The Court of Mortals (Stariel Book 3)

by AJ Lancaster

  “I thought it best to increase our advantages. Just in case,” he said.

  She considered him evenly. “Wyn, you cannot be unaware of the connotations attached to this particular gift. Particularly in light of recent conversations we’ve had on the subject. This isn’t a hypothetical object.”

  “I’m aware of the Prydinian customs you refer to.” He looked sheepish. “But since neither of us is free to make the promises that should come with it, think of it rather as a statement of intent.”

  She turned the ring over in her hands. How long had he spent on this? The silver band was deceptively simple, but the closer she looked, the more detail was revealed. The setting invoked feathers that morphed into abstract lines twisting around the band—wind currents? Tree branches? The high peaks of the Indigoes dark against the setting sun? Her mind spun into increasingly sentimental imagery, and she pulled it firmly back.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. “But I’m growing rather tired of your hypothetical proposals. Let’s hope the queen will give me permission to make it only half-hypothetical.” The other half of the problem, the High King, loomed on the horizon, a knot Hetta wasn’t sure yet how to unravel. Wyn had tried again to contact his godparent for advice on the subject before they’d left Stariel, but without success. Well, we can deal with that after we deal with Queen Matilda.

  Wyn grimaced, clearly thinking along the same lines. “Yes. But regardless of custom, it seemed too useful an object to keep from you, since we’re outside of Stariel.”

  “Surely whatever is happening in the Spires won’t endanger us here?”

  “I hope not. But I’ve misjudged dangers before.”

  “Alexandra wasn’t your fault, and nor was Marius,” she said sharply.

  He made a loose motion with one hand, disagreeing.

  “You know, it’s arrogant to assume everything is your fault.”

  He smiled, fleetingly, the flecks of brandy gold gleaming in the russet of his irises. “I am arrogant, Hetta.”

  She reached to pull him down into a kiss, but he shifted away.

  “I’ll ruin your lipstick.”

  She sighed. He was right, dash it. Why had she decided caution was a good idea today when it came to cosmetic illusion? “Well,” she said brightly. “How fortunate that this matches my mother’s earrings.” She rummaged in her jewellery box and pulled out a long silver chain, threading the ring through, and slipped it on and under her dress. At Wyn’s inquisitive look, she shrugged.

  “I think it would be impolitic to appear before the queen wearing an obvious betrothal ring before I’ve asked for her permission to marry.”

  He chuckled as she smoothed down the collar of her dress and stood.

  Fortunately, they were already in the hallway when Aunt Sybil barrelled along it, intent on preventing any clandestine goings-on.

  “My lady,” Wyn greeted her cordially. “We were just on our way out. I hope you and Miss Alex enjoy your morning without us.”

  She narrowed her eyes at both of them and looked Hetta over from top to toe, making liberal use of her quizzing glass.

  “Do try to uphold the family name, Henrietta,” she admonished, when she couldn’t find anything to criticise in Hetta’s appearance.

  15

  Queen Matilda

  Meridon Palace was surrounded by a vast park, and the long vehicle approach gave visitors plenty of time to be intimidated by its imposing rectangular form. Hetta had been here before, on a public day, as one anonymous tourist among many, shown around its public galleries by a very superior tour guide. But that only made it more surreal now, approaching the gates without the protection of a crowd. In front of the great gates, the driveway encircled an enormous statue of a winged woman holding a trident. The woman was Pyrania, the sea goddess responsible for lifting Prydein above the waves. Hetta stared up at the golden face and tried to borrow some of Pyrania’s serenity for herself.

  I’m a lord now, she reminded herself as she smoothed her dress. Here, she represented more than just herself. Renewing Stariel’s agreements with the Crown might only be a formality, but she was still determined not to show any sign of shabbiness while doing so.

  Wyn had a very curious look on his face as he surveyed the many fluted columns running along the palace’s frontage, an emotion more complicated than mere sadness, and one that Hetta recognised because it was what she felt whenever she caught sight of her father’s portrait in the long gallery—not grief, exactly, but a sober awareness of the past. She put a hand on his arm, and he gave himself a tiny shake.

  A rigid manservant took their names and coats with cold formality and ushered them through the palace to a waiting room. Everything about it was designed to keep visitors unbalanced, from the uncomfortably upholstered chairs, to the large portraits of past monarchs staring disapprovingly down from every wall, to the temperature, which was slightly too cool. They couldn’t even talk openly, for they were left in the care of a footman, who remained standing so still next to the doorway that he might as well have been part of the furnishings too.

  They waited. Time ticked by in tiny increments marked by the ornate grandfather clock. Hetta got up after a while and began to pace. The footman watched her impassively, and she was gripped by a temptation to pull faces at him, just to see if that got a reaction.

  Wyn stared unseeingly at the wallpaper, that strange tightness back in his expression, and she suspected he was thinking of the Spires again. If only the footman would leave them alone so she could ask him about it! She’d seen only glimpses of the Court of Ten Thousand Spires, but they’d left her with an overwhelming impression of lavish wealth, gold leaf everywhere that could be leafed, and jewels sparkling in any surface that could be jewelled. Just when she was about to break the silence, unable to stand it any longer, the far door opened, and another liveried footman appeared.

  “Lord Valstar, Mr Tempest,” he said with a nod to each of them. “Her Majesty will see you now.”

  They were shown in to a drawing room. It was as old-fashioned as one of Stariel’s public rooms, every item no doubt a family heirloom, but its atmosphere differed markedly. Where Stariel House gave off a faintly dilapidated air of neglect, this room reeked of wealth and attentive care.

  A row of palace guards in stiff uniforms lined each wall. Well, it’s certainly not a very private private audience, Hetta thought, blinking at them in surprise. Was such an excessive number of guards usual?

  Queen Matilda sat in a high-backed chair that brought to mind the word ‘throne’. Two advisors stood to either side of her, both men, one dark-skinned and one fair, but Hetta didn’t know enough about the queen’s court to recognise either. She did, however, know enough to kneel, spreading her skirts in a smooth movement that would’ve made her old school mistress proud. What a lowering thought, that her old school mistress had been right to see that the correct protocols were drummed into her. At the time she’d thought it pointless to learn how to interact with royalty. And it’s not like I needed it to interact with Wyn, she thought with a wisp of inappropriately timed humour.

  She bowed her head and waited for permission to rise and speak. To her surprise, Wyn didn’t kneel, and instead cut a very deep bow. One of the queen’s advisors made a small noise of shocked displeasure and would’ve objected aloud except that the queen cut him off with a single commanding hand movement. Hetta shot Wyn a meaningful glance. What was he doing? Weren’t they supposed to be showing the queen what good, non-scandalous citizens they were?

  “You may rise, Lord Valstar,” the queen said. “Though I see such permission will be wasted on your companion.” Her tone was very dry.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Wyn said quietly. “I honour your position greatly, and I mean no offence, but you are not my queen, and it would be impolitic of me to rank you above my own liege.”

  The queen ignored him. Up close, Hetta could see that there were tiny strands of illusion wound into her blonde hair, hiding the grey. Intere
sting. I wonder if Aunt Sybil knows the queen uses cosmetic illusion? Hetta would probably do the same for her own auburn locks when the time came, but who was employed as the queen’s personal illusionist? She wished she’d known that was a career option back when she’d been seeking financial reward in exchange for her magic, though the theatre crowd appealed to her for more than monetary reasons.

  “You have been tardy in paying your respects, Lord Valstar,” Queen Matilda said. “You have not yet sworn your oath to the Crown. You inherited in October, and it is now March, is it not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” She fought the urge to fidget under the queen’s piercing blue-eyed gaze, feeling as if she truly had regressed back to her schoolgirl self.

  “You make no excuses, Lord Valstar.” It was a statement rather than a question, but Hetta answered it anyway.

  “Well, I certainly have excuses. I didn’t intend to delay quite so much, but it’s been a very busy six months since my father passed away.” Had it truly only been six months?

  “So I understand,” Queen Matilda said, her attention shifting to Wyn. He met her gaze without trouble, expression neutral. “This is your steward?”

  Hetta opened her mouth to confirm, but before she could, Wyn spoke, a hint of steel in his tone.

  “I think you suspect precisely what I am, Your Majesty.” He gestured at the many guards. “Unless you always employ such a large number of people wearing yarrow charms to guard you.”

  Hetta took a sharp breath. Yarrow! The herb had anti-fae properties. It had disoriented Wyn, last time they’d encountered it, but he didn’t appear disoriented now. He held himself tightly, his posture very erect.

  This room had a grandfather clock too, the twin of the one in the waiting room, and its ponderous tick grated as the queen considered Wyn in silence for a long, long moment.

  “And what are you, Mr Tempest?” she said finally.

  “Fae. Greater fae, to be precise.” He enunciated each syllable with cold, clipped precision.

  The queen’s expression didn’t change, but her grip on the armrests of her chair tightened. “Then you are on dangerous ground. Interaction between Faerie and the Mortal Realm has been forbidden for the last three centuries.”

  The conversation had spun so rapidly beyond what Hetta had expected that she felt a strong urge to ask everyone to pause for a few moments so she could catch up. From the faces of the queen’s advisors, they felt similarly wrongfooted. Both men were staring from Wyn to their monarch like spectators at a tennis match, each looking like they wanted to interject but didn’t quite dare.

  “The High King has revoked the Iron Law,” Wyn said evenly. “The ways are open once more, for those that care to find them.”

  “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but if you already knew about the fae, why didn’t you say so in your summons?” Hetta said, deciding that it was time she re-inserted herself back into this conversation.

  “The fae are dangerous. They can enchant the mind, Lord Valstar,” the queen said without taking her attention from Wyn. Hetta didn’t like her expression—as if Wyn were a specimen in a glass case. A dangerous specimen. “I had heard you were…entangled with this one.”

  “‘This one’ is Prince Hallowyn Tempestren,” Hetta retorted, needled. The shape of it felt strange—she could count on one hand the number of times she’d used Wyn’s real name, and she’d never prefaced it with the word ‘prince’ before. “And my friend. He hasn’t enchanted me.”

  “I would like to hear that from his lips, thank you.” Queen Matilda didn’t take her attention off Wyn.

  “I have used no compulsive magic on Lord Valstar, Your Majesty,” he said. His expression was dangerously neutral, and there was a faint edge about him that Hetta knew meant his fae side was close to the surface. The faintest hint of spice touched the back of Hetta’s tongue.

  “And have you enchanted any other of my citizens?”

  Of course Wyn hadn’t enchanted anyone! Hetta opened her mouth to say so but shut it as she abruptly remembered Mr John Tidwell, her brother’s ex-paramour. And Alexandra—Wyn had been practising compulsion resistance with her. A panicky sensation spiked in her chest. How could they explain that to Her Majesty in a way that didn’t sound nefarious?

  Wyn, of course, had no trouble doling out truth untruthfully. “There are no compulsions of mine on any of your citizens. I mean no harm to any mortals. I am here in my capacity as Lord Valstar’s steward, and my loyalties lie with her.”

  Relief and unease twined around her heart. There were a lot of guards, and they were half a country away from Stariel.

  The queen made a sound, not quite disbelief but not approval either. “Nonetheless, this is an unusual state of affairs. We had not expected to encounter fae in Prydein, in our reign, and we wish to understand the ramifications of this. You will stay here under our supervision, Prince Hallowyn.” She said the words so matter-of-factly that it took Hetta a second to understand their meaning.

  “You aren’t proposing to imprison him?” She clenched her fists, a spark of fire threatening to light in her palms.

  The row of guards shifted very slightly, as if they had all tensed as one.

  “What precisely are you proposing, Your Majesty?” Wyn said quickly.

  “If the fae have truly returned to this world, then we must be sure of their intentions. We cannot grant you freedom of movement before we have satisfied ourself as to this point. If you are truly as loyal to Lord Valstar as you profess, then you will do as her queen commands.” Queen Matilda gave Hetta a dry, fleeting glance.

  Hetta bristled and thought about reminding Queen Matilda that she hadn’t sworn her oath of fealty yet, but she settled on: “I don’t think keeping Prince Hallowyn here would tell you much about the fae’s intentions. He doesn’t represent them, and he isn’t a danger to anyone.” She used Wyn’s title again deliberately, hoping that would make the queen take them both more seriously.

  “That is a judgement we need to make for ourself, Lord Valstar.” The queen’s tone was cold.

  Wyn shot Hetta a warning look that said, very plainly, that arguing with your monarch in front of a roomful of people was generally not a good way to make them warm to you. Hetta glared black, trying to convey that this was no time for him to play martyr.

  “I am willing to prove my loyalty, to a point,” he said. “I mean your people no harm, Your Majesty.”

  “Then you will stay here,” Queen Matilda said calmly. “As my guest.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until we are satisfied,” she said. She gave Hetta a very cool look. “We do not think you have been a good influence on Lord Valstar.”

  “On the contrary, Prince Hallowyn is an excellent influence, as he’s by far the more level-headed of the two of us,” Hetta couldn’t help saying. The queen’s eyes narrowed, and the fair-skinned advisor looked down his nose at Hetta, as if she were a dog that had made a mess on the carpet. She was speaking too frankly, too informally. Remember you’re talking to the Queen of Prydein! She took a deep, calming breath. “And how long until you are satisfied? Your Majesty,” she added belatedly. She reached for Stariel, but the stone from the ring wasn’t touching her skin, and all she got was a distant murmur.

  “You shall be informed when we know the answer to that.” The words rang with frosty hauteur.

  “I will be your guest, you say?” Wyn said. “Not, and forgive me, but I would like to be very sure on this point, a prisoner? Lord Valstar may visit me?”

  “Let us say an entirely house-bound guest,” the queen countered. “You will be provided with rooms here, the same accommodations as any ambassador. You may receive visitors, but they must declare themselves upon entry.” She paused. “We have only one additional requirement.”

  “Which is?”

  The queen turned to her dark-skinned advisor. Hetta wished she’d introduce them. It was more intimidating, being faced with nameless nobles. Or were they so high up in the hierarchy that she
was supposed to know who they were on sight? Southern titles were more convoluted than Northern ones, where you were either a lord or you weren’t. “The box, Your Grace.”

  The man—a duke, apparently, which meant Hetta really ought to know who he was because there were only about seven of those, she was fairly sure—obediently retrieved a small chest from a nearby table, presenting it to the queen with steady hands. She opened the lid and lifted free two metal arm cuffs. They glimmered strangely, as if there was water beneath the surface of them, and intricate sigils were etched into the metal. Still resting in velvet inside the box was a large, ornate key made of the same strange metal.

  Wyn went absolutely still, and the taste of spice in the air strengthened.

  “What are they?” Hetta asked. “Your Majesty.”

  The queen raised one slender eyebrow, a silent commentary that said she’d noticed Hetta’s poor manners. “They are called dismae, Lord Valstar.”

  “They bind greater fae,” Wyn murmured. “I did not know there were any left.” He raised his voice. “And if I refuse?”

  The queen’s blue eyes were unwavering. “Then you declare yourself an enemy of the state. As do those who harbour you.”

  “No,” Hetta said, low and fierce. “This is completely unnecessary.”

  “Very well,” Wyn said. He smiled at Hetta, soft and sad. “I am trying to prevent a war, my Star, not start one.” He turned back to the queen and took a deep breath. She watched, helpless and furious, as he held out his arms. “Give them to me.”

  16

  The Griffin Theatre

  Hetta stalked out of the palace after being dismissed, a seething, acid anger churning in her stomach. How dare the queen treat Wyn like an enemy? How dare he agree to this so easily? But beneath that was a worse emotion, a spiralling panic at how quickly everything had changed, at the flat calm of Wyn’s expression after donning the iron cuffs—never a good sign.