by AJ Lancaster
After all, she was the lord of this faeland, wasn’t she—and therefore connected to all the creatures in Stariel Estate? That ought to mean she could magically encourage bats to vacate a roof. Guiltily, she found herself becoming much more interested in the problem. One ought to care about mundane things just as much as magical ones, but the problem was that one did not. The fact that exerting her land-sense in such a way would be an excellent distraction from eavesdropping on a certain location at Stariel’s border was merely happy coincidence.
The foreman’s apprehension only deepened. “The thing is, my lord, that they’re not normal bats. And I thought Mr Tempest might know…” He trailed off, flushing.
A funny jolt went through her as she realised what he was getting at, and why he might want Wyn specifically.
He steeled himself and confirmed her speculation with his next words. “They’re…I think they’re fae.”
2
Princess Sunnika
Wyn waited just inside the southern boundary of Stariel, alone but for the wildlife. The birdsong that had paused at his entrance had now recommenced, and fluting calls of spring trilled from tree to tree against the watery background of the Starshine. He stood so still that a blue squirrel scurrying along a low branch beside him didn’t notice his presence until it stopped to contemplate a leap, rearing back in offended surprise before disappearing in a streak of fur.
And then he was no longer alone. He tensed as the presence of a greater fae blazed along the leylines, though the birds didn’t appear to care as Princess Sunnika stepped out between two trees on the other side of Stariel’s border. He didn’t cross to greet her, even though she stood further than a comfortable speaking distance away. The greater fae of DuskRose weren’t winged—unusual for the greater fae of Faerie—but the shadowcats had a very powerful talent that made up for that lack. Normally it only worked on line-of-sight, but Sunnika had shown herself unusually talented with that magic. If she touched him, she could take him miles away from Stariel in an instant.
“Princess,” he said, inclining his head. She was dressed for a formal meeting, and he felt suddenly under-dressed, in mortal clothes and plain ones besides. Her long dress had wide sleeves, and jewels cut in glittering leaf-shapes adorned her long straight hair, black as ink at its roots and morphing to cherry-pink at the tips.
Her midnight eyes were unreadable, and her furred ears twitched, a slightly warmer black-brown than her hair. “Prince Hallowyn Tempestren.”
His true name should not sound so strange nor make him so uneasy.
She looked pointedly at the distance between them. “I do not intend to harm you.”
Would it make her angry if he refused to approach her? It was technically impolite to show such open distrust, and he was in her debt. But he had promised he’d be careful.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but harm is very subjective, and I’d like some reassurances that you don’t mean to teleport me away the moment I cross the border.”
Her smile was darkly amused. “I will not.”
He stretched out with his leysight, checking they were truly alone, and crossed the boundary with reluctance. There was no loss of magic, since he was not bound to Stariel as the Valstars were, but he felt more exposed nonetheless, and he pressed his wings tight against his spine.
Sunnika took in his new wing colour. “I see you sport new colours.” Her tail curled into a question mark.
“I do,” he acknowledged, flaring his wings slightly. Any more would be considered a challenge, though he didn’t know if a DuskRose fae would know that. Best not to take the chance. “Stormdancers often change their plumage when they come into their powers. We call them blood feathers.”
“And have you come into your power?”
He shrugged. “How does a tree know that it is finished?” Her flat expression didn’t change, and she didn’t remind him that he owed her more than levity, but he reined himself in nonetheless. “I went into the Maelstrom and lived to tell the tale,” he said, trying to explain a thing he himself didn’t fully understand. “It…affected me. And, as you know, my broken oath is repaired.”
He had no plans to tell her his control of his new power was still a fledgling thing, easily overcome. Perhaps she wasn’t an outright enemy anymore, but she wasn’t a friend either. Still, she was the first tangible contact he’d had with Faerie in months, and he desperately wanted to ask her for news of ThousandSpire’s succession. Rakken had said he and his twin Catsmere had some plan to ensure Aroset didn’t inherit, but surely they ought to have prevailed by now? Was no news good news? What if it wasn’t?
He’d attempted to summon his godparent for answers, but the only response had been a deep, resounding silence along their connection. That had never happened before. But Lamorkin was one of the oldest fae he knew—surely that meant they would weather this storm? It was difficult not to worry, regardless.
But he could not ask Sunnika directly to remedy his ignorance, not unless he wished to increase his debt to her. A sideways approach was in order. “I hope that you’ve been well, Princess, and that your aunt did not disapprove of your actions.” She’d released him from his vow to marry her, at the time when he’d most needed the power that his broken oath had shattered; Queen Tayarenn might not have regarded that as a good thing, even if it left him owing Sunnika a personal favour.
Sunnika tilted her head to one side, dark hair smooth as water. “You truly do, don’t you? Perhaps I made a poor decision, releasing one who cares so greatly for my welfare from his promises to me.”
Probably she was only teasing him, though it was hard to tell from her cool expression, but it still felt like thin ice. “I do not think it’s helpful to re-live the might-have-beens of this decision,” he said mildly. “But in any case, I am grateful for my release. I owe you a favour.”
“Yes,” she said, her lips curving. “You do. Tell me, how is Lord Valstar?”
“She is well,” he said as neutrally as possible, but apparently he was losing his ability to mask his emotions, for Sunnika’s smile widened.
“Ah, and there is the reason I don’t regret my decision, Prince Hallowyn. You truly love her, this mortal woman, don’t you?” She said the word ‘love’ with a kind of amused fascination.
“Yes,” he admitted, struggling with the reflex to deflect the conversation away from his vulnerabilities. But it served no purpose here; the fact that he loved Hetta was a truth as inarguable as gravity—and as much a secret now too.
“And I have no wish to play second fiddle to a mortal,” she said matter-of-factly. “Nor to play a minor role in someone else’s star-crossed romance. I hope Lord Valstar appreciates my magnanimity.”
His eyes narrowed. Sunnika had said before that she wished the Court of Dusken Roses to be on good terms with Stariel, the reason obvious enough, since Stariel was the only faeland he knew of that was also part of the Mortal Realm—but it didn’t mean he liked Sunnika trying to use him to influence Hetta, even less than he liked her musing on his love life.
“Why did you call me here today, Your Highness?”
“So abrupt,” she chided. “But very well.” She paused, and he could tell she was choosing her words with care. “Tell me what is happening in the Spires.”
3
Fairy Bats
Hetta and the foreman contemplated the Dower House. It was a smaller and more modern building than Stariel House, although of course that still made it about eighty years old. A previous Lord Valstar had built it to house his mother, who Hetta assumed he hadn’t much liked, given that Stariel House possessed plenty of spare bedrooms and the fact that the Dower House was on the other side of the lake from it.
She didn’t have long to admire the facade, because the front door opened as they approached, and a confused jumble of workmen spilled out amidst billowing smoke, coughing and shouting.
Alarmed, she reached instinctively for Stariel. Her awareness rushed over the gravel and into the house, up and down stairs and
through walls, shivering through brick and mortar. For heartbeats, she was the house, every creak and cranny of it. Bitter smoke sank into her ageing drapes and curled lazily in the drafts from ill-maintained windows. But there was no fire in the house. The only point of burning heat travelled with the humans who’d fled her, her floorboards holding the echo of their footsteps.
Her awareness flowed back outside, down the steps, and found the smoking torch being messily beaten out on the gravel driveway. She curled hands around it and pressed. The already dying embers snuffed out.
It was done. She pulled back her land-sense, trying to become merely Hetta again. For a few moments, it was like trying to stuff spilled tea back into a teapot, rivulets of awareness threatening to slosh out from her feet. She focused on her heartbeat, on the in and out of her ribcage with each breath, the cold bite of the air despite the sunshine. I am a woman, not a faeland.
Digging her fingernails into her palms to ground herself, she let go of the intense knowing that always came with reaching out too deeply. Remembering the number and location of every beam in the house’s interior—and moreover, what each one felt like—was a good way to give herself a headache.
When she’d fully settled back into herself, the foreman was already striding forward towards his men. She measured the shortness of the distance between them with relief—good, she hadn’t lost time then. She hated it when that happened, and she always worried that one day she’d go so deep she wouldn’t be able to find her way back.
“What’s going on then? Is that a torch, Fletcher?” The foreman scowled around at his crew.
There was some sheepish mumbling, out of which Hetta pieced an explanation: they’d been trying to smoke out the bats.
“Does one smoke out bats, typically?” she asked, coming up beside the foreman. There was a chorus of ‘my lords’ and doffed hats from the crew.
“No, one does not,” the foreman said, with a scowl at the man he’d named Fletcher. “What were you thinking?”
Fletcher shrugged and looked around at the other men for support. “We just wanted a closer look at them, didn’t we, after what Davey saw?” He waved at a curly-haired man with skin the colour of the freshly turned earth, presumably Davey. “We thought the smoke would make ’em quiet. Works for bees.” He grimaced. “But didn’t work on the…bats.” He shot a nervous glance at Hetta.
“What exactly did you see?” she asked, noting his pause. “And what sent you running out of the house?”
The sheepishness levels increased, which she had no difficulty interpreting. None of the men wanted to admit they’d been afraid. But afraid of what, exactly?
“They’re not bats, my Star,” Davey spoke up, a touch defensively. The address startled her—it was an old-fashioned address for the Lord of Stariel, but it was Wyn’s preferred one. His presence had crossed the border some time past now, and she tried not to worry about what that meant. What if it was an ambush? It was hard not to dwell on the fact that Princess Sunnika could teleport Wyn miles away in a heartbeat, outside the safety of the bounds. But Wyn wouldn’t have been foolish enough to step across, if he’d thought there was danger of that happening. Would he? If only they’d had more time to discuss it first!
Davey looked round at the others. “Well, they’re not. One of them bit Wilson. Show the Star your hand, Wilson.”
At this, presumably-Wilson held up a reluctant hand, displaying an inflamed bite about the size of a coin, from something with a lot of needle-sized teeth.
“And I know what I saw.” Davey met Hetta’s eyes and straightened. “Those weren’t bats like the steward isn’t a man.”
The crew, as one, sucked in their breaths, waiting for her reaction.
“They may well be lowfae,” she said calmly, though her heart beat rather fast. The news of Wyn’s nature had spread like wildfire across the estate, but so far no one had directly confronted her about it. “But it’s unfair to compare them to Mr Tempest, who is not.”
The man blinked at her. “But—”
“Mr Tempest is greater fae, and they have about as much in common with lowfae as humans do with cats,” she continued without pause. “Now, will someone please take me to these ‘bats’, and I’ll see about encouraging them to move out of this house so you can continue your work. Mr Wilson, you should get that hand seen to.” She looked around expectantly. “Mr Plimmer?”
The foreman jerked into motion. “Uh, yes, my lord.”
Hetta’s heart continued to pound as she followed him into the house. It was a measure of Wyn’s charisma that the general reaction to news of his nature had been fascination and wary acceptance rather than outright hostility, but she was too aware of how quickly that could change.
They passed rooms full of white-draped furniture; the house had been shut up since before her father died. The smell of wood shavings and mildew curled around them, creating a strange echo of memory from when she’d let her consciousness roll into the house before.
The foreman’s pace slowed as they reached the upper storey, and it was with trepidation that he approached the ladder that led to the attic. Through the open trap door at the top of the ladder came a strange chittering sound, subtly unlike birds. She reached out with her land-sense, more cautiously this time. She didn’t need to count the nails in the floorboards; she just wanted to know what manner of creature she was about to encounter.
Touching the several dozen tiny sparks of the ‘bats’ in the attic, she found it as she’d suspected: the bats were lowfae.
The lowfae vibrated in response to her touch, and the chittering increased, acknowledging her as their lord. Now that was a disconcerting thought, that she had some level of responsibility for these creatures. “Will some of you come out so I can see you, please?” she asked.
There were fluttering and scrabbling sounds. With extreme suspicion, a trio of creatures hopped down the ladder and perched on the topmost rung, clinging with both clawed hind feet and hands. The foreman gasped, and all three creatures flared out their wings and hissed at him, baring sharp, needle-like teeth.
“They might look like bats, but that ain’t normal bat behaviour,” he said.
Hetta gave him a surprised look, because they didn’t look at all like bats to her—or like the innocent cherubs named piskies in children’s books. They did have bat-like wings stretching from their arms, but otherwise, they were spindly insect-people with furry ears, bluish-grey skin, enormous dark eyes, and tufts of wildly messy white hair.
Glamour, she realised with a jolt. Ever since Stariel had chosen her, she’d been immune to glamour. Maybe the foreman really was seeing only normal bats. She wondered if the crewman who’d said they weren’t bats had a touch of the Sight.
“No, they’re clearly not normal bats,” she agreed. She directed her next words at the piskies. “I’m sorry, but you can’t live in this attic.”
More chittering. It wasn’t words, but Hetta got the gist of it through Stariel. They liked the attic. No one else had a claim on it, and that was a hard thing to find now, with more and more lowfae arriving with the ways to Mortal open once more. They’d been pushed out of their cave in the Indigoes by other wyldfae, but this attic was better than that old cave anyway. They would defend it against the men with their smoke-sticks!
More lowfae. Coming to Stariel—and presumably to the rest of the human world as well. Despite her land-sense, she suddenly felt very small and ill-equipped. Stariel brushed over her for a second, responding to her emotion, half a question in the air. Worryingly, it sent her an image of tumbling pebbles and the shaking beginnings of a rockslide. It mirrored her own sense of looming changes beyond her control, which
might mean she’d given the worry to Stariel in the first place. How much did her own emotions influence the faeland? She sent wordless reassurance along the bond, and the faeland subsided. Now just what, exactly, was she supposed to do with that ominous yet incredibly vague metaphor?
She pushed that worrying thought aside for the moment. That was a problem too big for her to solve right now, but this one at least she could do something about.
“Nevertheless, this is a human home, for humans, not lowfae,” she said firmly. “You shall have to find somewhere else.”
Immediately, they began to cry out, high-pitched and pleading. She tried to harden her heart against them. The wider estate desperately needed more funds, funds that would make her people’s lives better in real, tangible ways, and making the Dower House habitable again was a small but key part of that. The bank had granted them the first part of a loan on the understanding that the Dower House rents would provide much-needed cashflow, proving that the estate was a reliable investment before any more funds were released.
But Hetta couldn’t help thinking of how the piskies had acknowledged her as their lord, and she cast about for somewhere to send them. Somewhere high and vacant. With some trepidation, she said to them, “The western tower of Stariel House has a tower room that is unoccupied at present. You may occupy it temporarily while the workmen are here.” After that… Would whoever rented the Dower House accept lowfae living in the attics?
The lowfae’s chittering took on notes of excitement, and she got the impression that Stariel House was a coveted location.
“Temporarily,” she repeated as they hopped back into the attic, disappearing from view.
They didn’t respond. The high-pitched calls increased, and from above came a leathery whir of many wings as the flock took flight. She felt their sparks swarming out of the attic through the hole in the roof, streaming towards Stariel House. Had she done the right thing? Well, at least they’re out of the roof, and I can always order them out of the Tower Room if I have to, she reflected philosophically.
