

  “Getting changed. They both arrived rather wet from Knoxbridge.”

  Unease shivered through Wyn. That was the second time Koi had asked after Marius specifically. Hard to believe it mere happenstance. And Koi knew Marius was a telepath. Was it merely caution driving his questions? Any sensible fae would be wary of a telepath. But Wyn could not shake the misgiving filling him.

  “Are you going to tell us how to retrieve Cat and lift the curse now, brother?”

  Irokoi’s mismatched eyes were oddly serious. “Soon, I hope.”

  Wyn considered his oldest brother, trying to reconcile recent events with the old Irokoi he’d known before he left Faerie. But had he ever truly known Irokoi? Wyn had been a child when Aroset blinded him and changed him in ways that went deeper than his physical scars. Or had it been Aroset at all? Irokoi had always been…different, that uneasy mixture of open and cryptic. At least Irokoi’s remarks never carried the hidden barbs most greater fae threw out as easily as breathing—he always seemed sincere, if not always comprehensible.

  Rakken prowled into the library, dry once again, tattered wings folded neatly against his back. Two stormdancers walking winged through Stariel House. What would happen if Wyn followed their lead? Something between terror and excitement gripped him, dizzying as a high-speed dive.

  Rakken ignored Wyn, his attention all for Irokoi. Just once it would be nice not to be dismissed as unimportant by my siblings.

  “Mossfeathers!” Irokoi cried. Beside him, Hetta grinned.

  Rakken was sharp with impatience. “If you know how to retrieve Cat—”

  Irokoi shook his head. “Oh, I do, but that is only the first piece.”

  “What pieces, Koi?”

  But Irokoi was looking past him, to where Marius had slipped in the door to the library. Marius shut the door behind him with a click and warily approached them.

  “Marius Rufus Valstar.” Irokoi’s voice had lost all hint of playfulness.

  Marius drew up short, halfway along the shelves. His eyes widened.

  “What’s wrong with you?” He sounded both horrified and fascinated. “You’re Irokoi, aren’t you?”

  Irokoi’s feathers lifted in excitement. “You can see it? I hoped you would. And please call me by the fish-end.”

  “Koi?”

  Irokoi beamed. “I got the right one this time,” he told Hetta in an aside before returning his attention to Marius.

  “Koi, could you at least try to be a little more comprehensible?” What had Marius seen? Wyn wanted to grab hold of Marius and haul him away from this room; he wasn’t convinced Irokoi had Marius’s best interests at heart.

  Irokoi didn’t remove his attention from Marius, and his voice was low and serious. “Oh, trust me, I am trying.”

  Thunder and citrus rolled into the room. “Koi,” Rakken began, voice dark with warning. He took a menacing step towards Irokoi “Do not toy with—”

  “You’re under a compulsion that stops you from speaking freely?” Marius said blankly.

  Rakken missed a step, and Wyn felt the same jerk of shock, realisation sharp and stunning as a lightning bolt. There were too many pieces to pull together all at once, and he did not have them all, but the shape, the shape those pieces made—he could feel the sense of it coming into focus, and, oh, it terrified him.

  “Who?” he and Rakken asked together. They exchanged glances, a shared thought. Who had compelled Irokoi? And why—but who was so much more urgent.

  Irokoi smiled, sad and slow, still locking eyes with Marius. “The storm brings both gifts and curses. Perhaps one can undo the other, for me.”

  Marius went pale, breaking eye contact and taking a step back. “You want me to tell them you think Rakken can break the compulsion. How do I know that?” He sought out Wyn, grey eyes panicked. “How do I know that?”

  No one answered. Marius spun, accusing. “What are you keeping from me this time?” He winced and rubbed at his head. “What’s a telepath?”

  “Someone who can hear others’ thoughts. We believe you have the ability.” Wyn closed the distance between them, trying to will calm into his friend. If Marius lost control now, with Hetta so near…what effect would that have on the babe? Anxiety pushed thorns into his heart, the fierce need to protect tearing him apart. But who was he supposed to protect here? How? He drew in a long, brittle breath and tried to find his way back to clinical detachment. He’d been so good at that, once. When had it become such a challenge to find it?

  “You’re joking.” Marius’s voice went up, seeking a reassurance Wyn couldn’t give him. “I can’t—I’m not…”

  Wyn put a hand on Marius’s shoulder, trying to steady him. Marius jerked away.

  A pulse of emotion surged, the panic of a cornered creature. Wyn staggered under the force of it, hastily hardening his mental shields. The sudden relief confirmed the cause; Marius was projecting. Wyn cursed his stray thoughts that Marius had picked up on contact. He’d been unforgivably careless.

  “I’m sorry—I am out of practice with my metal shields. Forgive me,” he said to Marius, keeping his tone mild.

  Marius’s breaths came in harsh pants, and Rakken sent Wyn a pointed glare that said he needed to do better, quickly.

  “You don’t want me to panic. You’re worried I might go mad or hurt people. I can hear you,” Marius said.

  Knives against Wyn’s shields, a building psychic storm.

  Stariel rumbled, its presence looming over them in threat. Wyn had no direct line to its emotions, but he could judge them well enough from Hetta’s expression, and it felt…it felt like the intake of breath before the land had struck down his father. Hetta’s hands were curled into fists, her face gaunt with effort. She was holding it back.

  “Marius,” he said, then hesitated. Telling people to calm down had never, in his experience, resulted in anyone calming down.

  “How long have you known? Gods, don’t tell me Jack knows too or I will murder something. Oh gods, how can I be the last to know even this?”

  Hetta slipped out of the windowseat, her face deathly white. “Since Aroset attacked you. I wasn’t sure how to tell you—we thought it might be worse if you knew—and then you left so quickly I didn’t have a chance.”

  “It frightens you,” Marius said flatly. “I frighten you. Did you tell me you were pregnant because you actually wanted me to know or because you thought I’d figure it out anyway?” He began to laugh, a bitter hysteria that held no mirth, and the pressure on Wyn’s shields increased. Hetta gasped, and Wyn’s stomach dropped.

  Rakken moved fae-fast and shoved Marius against the shelf. A book fell loose an
d hit the carpet with a thunk. “Marius Rufus Valstar,” he snarled, magic rolling off him. “You told me you weren’t weak. Prove it and calm down or I will do something you’ll regret. Again.”

  Marius took a deep, shuddering breath. “Damn you.” But as he glared at Rakken, the jagged psychic whirlwind began to ease. Thank the stormwinds this once for Rakken’s ability to incite anger at the drop of a feather; it was giving Marius something to focus on outside his own fear.

  “Yes.” Rakken released him.

  Marius shook his head like a horse fending off a wasp, pushed away the shelf, and stalked out of the library.

  Hetta made an abortive half-motion to follow him. Marius whirled and glared at her from the threshold. “Leave me alone.” He met Wyn’s eyes. “Tell her it’s for her own damn good.”

  Stormwinds. He really needed to work on his mental shields.

  Stariel’s violent presence eased with Marius’s exit, and Hetta sagged. Wyn looped an arm around her waist, steadying her when she swayed. The guilt in her eyes cut at the heart of him.

  “He’s still in control of his actions, and he hasn’t lost his mind,” he told her. “That is much, much better than many of the outcomes I feared.” He watched Marius’s presence burn along the leylines, through the house and exiting in the direction of the greenhouse. It flickered but didn’t intensify, the turbulence churning but stable. That was also a good sign. “Give him a moment to adjust. We have all had time to think about the ramifications. He hasn’t. I will talk to him.”

  “He’s my brother, Wyn! I shouldn’t be afraid of him.” Her voice cracked, and she made an infuriated sound and buried her face in his shirt. “I. Hate. Crying.”

  “It will be all right,” he told her, stroking her back. “You’re more afraid for him than of him. The latter will win over the former, given time. Besides, even a telepathic Marius is still Marius, who is many things—but fearsome is not one of them.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right, but why can’t I stop crying?” she wailed.

  “Perhaps I should check one of the books for an answer? Only you’ll need to remain here while I go and get them, as they’re in my office.”

  She lifted her head and glared at him, then gave a wet laugh and rubbed at her eyes. “I’m afraid you may be trying to marry a watering can.”

  “A very charming watering can,” he said, straight-faced.

  She sniffed and smiled, trying to cover her awkwardness with bravado. She hated people seeing her cry. He offered her a handkerchief.

  “Next time you plan to take such a risk, warn me, Koi,” Rakken hissed, joining Irokoi on the windowseat. He folded himself into an angry cross-legged position and held out his hands for Irokoi’s.

  Compulsion, Wyn thought with a jolt.

  39

  Compulsion

  Hetta tried to pull herself together, despite the fact that her insides still felt wobbly. She was already sick of the way her emotions kept jumping around, like something happening to someone else without any input from her. She’d shed more tears in the last few weeks than in all her life prior. Is it going to be like this for the duration? she thought glumly.

  Stariel curled around her reassuringly, and she leaned into the land’s presence. Where was Marius? The answer came instantaneously as her self expanded: the greenhouse. She blinked and pulled back, not wanting the dizziness of double vision.

  Poor Marius—they’d stolen his favourite refuge spot in the library, so he’d been forced to resort to another. At least the land had returned to its usual vague feeling of possessiveness towards Marius now it was no longer concerned with her safety. It patted softly at him, as if it was attempting to apologise for its earlier behaviour.

  That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? It had shocked her, how violently the land had bristled up in her defence. If it hadn’t been for the faeland’s own uncertainty when faced with a Valstar, could she have held it back? It worried her that she didn’t know for sure.

  The land returned a deep sense of uncertainty along with something else—a bigger concept that it took Hetta a few moments to unravel. Stariel almost never used words, but if she’d had to translate, it would’ve said something like: the world has changed and changed you all with it. The Iron Law coming down, that’s what it meant.

  She itched to go find her brother, but Wyn was probably right, and Stariel’s reaction before had shaken her. What if she couldn’t control the faeland’s protectiveness next time? I will, she told herself firmly. But it would probably be a good idea to give Marius time to settle a bit first. Stariel curled restlessly around her, twining its way through the web of sparks that made up the Valstars, as if it too needed additional reassurance.

  Rakken had completely ignored Hetta’s minor breakdown and now sat on the windowseat across from Irokoi. What had Rakken been threatening Marius with? It had apparently worked, but that didn’t mean Hetta forgave him for whatever had caused the animosity between the two in the first place. I’ll pluck his dashed feathers out if I find out he hurt Marius.

  Rakken’s magic silently built, and Stariel grumbled. It didn’t approve of all this magic lately from people that didn’t belong to it. Hetta soothed it as the air grew charged, hugging Wyn’s waist. He gave her an absent smile, but he was clearly distracted watching his brothers.

  The magic built until something shifted with a swell of frost and midnight velvet. She’d been too preoccupied to pay much attention to the complexities of Irokoi’s magic, last time. What, exactly, she puzzled, does midnight velvet smell like? Fae magic didn’t actually smell as such; that was merely how her senses perceived it. But this was the first time she’d encountered a fae signature that had a texture as well as a scent. How could a smell have texture?

  “There are so many layers,” Rakken whispered. “How long has this been going on?”

  “I am Eldest. I spent the most time with her.” Irokoi gave a crooked smile. “That’s why I’m the most broken. Well, apart from Father.” A deep, bitter sadness washed over him. “You don’t remember him before, of course.” He looked over Rakken’s shoulder at Wyn.

  “Are you talking about your mother?” Hetta asked, since nobody else seemed about to clarify. She’d been puzzling at it ever since the dragon’s parting remark—a remark that Wyn seemed to have somehow forgotten. Though how he forgot an enormous dragon telling him to give its regards to his mother, I don’t understand.

  Irokoi grit his teeth and his words came out forced, as if each syllable cost him. “She didn’t mean to break us. She never means to, and she thought she could fix it, but she couldn’t, could she? She only wanted to keep us safe, but her very presence broke us all, bit by bit. You can only deny your nature for so long. So she made us forget, and left.” He leaned over, panting, his hair hanging over his face.

  “Uh…that sounds like ‘yes’? Your mother laid the compulsion on you?” She shot Wyn a worried glance; his expression had gone strangely smooth. “But what do you mean her presence broke you?”

  Rakken hissed in pain. “I’ve never seen spellwork this powerful before. This will take some time to undo. How do we free the Spires from stasis, Koi?”

  “I found the spell in the High King’s library. It will need all of us together, all the Spireborn yet living. But it won’t help us to free the Spires, not yet.”

  Hetta frowned at them both. Why wasn’t Rakken reacting to Irokoi’s words about their mother? Why wasn’t Wyn reacting? The tension in his body had eased with a speed Hetta found disconcerting.

  Irokoi sighed and met Hetta’s eyes. “This would be a lot easier if you hadn’t frightened the telepath away.” He was trying to tell her something, but whatever compulsion he was under stopped him. Frustration blazed in him.

  “Koi, this is much harder when you’re not looking at me,” Rakken complained.

  Irokoi obediently returned his attention to Rakken. “The Spires—why won’t it help
us to free it from stasis?” Rakken’s words were urgent, and his power swelled, eyes glowing green.

  Irokoi took a sharp breath and pushed the words out in a rush. “Because it cannot choose a new master with us as we are. There’s a reason the Spires couldn’t choose freely: we’re all too bound already to make new bonds. But when they are undone, perhaps the Spires will have its true choice of the bloodline.”

  Rakken reeled back, and so did Irokoi, sagging back against the cushions like a cut-free puppet. Blood trickled from Rakken’s nose, and lightning flickered across his pupils. He flashed his teeth and leaned forward urgently, grabbing again for Irokoi’s hands.

  Irokoi slid off the windowseat. “Enough, little brother,” he said gently. “I’ve lived many years under constraints; they won’t be undone in one night.”

  “I’m fine,” Rakken snapped, which made Hetta curious as to what Rakken would consider not fine, given the way he was shaking.

  “Well, I’m not.” Irokoi shook out his feathers as if he were airing a damp rug. “And I’d rather you didn’t rummage around in my head while yours is ringing with pain.” He smiled at Hetta. “I wouldn’t mind some more of those ginger biscuits your cook makes. They are delicious.” He met Hetta’s eyes, and she knew there was something else he was trying to communicate, something his mother’s compulsion was keeping him from saying.

  Hetta frowned. Rakken and Wyn didn’t seem nearly upset enough by what Irokoi had told them. Especially Rakken—hadn’t he thought his mother was dead? Wasn’t having another chance at ThousandSpire’s throne his deepest desire?

  “You’re saying the Spires couldn’t choose anyone except Wyn because you and the others are under compulsion, and he’s not, for some reason? A compulsion cast by your mother? Who is still alive, somewhere?” Hetta repeated slowly. Both Wyn and Rakken looked blank, as if they hadn’t just heard exactly the same explanation as her. Her chest tightened.

  Oh, she thought. It wasn’t just Irokoi who was compelled. She stepped away from Wyn and gave him a shake, as if that would dislodge the compulsion affecting him. His brows creased, and she could see something breaking behind his eyes, a slow-dawning horror. His mother didn’t just leave him; she worked magic on him against his will.