Summerfall: A Winterspell Novella

by Claire Legrand

  “Still at her studies, I expect,” said Rinka carefully, and when the king made a move to enter her sitting room, she stepped into his path.

  He stopped, abashed. “My apologies, Countess, I . . . may I enter your rooms, please?”

  “Since you are my sovereign, I cannot deny you entrance, but I would ask you to refrain.”

  “And why is that?”

  She paused. “My king, I do not think it wise. I have no attendants present and your company could be misconstrued.”

  He seemed to deflate, his gaze full of conflict. “I made you uncomfortable before, during the meeting. You jumped when I touched you.”

  Rinka flushed to remember it, and hoped he would not notice. “I was engrossed in our strategizing, my king. I was caught off-guard.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” He ran a hand through his hair, and then, as if sensing how young that made him look, dropped his hand abruptly. “I’m sorry for that, Countess, I meant no offense. It’s only that . . .”

  It seemed as if he would say more, then. He took a step toward her, hesitated, stepped back, and yet still his nearness was an overwhelming thing, there at Rinka’s door. She refused to move and let him see how his presence affected her. She watched him, her heart pounding, waiting. If this had been any other man, if this had been any other situation, she would have long since pulled him to her. It was not the faery way to ignore the pull of wanting, and unless Rinka was utterly misreading him . . . the softness on his face, the heat of his gaze . . .

  But he was the king, and he was married, and that was an important thing to humans, a solitary thing. They did not take multiple spouses, or a spouse and lovers. At least, if they did, it was rare, considered neither legal nor morally acceptable. And he was a human, and things were fraught enough. Children being held hostage. Talk of war hissing through the country.

  A queen who seemed already to know too much.

  No, Rinka.

  No.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. It was a dreadful mistake, because the king’s gaze shot to her lips, and there was a leaning, a sway of his body into hers, and hers into his. They were caught in the fullness of possibility; there was nothing left between them but the pull of each other.

  Then the king’s mouth twisted. He stepped back, unable to meet her eyes, shame obvious on his face. He turned on his heel with an indistinct apology and left her.

  In his absence, Rinka felt cold and rattled, and terribly frustrated. She stepped inside her sitting room, shut and locked the door behind her. She slid against the wood until she sat on the plush red carpet, and touched her tingling lips.

  6

  A STRATEGY had been decided upon, and the Shadow Guard dispatched. Yet Rinka found herself in a state of endless unrest.

  She had been one of the key engineers of this rescue mission, and therefore her reputation as an asset to the crown depended upon its success. The tension between the other six faery delegates and the Seven mages required constant maintenance outside meetings, where they had no choice but to speak. Rinka seemed to always be carrying messages back and forth between them, an emissary of sorts. The mages recognized that she did not share the prejudices of her kindred, though they still managed the occasional condescension; and the faeries searched for any excuse not to talk to the mages unless it was absolutely necessary. This did not, however, keep them from treating Rinka more coldly, as though she was somehow betraying them by doing exactly as they asked.

  And then, of course, there was Garen, who had noticed the king’s recent fixation and kept needling Rinka about it.

  Her patience on this last point had been worn especially thin, but Garen was right—she could not seem to escape the king’s attention.

  He found her in the castle corridors, even when Rinka deliberately took a roundabout route from her rooms to the Great Room; or to the central courtyard, where courtiers gossiped beneath the queen’s silver oaks. Rinka would flee to the stables, desperate for an afternoon ride to clear her mind, but there he would be—playing cards with the groom, sending frissons of feeling down Rinka’s arms at the sound of his unruly laughter.

  Alban always seemed surprised—even embarrassed—to see her when they did meet, as if he had forgotten she now lived at Wahlkraft and, having been reminded of it, wished he could forget. He would mumble a greeting, try to avoid looking at her . . . but he wouldn’t entirely succeed. Their gazes would lock, even if only for an instant, and the temptation to close the distance between them would be overwhelming.

  That was usually the moment at which Garen chose to make his presence known with a message for Rinka, or a request for her attendance at some meeting with some influential courtier who, no, couldn’t possibly wait another moment to meet her.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Rinka said to Garen after one such occasion. “Stop following me everywhere.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re in quite a mood,” he said mildly, and Rinka spent the rest of the day in appointment after dull appointment, smiling politely through her anger.

  On a particularly balmy afternoon, Rinka explored the city to distract herself. She hoped there, away from the castle, she would see nothing of the king. She grew weary of feeling perpetually frustrated around him, and even wearier of Garen’s snooping. Did Alban plan their many chance encounters, or was it mere coincidence? Was he really reluctant to talk to her, or was he fighting the same awful compulsion she felt?

  Rinka let the crowded city fold her into its rhythm, hoping for anonymity. However, even clothed in a relatively inoffensive gown of dusky blue, her hair bound in a modest knot, she felt many eyes upon her as she wandered the main thoroughfare. Not only was she a faery—noteworthy enough—but she was one of the faeries, the seven who had been summoned and accorded titles of nobility. Famous, then, or at least infamous. Rinka knew public opinion regarding their titles was mixed. What had the faeries done to earn that honor? They had neither endured apprenticeship, like the mages, nor been born into a royal human family. Ennobling them was an insulting gesture, some thought; an offense to the order of things.

  But what can you expect, from a young and inexperienced king?

  Rinka ignored the whispers, though they tested her already thinly held composure. When she stopped to peruse bolts of silks in the south market, the merchant did not immediately approach her. Instead, she stared unabashedly at Rinka, and at last came forward with a curtsy.

  “Countess? Is that correct?” Ruddy-faced with auburn hair, the merchant seemed uncomfortable. “My apologies, I don’t know how to properly address you faeries.”

  Rinka forced a smile. “You may call me Rinka. ‘Countess’ makes me nervous, still. I haven’t gotten used to it.”

  The merchant let out a hesitant laugh.

  “Tell me,” Rinka said, pointing to an iridescent silk of gold and rich plum, “do you dye these yourself? They are exquisite, this one in particular.”

  The merchant beamed and strode forward. “I do, Countess—er, Rinka. Would you like to order a new gown for yourself? This fabric would be divine against that white skin of yours. Like wine on snow. Or perhaps this one—”

  Rinka laughed, the tension melting from her shoulders. To have an ordinary conversation with an ordinary human was a gift she had sorely needed. “In fact, I would love a new gown or two, and you seem just the person to help me.”

  But the merchant did not respond—now staring past Rinka, her eyes widening; now dropping to one knee.

  “Countess,” came a voice, and Rinka allowed herself a moment to close her eyes, to breathe, to stifle her irritation—and the sudden surge of joy in her heart.

  “My king,” she said smoothly, turning into a low curtsy. “What a pleasure to see you.”

  “And the same to you, Countess.” Alban put out his hand to help her up, and Rinka could not help but take it, could not help but lose her breath as he stepped back to regard her.

  “You are unspeakably love
ly today,” he said, low, and then opened his mouth as if to say more before stopping himself. He turned to the merchant, who still knelt. “Madam Farber, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my king,” said the merchant breathlessly.

  “Please rise. There’s no need to kneel before me.” He helped her stand, his smile kind. “Continue with your customer. I don’t mean to intrude. I was simply out walking, and the countess happened to catch my eye.”

  “Of course, my king!” And Madam Farber rustled around in her stores, drawing out bolt after bolt of opulent fabric while Alban watched them, amused, conversing with passers-by.

  Rinka kept glancing at him, her nerves buzzing. She had never seen him like this—out in the city, among the common folk. The mood on the street blossomed into excitement; shoppers whispered and pointed, and bustled over to pay their respects. And the king greeted them by name and laughed with them as though they were not his subjects but his friends.

  She had never seen him in that light tunic, emerald with gold trim, with his collar open to cool his skin, his smile open and natural. He seemed much more comfortable out here than he ever had in his castle.

  Rinka turned away, staring hard at the silks. She could no longer bear to look at him, and felt a sudden empathy for Garen. Was this what it was like for him, to love Rinka as he did, with no hope of anything ever coming of it?

  “Countess?”

  She returned to herself horribly flustered, cursing Alban, cursing the innocent Madam Farber for holding up the silk to Rinka’s skin and asking the king his opinion.

  His gaze drifted up Rinka’s body until it locked with hers. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if wanting to test the fabric’s softness for himself.

  Why him? Why him? Leska’s words of warning rang in Rinka’s mind.

  “Yes,” he said at last, and Rinka hoped no one else could hear the sudden rough quality of his voice. “This would indeed make the countess a fine gown.”

  At his side, the implacable Commander Henning, his gaze somewhere down the street, cleared his throat.

  Alban pulled away.

  “Countess,” he said, with a stiff bow. “Madam.” Then he turned and continued up the street, shaking hands with eager merchants, accepting flowers from shy children. And though Rinka did not follow, she felt the pull of him even after he had vanished from her sight.

  * * *

  The next day, without explanation, the king disappeared.

  His disappearances were not uncommon, Rinka learned. The king had remarkably little patience for being king. He would periodically vanish, tearing off with one of his horses into the forest for a day or even two, leaving his King’s Guard helpless and frustrated and Queen Liane in a terrible temper—for of course she could not have missed the knowing whispers that accompanied each of his absences:

  This is what happens when a queen fails to satisfy her husband.

  Rinka, for one, was glad he had gone. It was a relief to walk the halls of Wahlkraft without having to worry that she would see him and at last lose control of herself.

  Still . . . she missed him. After only a day without him, her craving to see his face bordered on the unendurable.

  What a stupid thing to feel. And yet she couldn’t stop feeling it.

  “And just what do you think will happen when you do see him again?” she muttered angrily to herself one morning, smoothing out the wrinkles of her lavender gown and its bodice of filmy lace. “As if anything will happen. Idiot girl. Nothing will happen. It’s better that he’s away.” She glared at her reflection in the mirror. “You need to get him out of your head.”

  “Countess! Come quickly!” Leska burst into the sitting room, her dark hair flying everywhere. Magic sparked off of her coldly, setting Rinka’s teeth on edge.

  Rinka turned, curious. Leska was not usually this excitable, breathless and beaming. “What is it?”

  “We were in the aviary this morning and saw them arrive in the stable yard. The Shadow Guard, they’ve returned! All the hostages are safe.”

  Rinka gasped and grabbed Leska’s hands. A wild joy overcame her—the joy of having been a part of this thing, this good thing that might not have come together were it not for her.

  “Oh, you don’t know what a relief that is,” Rinka said, releasing Leska and making for the door. “Come with me to congratulate them? This is a momentous occasion, and—what?”

  Leska’s smile was smaller now. She curtsied, obviously stalling.

  “Leska? What is it? Tell me.”

  Leska took a breath. “The faery prisoners, Countess. They’re being brought to the lower castle for interrogation as we speak.” At the expression on Rinka’s face, she went to her, compassionate. “I came as fast as I could.”

  Rinka shook her off. “I know you did.” Interrogation? But that was a violent word, and Alban had spoken out against torture that day in the Great Room. Rinka felt anger rise within her.

  “Perhaps you should not come with me after all, Leska,” Rinka said, grabbing her cloak and hurrying out. “This will be unpleasant.”

  * * *

  It took Rinka some time to navigate the labyrinth of the lower castle, for she wanted no one to find her and stop her. By the time she reached the grim block of rooms guarded by two men in black cloaks, it was too late. She heard, from inside the room, a man’s agonized cries.

  Cursing Alban for putting her in this position, Rinka drew upon her magic. He had left her no choice, promise or no. She tugged at the pendant at her neck and used it to focus her power, sending a blue coil of it scuttling haphazardly down the hallway. It rattled and hissed against the stone, drawing the attention of the black-cloaked guards. With them distracted, she slipped past them and burst into the room.

  “Stop!” she cried, and almost ran into King Alban, who stood, with no small amount of distress on his face, watching Commander Henning’s mage inquisitor carving open the chest of a young faery man. The man was bound to a metal table, his face a swollen mess of blue blood and purple bruises, and the mage’s eyes were alight with cold glee.

  Rinka froze. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at Alban—not the bleeding faery, but at her king, who was supposed to have been away. Her king, who had spoken out against torture.

  But it . . . it couldn’t be. She didn’t understand.

  “Countess,” Alban began, and the sound of his voice shocked Rinka into action.

  She lunged at the mage. She would knock the cruel, jagged tools out of his hands; she would set her magic upon him. But before she could do anything, Alban caught her and held her close to his body.

  “Countess,” he hissed, “control yourself. What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  The two door guards ran inside, dumbfounded.

  “These methods of interrogation,” Rinka said, “were not sanctioned when we planned this rescue mission, my king.” It was a mighty task to keep her voice steady. “You agreed we were to try these faeries, investigate their contacts. Question them, yes, but fairly and in public. Not torture them.”

  Alban watched her for a long, taut moment, and Rinka was glad for it, for the inquisitor had stopped his work.

  “Wait a moment,” Alban said at last, and Rinka followed him out of the room. With the door shut behind them, alone in the corridor, he threw her a dark look. “Rinka, you should not have done that. These are matters for the crown, not for a mere countess only a few weeks at court.”

  She couldn’t even enjoy his closeness, the scent of his riding jacket, his heat. She hadn’t believed him capable of allowing cruelty, and the dichotomy shook her—as did the sound of her name on his lips.

  “Is that what you want?” she said. “To be a barbarian king? To torture those who have attacked you? If you think this will frighten other faeries from rising up in their place, you could not be more wrong. And I thought you were away. Is this what you do when you disappear? Cut open faeries for pleasure?”

 
Alban whirled. “No, never. I saw the Shadow Guard return with the prisoners, knew what might happen . . .” He rubbed his hand over his face, his expression conflicted. “I may not want this, Rinka, but I have no choice.”

  “You’ve spoken to Lord Rohlmeyer, haven’t you? This is his doing. It must be. I cannot believe you would let yourself be convinced to violence by the likes of him.”

  “He may not be wrong.” Alban looked to her, his eyes pleading. “The Seven mages are irate. With the kingdom’s mood as it has been recently, my advisors demand a show of force. There can be no room left in the country for attacks such as this—taking hostages, assaulting innocent children. The idea of mercy is a grand one, but I must think of the reality of the situation. Am I to do nothing, take no action, and appear weak?”

  “That you would consider not torturing a living being a weakness does not speak well of you, my king,” Rinka shot back. “That you would let others rule your kingdom for you, let them make your decisions for fear of what they will think of you if you make the wrong one yourself—that makes you weak. Not mercy.”

  Rinka had grown too bold, had spoken dangerously, and she did not care. Fury and disappointment lit her up like fire. She could not believe this of him. She would not let him do it. She held his gaze, willing him to understand her.

  “The man I met in the forest,” she said, low, “the man who talks to his people in the market, would not commit such atrocities. I saw your anger when the queen proposed torture that day. You did not approve. You do not approve. Why pretend? Why let yourself be bullied? You are better than that.”

  He made a despairing sort of sound. “You think me a good king, Rinka? I’ve never thought so.”

  “I think you could be a good king, if you can manage to find your courage.”

  A strange look then, on his face—as if he couldn’t quite believe she was standing here in front of him, saying these things. As if he wanted to touch her, desperately.

  She turned away to put a distance between them. “I had thought,” she said quietly, “that the hatred of humans was nothing but prejudice. A latent hate, one that could be corrected with education and fellowship. Now I see I was wrong. Now I see mages torturing my people with the approval of the crown.” The thought filled her with revulsion, and staggering sadness.