The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4)

by AJ Lancaster

  Collecting fae spells as ornaments, she thought wryly. She wished she still had her ring.

  They caught the early train from Stariel Station to Greymark. It was a four-hour train journey, but they didn’t make it alone. Gwendelfear joined them in prickly silence, the world’s least likely chaperone. Hetta hadn’t considered a chaperone necessary—after all, wasn’t she already as ruined as it was possible for a person to be? But Gwendelfear had been insistent that she be allowed to do this service, so Hetta had reluctantly agreed. Having someone who could magically heal around wasn’t a bad idea if things went sideways.

  It made for an awkward journey, though. Wyn and Gwendelfear were excruciatingly polite to each other as they seated themselves on opposite sides of the carriage, which made Hetta feel a bit like she was sitting in the middle of a thistle patch. Eventually, Wyn’s tiredness resulted in him half-dozing whilst leaned against the window, the most undignified sleeping position she’d ever seen him adopt.

  Hetta spent the train journey continually reaching for the two charms at her throat, her thoughts an anxious knot. The landscape changed—fields, forests, mountains, and finally the sea—and her sense of urgency grew. The heartstone, warm against her skin, had been the colour of the night sky this morning: a deep, deep blue only barely distinguishable from black.

  Her thoughts flitted between the Conclave and Aroset, unsure which she was dreading more. The former, she suspected. The Conclave wasn’t a risk to life or limb, but at least she could use pyromancy on Aroset.

  They arrived at Greymark Central Station without incident. Wyn had regained some energy, whether from restored magic or simply nerves, she wasn’t sure. She herself rose with relief when the train pulled into the platform, needing movement to work off her own restlessness. Gwendelfear emerged after them with wary interest for the busy station.

  It depressed her to see the pasteboard outside the station: THE WINGED GODS BLESS US. There was no sign of whoever had posted it. Gwendelfear examined it without a change in expression, and Wyn’s magic coloured the air around them, the scent of cardamom and fresh rain. Hetta put a hand on his arm.

  “After this is over, we can find the ones Set compelled and free them.”

  “Yes.” His fae was close to the surface, deepening the colour of his skin and eyes, turning his hair to burnished platinum. “But she isn’t the only greater fae who will treat mortals as her plaything. I cannot stop them all.”

  There was something savage in him, which Hetta rather agreed with. He opened his mouth then shook his head and closed it.

  “Say it,” Hetta prompted. “I’m thinking it too.”

  “Our child will be greater fae.” His voice was barely audible, though he needn’t have bothered—not with every paper from here to Meridon trumpeting the news of her pregnancy. “What kind of world will they grow up in, if this continues?”

  Hetta could see it too, that dark future, and it wasn’t only their child’s fate that worried her. Wyn was fae too.

  “Well, it’s a good thing we’re already set to speak with the High King soon, isn’t it?”

  His hand tightened on hers. “I’m worried I may say or do something…unwise if the High King won’t be persuaded to act.”

  “Well, I definitely will,” Hetta agreed.

  His lips curved. “Hetta, is it sensible for us both to be reckless at the same time?”

  “Bags I lose my temper first, then, if we must take turns.”

  He laughed but sobered all too quickly, scanning the train station. No sign of Aroset. Did the presence of the pasteboard mean Aroset had been here recently, compelling people? she wondered.

  “Please don’t be reckless today,” Wyn said softly.

  “I have absolutely no intention of recklessness today,” Hetta promised. “Not with…her about.” She hesitated, deciding not to name Aroset until after the Conclave. Would it be better if she turned up before or after the Conclave? Hetta was dreading the meeting enough that she almost hoped Aroset would turn up beforehand and then she needn’t feel guilty for missing the Conclave. Being repudiated by them at a distance would be preferable to in person. Though I have to at least try to convince them one more time.

  Hetta didn’t spot any more posters, though her gaze snagged on a man handing out flyers for a public meeting TO DISCUSS THE FAE MENACE. Was that better or worse than the wing worshippers?

  They found a hackney cab rather than a carriage to take them to the Conclave, the extra iron a comfort. The traffic drew to a complete halt and then inched along and Hetta, who’d anticipated arriving quite early, began to fear she might be late.

  “Sorry, ma’am; there’s some kind of protest on today up at the Dome,” the driver apologised when she asked him about it. The ‘ma’am’ struck her strangely. It had been a while since anyone had called her anything except ‘my lord’ or, before that, ‘miss’.

  Hetta’s stomach twisted itself into knots. “What sort of protest?”

  “Something about fairies. The Northern Lords Conclave is meeting today…” The driver trailed off, eyes widening. “You’re him!” he said to Wyn. “Where are your wings?”

  “They are inconvenient for cab-riding,” Wyn said, expression smooth as glass. “Tell me, how far away is the Dome?”

  “Usually less than ten minutes. In this traffic? The gods know. Begging your pardon, Your Highness.”

  Wyn and Hetta exchanged glances, weighing risks. “We can walk,” Hetta said. “Set us down here, please.”

  The minute they got out of the hackney, Hetta spun illusion, turning Wyn’s hair black, her own blonde and curly, and adding a bulbous nose to Wyn for good measure. Gwendelfear she made into a version of Alexandra. They navigated on foot towards the Dome, Hetta gripping Wyn’s hand tightly. Surely Aroset wouldn’t attack here, in the narrow, clogged streets, even if she somehow found them? She couldn’t smell Wyn’s magic, knew he was keeping it as tightly furled as he could. They weren’t sure whether his presence would be an additional incentive to Aroset or a reason to steer clear.

  The Dome was so named for its main architectural feature, a beautifully ornate roof that rose above the main square in Greymark. A square that was currently filled with protesters, held in check at the bottom of the steps to the Dome by a line of policemen.

  Wyn sucked in a breath. Hetta looked straight ahead and tried to ignore the slogans on the hand-painted signs, but she couldn’t block out the chants.

  They wove their way through the crowd. There weren’t that many of them, Hetta tried to tell herself; they’d just done an awfully good job of obstructing traffic. Hetta waited for someone to recognise her or Wyn, her skin crawling, but no one did. Or at least, not until they’d already reached the line of policemen.

  “I am here for the Lords Conclave,” Hetta told the stern-faced man in her best impression of her father’s chilly command. He frowned, but she dropped the illusions and moved past him as if there were not the least possibility of him obstructing her. To her surprise, it worked.

  Hetta had never been inside the Dome before. The building was split across two floors, and a smattering of clerks in smart business suits carried papers in an official way, ignoring Hetta and Wyn entirely. Beneath the grand staircase were a set of double doors that stood ajar.

  The doorman eyed them both. “Only the lords are allowed entry to the Dome during the Conclave,” he warned Wyn and Gwendelfear. “You may wait in the antechamber, if you wish, Your Highness, miss.”

  “I will wait at the entrance to this place,” Gwendelfear murmured, taking up position near the door. Her lips curved. “I will warn you if your sister appears, Oathbreaker, but don’t expect me to challenge her.”

  Wyn’s tension increased, but he nodded. The doorman frowned at Gwendelfear but let them into the antechamber.

  The antechamber wasn’t empty; Angus Penharrow straightened at their entrance.

  He had seen the newspapers, that much was clear. Hetta lifted her chin as he traced her shape w
ith his eyes, as if it might’ve altered in the short time since they’d spoken.

  “How is Penharrow?” Hetta asked. Although that might not be the most politic of subjects, it was a much better one than her now-public pregnancy.

  Angus grimaced. “The repair of the roof’s going to take some time. I’ve had workmen swarming over it the last three days, with no end in sight.”

  An awkward silence fell. Hetta could hear the low murmur of voices in the main chamber.

  “Is everyone else here?”

  “Not quite. Lord Arran hasn’t arrived yet.” Angus hesitated, then asked in a rush, “Is it true?” He had the grace to look embarrassed about it, at least.

  Hetta gave him a flat look but didn’t pretend not to understand. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business, either way.”

  Angus took her lack of denial for the confession it was. His expression hardened as he turned to Wyn.

  “Is this your people’s notion of honour, then, or did I miss the wedding?”

  Wyn’s voice was cold as Starwater in February. “You tried to disinherit the Valstars to further your own ambition. Do not take the moral high ground with me, Angus Penharrow.”

  Hetta was suddenly tired. “Honestly, Angus, what did I just say about it being none of your business? And you know very well that the queen is planning to announce our engagement at the Meridon Ball this Saturday because I told you so myself.” She hoped.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Angus still had his gaze locked on Wyn’s, putting Hetta strongly in mind of two strange dogs circling each other.

  Hetta huffed. “No, you’re not, and you’re doing a terrible job of pretending. Are you going to vote against my membership now?”

  Angus rocked back, a crease forming between his brows. “Do you truly think I’m so petty, Hetta?”

  “I hope not. Are you?”

  He sighed. “No. Your membership on the Conclave should never have been in question; this doesn’t change my position on that.” His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Besides, if we start excluding people on the basis of what the papers say, where will we stop?” He held out a hand. “Shall we go in?”

  Hetta didn’t need to look at Wyn to know he’d tensed. It wasn’t Penharrow—or mostly not Penharrow. What if Aroset struck during the Conclave? Hetta had pointed out that it didn’t change the plan at all and might actually make it easier for her to lay hands on Aroset, since she wouldn’t be as wary of Hetta without Wyn by her side. “You’ll just have to meet us back at the estate if you miss the translocation,” she’d told him firmly.

  Still, she couldn’t help the shiver that went down her spine when Wyn nodded and stepped away.

  “Good luck,” he said softly. His expression was fierce. “The Conclave would be fools not to accept you.”

  45

  The Northern Lords Conclave

  Angus’s manner changed as they walked into the Dome, folding away all his complicated feelings with a skill that was nearly fae. He made a point of introducing her to the other lords she hadn’t yet met with a broad smile.

  “Thank you,” she said in an undertone as he showed her to her seat at the large oval table in the centre of the room. His lips tightened, but he nodded.

  She couldn’t help but be grateful for Angus’s obvious show of support as the lords examined her critically. She wasn’t sure if it was her femaleness or her now-publicly-known pregnancy. If she had to choose one thing she disliked most about her current state—well, aside from the unpredictable nausea—it was the way it made some people look at her as if impending motherhood had become her only relevant personality trait.

  She was seated beside the Duke of Callasham—Lord Greymark here. She’d met the duke several times in Meridon, though she wasn’t sure he remembered at least one of those occasions, since he’d been rolling drunk. I certainly hope he doesn’t remember Rakken seducing his wife, at least. He poured her a glass of water from one of the carafes set out on the table, which she thanked him for.

  “Blasted traffic’s a nuisance, isn’t it?” he said, making an attempt to break the ice in the room. “It’s held Arran up as well.”

  “Forgive me, but is it appropriate for Lord Valstar to take her seat among us now? Her membership has not yet been officially ratified by the Conclave.” It was Lord Drummond, a thin older man who Wyn had mentioned brandishing a knife at him back at Penharrow.

  “Lord Arran is not here; we are not yet in session,” Angus said coolly. “And Lord Valstar is a Northern lord. Ratifying her membership on the Conclave should be a mere formality.”

  Lord Arran strode into the room, barely leaning on his walking stick. Despite his grouchy expression, he seemed no worse for having nearly bled to death less than a week ago.

  Lord Drummond shot Angus a smug look and repeated his complaint to Lord Arran.

  “Drummond is correct,” Arran said. “We have not yet voted on that question.” His gaze rested on Hetta; she couldn’t read his expression. “But the Conclave accepts petitioners. Lord Valstar, you have the floor. Then I would ask you to remove yourself while we vote on your membership.”

  Hetta’s throat was dry, and she took a sip of water before she got to her feet, trying to look as dignified and lordly as she could. Was Aroset outside, even now, waiting for the Conclave to emerge? But she couldn’t think of Aroset now, or of the High King, or even of the child growing within her. Stariel and its people were what mattered most in this moment. She had to try to persuade the lords to accept her, for their sake, even if that now seemed impossible. Sometimes one had to try even when the chances of success seemed so small as to be nil; to do otherwise would be to make the fear of failure into failure itself.

  A petitioner, Lord Arran had called her. Is that what she ought to be, begging them to make her one of them? Should she try to soothe their fears that she’d upset their order, defend herself against the allegations she was sure they’d all heard? But the allegations were true, largely; she was going to marry a fae man, she was carrying his child, and she was planning to eventually upset their order as best she could dashed well manage.

  She’d sworn oaths, when she’d been chosen lord; to strive for the good of Stariel and those who lived there. What did that mean, now, with a room full of hostile men focused on her?

  She set her shoulders and met their gazes in turn. Her stomach churned, but her voice came out clear and composed, without the quiver she’d feared.

  “I am Henrietta Valstar, Lord of Stariel. Lord Arran has called me a petitioner,” she said slowly. “But I am not here today to beg permission to join your ranks. Stariel is the oldest estate in the North; the Valstar line predates the Conclave. It is my right to be here. Since when does the Conclave pick and choose its members? Our strength lies in our unity; if we lose it, we will become like the Southern nobles, each separately vying for recognition in the Southern court. Is that what you want?” Queen Matilda wouldn’t thank her for invoking Northern parochialism, but Hetta would use whatever she could to make her point.

  Including frankness. “This is a time of change,” she said. “You’ll all have heard now that the fae are coming back to the Mortal Realm. What you may not know is that Stariel stands between the two worlds, Faerie and Mortal both. If you want a part of that united future, then you want me—and Stariel—working with you. If you don’t, well, I wish you luck living in the past, but I certainly won’t let it hold me back.”

  This provoked a general murmur of consternation. She gave a conciliatory smile. “But if we start regulating membership based on lords’ behaviour, where will we stop?” She carefully didn’t look at the lord whose notoriety for his very public extramarital affairs had only been recently eclipsed by her own scandal, but she didn’t need to.

  “You forget my great-grandfather, Lord Valstar—the Conclave has rejected members who weren’t fit to rule before,” Lord Featherstone interjected.

  “Lord Stone-Mad wasn’t called that for nothing,” Hetta said flat
ly. “He was both insane and a murderer.” In other circumstances, she might’ve avoided reminding him of his own ancestor’s sins, but since he’d brought it up, she felt no such compunction. That had been eighty years ago! How dare he pull out that bit of Conclave history as if it were relevant to her now? She clasped her hands tightly in front of her so no one would see them trembling. “I am merely pregnant. And that is all I have to say on the subject.” She sat down.

  The intake of breath was audible, coming as it did from everyone in the room simultaneously. The silence went on and on, ringing in her ears, and Hetta thought of the glare of the stage lights at the theatre where she’d used to work. How the world changes.

  And then sound came back to the world in a rush as the lords found their voices—and their outrage washed over her in a wave. She barely heard it. Her stomach didn’t seem to be following her plan to be coolly unaffected; it writhed in a worrying way, and pinpricks of sweat broke out in the small of her back.

  “Are you well, Lord Valstar?” the duke asked, leaning towards her.

  Hetta swallowed and took another sip of water. “I’m fine,” she lied. The world was going slightly fuzzy around the edges. I am not going to faint, she told herself firmly, carefully putting the glass down. It took more concentration than it should’ve.

  “Order!” Lord Arran was barking. “Gentlemen! Lord Valstar, you may withdraw while we discuss your petition.”

  The duke leapt to his feet and offered her his arm. “Let me escort you out, Lord Valstar.”