by AJ Lancaster
“Simon, if you have something specific to accuse His Highness of, please lay it out plainly,” Queen Matilda said.
The earl’s mouth tightened. He couldn’t admit that his male lover had told him—what, exactly? From the way the earl was looking at Marius, John Tidwell had painted him in a very black light. Marius looked ghastly, like he might faint, and Hetta willed him not to. “I would like His Highness to answer my question, Your Majesty. Have you ever used compulsive magic in the past, on someone else’s behalf?”
Wyn sighed, outwardly relaxed, though Hetta knew him well enough to spot the fine line of tension in his muscles. His feathers were flattened down against his spine, but they twitched in restless small movements, a sure sign that he was furious.
“I misled you before, Your Majesty. It’s true that I have no compulsions binding any mortals. But I have used mild compulsive magic on Hetta’s sister Alexandra, at her request, as she desired to practice resisting it.” Marius swayed slightly, and Hetta squeezed his arm, faking a need for support. “At no other time have I used compulsion on a mortal only because a friend asked me to do so.” Splitting hairs, but apparently that was acceptable. It was terrifying, really, the way Wyn could lie with truth. He took a deep breath, met Hetta’s eyes.
The earl was narrow-eyed. “Perhaps my source was mistaken then.” He didn’t sound as if he believed this to be the case, but the queen beamed at him, her smile hard and cold as crystal.
“I’m glad that’s resolved, then,” she said. Something predatory gleamed in her eyes as she looked at the earl and added sweetly, “Remind me also, Simon, once we are done here, to discuss the procedures for who gives commands to my queensguard.” She turned back to Hetta. “Now, Lord Valstar, I believe you have some paperwork to sign.”
It wasn’t very satisfying, to have one’s hands tied, but for Marius’s sake, Hetta held her tongue as she signed the official documents. The only satisfaction was seeing the earl similarly hamstrung. He radiated disapproval throughout the ceremony and signed his name with a curtness that would’ve torn lower-quality paper. But he didn’t object further, even when the queen informed him that he would be in charge of arranging a photographer to take “the requisite charming photo of Prince Hallowyn taking his leave of me at the end of his ambassadorial visit.”
Maybe that will teach the earl to choose better bed-mates, she thought viciously as his eyes flashed in response. Marius was worryingly quiet, though this was better than him blurting out everything for all and sundry. How bad would it be if he did? Surely the queen couldn’t be so unaware of her advisor’s personal activities? But Hetta couldn’t take that sort of risk with her brother’s life, even as the unfairness of it burned at her.
After dismissing the earl, the queen sat down upon her throne-like chair, waving for Hetta to follow suit, and pierced Hetta with sapphire intensity.
“I dislike the haste in which this business was conducted, Lord Valstar, Prince Wyn. It does not constitute a proper introduction to society, nor an adequate ambassadorial visit.”
Hetta sank down upon the stiffly upholstered armchair opposite, while Wyn and Marius were directed to the sofa with another wave of Queen Matilda’s hand. Wyn had re-assumed his human form.
“Er—” Was Hetta supposed to point out that they hadn’t come here to do either of those things when she’d summoned them?
But the queen continued. “Do you still wish to marry him, Lord Valstar?”
“Well, yes, but also I’d like that to be a question between him and me,” she couldn’t help saying. Marius gave her a pained look. Wyn looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh, and Hetta felt an answering smile tug at her lips.
The queen’s eyes narrowed. “Not if you want me to support your union.” Wyn made a sound, and she waved her hand to stop him voicing his objection. “No, do not quibble with me about loopholes and treaties; you are not so foolish as that.”
Hetta knew what she meant; it was the same thing she’d thought earlier, pen in hand, when she’d hesitated over her signature. Stariel was just one small estate. Angering the Southern monarchy wasn’t a good management decision, no matter the legal technicalities. Or how much she wanted to rage at the queen’s unfairness over the past few days. She took a deep breath, setting her complicated feelings aside. “You ought to support us, though, regardless of all that,” she pointed out.
“And why is that, Lord Valstar?” To her relief, the queen seemed genuinely interested in her answer, despite the appalled look on poor Marius’s face.
She laced her fingers together. “Well, I admit I’m still learning my way in terms of politics, but isn’t a union between ranking members of two realms a traditional way to resolve differences? Which makes Wyn and me marrying good politics.” She gave Wyn a sideways look to see how he took this. Did he mind being shuffled about like a chess piece? She certainly did, even though she was the one suggesting it. But there didn’t seem to be any option other than to hold them up as a symbol of unity or some such thing.
The queen looked faintly amused, and Hetta had an insight then that would’ve done Marius proud. “And for that reason, you were never truly opposed to our relationship, were you?” she said indignantly.
The queen’s laugh was slight but genuine, and she inclined her head. “It is, as you say, a traditional resolution. However, I do not approve of the scandal you are creating between the pair of you.” She pinned Wyn with a look, her humour fading. “You have said it will take little time to resolve your succession. You will return here immediately afterwards, with Lord Valstar, to negotiate the details between Prydein and ThousandSpire—and I will announce your engagement.”
Hetta exchanged a look with Wyn.
“Ah, there are…other complications,” he said to the queen.
She pursed her lips. “What complications?”
In very bare terms, Wyn told her about the High King. “I see,” she said at the end of it, looking displeased. “And how does one contact the High King? I know you have made assurances on behalf of your court, Your Highness, but you have also admitted that it does not represent all of Faerie.”
Wyn paused. “Contacting the High King can be difficult, but I intend to try. And though it’s true that there are other courts, I think you are unlikely to find a ruler among them who cares more for Mortal than I.” He said it with careful neutrality, but the queen still looked between him and Hetta and raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, I can see that may be the case,” she said dryly, and Hetta wondered if some version of the star-crossed romance story she’d told at the duchess’s soiree had made it to her ears. A certain steeliness came into her expression. “You make a compelling couple, but I have a nation to think of. You are not king of Ten Thousand Spires yet, Prince Wyn, and your ascension seems by no means guaranteed.” Her gaze fell on Hetta. “Good intentions are not the same as actions, and Lord Valstar is far too valuable an addition to my Northern lords to waste on unfulfilled promises.” In response to Hetta’s astonishment, she added, with a brief, wry smile: “The Conclave could do with modernising.”
“I mean to fulfil my promises,” Wyn said, before Hetta could recover her balance. He and the queen locked gazes for several long moments, the tick of the grandfather clock the only sound. How did he manage to look so certain, when Hetta knew how much he dreaded going back to ThousandSpire? When who knew how that might change his priorities? Except that she suspected it wouldn’t. Part of her rather liked that, but another part—the bit that knew what it was like to be soul-bonded to a faeland, with all the responsibilities that entailed—thought, should he really be prioritising another faeland over his home court?
Eventually, Queen Matilda gave a small, irritated sigh. “A compromise, then. In a few months’ time, I host the annual Meridon Ball. At it, you will bring me some broader assurance on behalf of your people, Prince Wyn, and I will announce your engagement.” Or else, she didn’t say, but Hetta heard it anyway.
45
/> A Quiet Drink
The next morning, Wyn sat with Marius in a café across from the railway station, watching the ordinary bustle of passengers streaming out of the entrance into the grey of the city. The train to Stariel didn’t leave for another hour, and the journey would take most of the day. He tried not to think about what lay at the other end of it. A day’s grace, still. His siblings had said they would meet them at the estate, choosing wingpower over being stuck within human iron technology again for so many hours. They hadn’t been particularly impressed with his choosing otherwise.
A pointed clink recalled Wyn’s attention. Across the table, Marius had dumped a small mountain of cream and sugar into his coffee and was stirring it with unnecessary force. “I know what you’re doing,” he said, not meeting Wyn’s eyes.
“Having a refreshing drink before we get on the train?” Wyn suggested, lifting his own tea pointedly.
Marius’s mouth tightened. “I’m not as fragile as you and Hetta seem to think.”
Wyn put his cup down and canted his head, trying to judge his friend’s mood. Marius had refused to discuss what had happened at the palace yesterday, shutting himself in his room and claiming he needed to catch up on the student marking he’d brought with him. “I don’t think you’re fragile,” he said. “I think, on the contrary, that you show considerable strength of character.”
“Then why,” Marius demanded, pushing his drink away, “have you and Hetta set out to coddle me? I’m not an idiot!”
Wyn took a sip of his tea as he considered the complaint. “It’s true that she wasn’t very subtle, leaving us together. But I don’t think wanting me to talk to you truly counts as coddling.” Hetta had pointedly announced her intention to go for a walk about the block and stretch her legs before they got on the train, dragging Alexandra and Aunt Sybil with her before they could object. There were things Marius would never discuss with his sister, and Hetta knew it. “I hope I am still your friend, regardless of the tension between us these past few months.”
“You mean since I found out you lied to me and you started tupping my sister?” Marius’s cheeks bloomed red. Fortunately their corner of this café was deserted, and he’d spoken quietly enough despite his anger. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry.”
Wyn winced. “An accurate if vulgar summation.”
Marius opened his eyes and narrowed them at Wyn. “And you’re just going to leave her? You didn’t truly promise Her Majesty you were going to marry her, and don’t give me that talk of ‘complications’ and needing your High King’s permission. You think it would be better for her if you parted, if you have to go be king of the Spires.”
This was always the problem with Marius. When he saw things, he saw too much.
Marius stirred yet more sugar into his coffee and then said grimly into it, “I think you might be right to leave.”
Oh, that hurt, despite having the same thought himself.
Marius looked up. “Not because I think you’re not good enough for her, you idiot!” His shoulders went up. “You’re probably the most genuinely good person I know. Look at yesterday! All this time I’ve been on my high horse about compulsion, but it—” There it was, the self-recrimination Wyn had known would lodge in Marius like a cancer, the reason he’d wanted to talk to him alone.
“Don’t you dare blame yourself for this,” Wyn said fiercely.
“How can I not? If I wasn’t, wasn’t—” he lowered his voice— “deviant, none of this would’ve happened!”
Wyn reached out and gripped his shoulder, forcing him to meet his eyes. “There is nothing wrong with you, Marius, nothing you should feel any shame for.” He hated that Prydinian culture had done this to his friend, forced him into this position of self-loathing. A small, hard intention formed, to make the Prydinian legalities regarding that one of the matters he and Queen Matilda ‘discussed’, when he returned.
Marius shook him off. “Maybe not, but it’s my fault John set the earl on you.”
“John Tidwell had reason to hate me,” Wyn said. “For the compulsion I placed upon him.”
“Because of me,” Marius pressed.
“If anyone is to blame for John Tidwell’s actions, it is me. I chose to compel him. I chose to remove the compulsion, more concerned with my own conscience than with consequences. It was my error of judgement that caused this, not yours.” All his mistakes coming home to roost, the cumulative weight of them forcing him to face the truth: it is time I stopped running.
“No,” Marius said, shaking his head. “You’re always ready to martyr yourself, Wyn, but this wasn’t your fault. If I hadn’t gotten involved with John, if I hadn’t asked you for help when he tried to blackmail me, none of this would’ve happened.”
“I will not cede the debt to you, Marius Rufus Valstar,” Wyn said flatly.
Marius huffed, amusement softening the lines of his face. “I’m human, Wyn. You can’t just go all fae on me and expect me to agree with you. I don’t agree with you.” Something else occurred to him. “Gods, your brother calling me ‘Marius Valstar’ all the time. It’s some bizarre fae thing, isn’t it?”
“Ah—there is power in names. Using someone’s full name, or near to it, is used to denote”—Wyn spread his hands, reaching for the right word—“weight, in a conversation. But it can also be used because one is…” He trailed off, uneasy with where this was headed. “Engaging in a kind of dominance posturing.”
Marius gave an incredulous laugh. “You mean: ‘I’m more powerful than you because you can’t stop me from flinging your name about as I like?’ That style of thing?”
“Yes,” Wyn agreed reluctantly. “Rake has a…peculiar sense of humour.”
“He called me ‘dangerous’,” Marius said, twisting his cup around in its saucer. “Do you know why he’d say that?”
“Not without context, no. But you know how well we can bend truth to mislead.”
The twisting of the cup continued, though Marius still hadn’t managed to actually drink any.
“Does Rake…?” he began but trailed off.
“Does Rake what?” Wyn prompted.
But Marius shook his head, cheeks flaming. “Never mind. Forget it.”
Understanding arced through Wyn, and he choked on his tea. Once he’d stopped spluttering, he said, low and incredulous: “Marius, are you asking me about my brother’s bedmate preferences?”
Marius’s shoulders hunched, and he refused to meet his eyes. “I said forget it. How much longer do you think Hetta will be?” he asked, desperately trying to change the subject.
Wyn wanted simultaneously to demand to know why Marius wanted the information and shout at him that any thoughts in that direction were a bad idea, but he took a firm grip on himself. Marius didn’t need more shame right now. He took a deep breath.
“Ah—I’m not sure I can give you the answer you want. We don’t…discriminate the way humans do, and I’ve always been deliberately incurious about my siblings’ private activities.”
“What do you mean you don’t discriminate?” Marius asked, still examining the insides of his cup intently.
“I mean that gender is not usually the primary consideration of what we find attractive,” he said helplessly. “Rake, as far as I know, is usual in that respect. But if you are asking if he would find—No.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t wish to speculate in that direction. Please tell me you are not.”
A slight smile curved Marius’s lips. “It’s less fun when it’s your sibling, isn’t it?” He sighed. “Don’t worry. I know he’s dangerous, and I’ve no speculations in that direction, as you put it. I just—I just wanted to know.”
“Good,” Wyn said, with an emphasis that made Marius laugh. But the awkwardness of the topic had eased the tension between them, and he considered Wyn with a kind of ironic amusement.
“Gods, I can be a bastard sometimes. What I said before, about maybe it being for the best if you left—I wasn’t thinkin
g of Hetta, though gods know you’ve made her life more complicated than I’d like.” His gaze grew distant. “I was thinking of the fae, of your home court. What I’ve seen of other fae—” He coloured. “Well, they are somewhat amoral, aren’t they? If I had to choose someone I trusted to change them for the better, it would be you. And, well, how could I not welcome you as my future brother, after all we’ve been through?” He hid behind his coffee.
There was a long silence, and eventually Marius risked a glance upwards and gave a bark of laughter. “I didn’t think it was actually possible to shock you speechless.”
“I am honoured by your faith in me,” Wyn said when he’d found his voice again.
Marius shook away the words like a dog shedding water. “And that’s quite enough of this cloying talk about feelings.” He took a sip of coffee and grimaced, putting the cup down to glare at the liquid in indignation.
“Perhaps an eighth sugar will do the trick?” Wyn suggested mildly.
Marius rolled his eyes at him. “There’s not enough sugar in the world to cover the taste of overbrewed coffee.”
There was a single warm moment of camaraderie between them before all Wyn’s senses flared to high alert: the scent of Spire magic, rolling towards the train station like an oncoming storm.
46
Aroset Tempestren
“Marius,” Wyn said, pushing up from the table. “Princess Aroset Tempestren is here.” He said his sister’s name deliberately, hoping to draw her attention, because he knew with sickening certainty that if Aroset couldn’t get to him, she’d target anyone he cared about.
Marius gulped and stood so hurriedly he knocked his cup out of its saucer and had to hurriedly right it. Rivulets of liquid ran across the table. “Where?” His face was ashen, and Wyn knew he was remembering his last encounter with Aroset, when she’d tried to compel him. Thank the High King Marius had natural mental shields that prevented such influence. Alexandra doesn’t, he thought, on the heels of that. Heart of the Maelstrom, he had to make sure Aroset didn’t get to her again.
