Summerfall: A Winterspell Novella

by Claire Legrand

  “I do not approve—”

  She rounded on him; she could have slapped him. “It is not what you approve of in your heart that matters, my king. It is what you approve of with your inaction. That is what will decide the course of our two peoples.” Her throat was tight with unshed tears. “That is what they will remember, years from now, in whatever world we make together.”

  The king stood motionless, stunned. “I am not a coward,” he managed, after a moment. He did not sound convinced.

  “Forgive me, but it seems you are.” She relished the effect of her words, how he stepped back as if struck. “I have heard rumors for months now, rumors I refused to believe. Abductions, experimentation. Dissections of my own people, to uncover the ‘secrets’ of our magic. I had not wanted to believe them, and yet now I must. Tell me, are these rumors true? Have your mages been experimenting? Have they been stealing my people from their homes only to slice them apart?”

  “I do not know, Countess,” he said wearily. “That is part of why I summoned your delegation to court—in hopes I could uncover the truth of these rumors, with your help.” He paused. “I want to hope they are just rumors, and nothing more. That such things might have been taking place in my own kingdom, so completely hidden from me for so long . . .”

  “You would do well to listen more closely to the whispers of your country, my king, before such terrors ever have the chance to manifest,” Rinka said, an awful hopelessness weighing on her. This was not what she had imagined—a scheming court, a useless king, weeks of building disappointments. “Maybe, if you had, you could have put a stop to them long ago.”

  He spun away from her, paced, his hands in fists. When he turned back to her, he studied her for so long Rinka thought she would scream from the tension.

  “I’ll put a stop to it, for now,” he said at last, with some effort, “and we’ll resort to less brutal methods. Questioning, with witnesses. A fair trial. I will get nothing but trouble for it, but I will do it. You shame me, and I deserve it.” His brow furrowed; his gaze fell to the ground, and what he saw there seemed to disgust him. “I’ve long known my shortcomings but never had them spelled out so passionately. I’ll do it then, if only to prove I am capable of more than what you must think of me. But on one condition, Countess.”

  Rinka sagged against the wall, weary with relief. “Of course, my king.”

  And then she was anything but weary, for he had stepped close and was touching her—not with his hands, but with the presence of him. His eyes glittered in the torchlight, lit with some new boldness. He was so close she could have slid her hands up his torso and wound her fingers through his hair.

  She was suddenly, shatteringly, alive.

  “I’ll do as you ask, Countess Rinka,” he murmured, his lips hovering over her cheeks, “if you kiss me.”

  7

  RINKA'S FIRST reaction to this outrageous request was a resounding yes—yes, a rush of heat all the way to her fingertips, itching to gather the king close; yes, her body rising to meet his, stretching up onto her toes, allowing him to slide his hands up her back . . .

  But as his head bent over hers, she hesitated and pulled away.

  He released her. Without his touch, her skin felt cold.

  “Rinka?” His voice was hoarse, undone.

  “My king,” she said, fighting the urge to simply sink back into his arms. She forced her attention to the gray wall opposite her. “I can’t believe you would ask that of me. How stupid do you think I am?”

  He stepped back from her, ashamed. “Rinka, you’re the farthest thing from that. The truth is I’ve been struggling not to do this for weeks now, since we met in the forest. Even that day, I wanted to—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was unfair of me, to ask that of you.” He turned away, swearing softly. “This is madness.”

  She watched him, her heart twisting at the distress on his face. But she wanted to hear the words. If she was even to consider doing this dangerous thing, she needed to hear them. “What did you want, that day?”

  His eyes cut to hers in the gloom. He took a slow breath. “I wanted you. I still want you, Rinka. I know it’s wrong, I know I shouldn’t.” He hesitated, gave a small, strained smile. “You don’t know how many nights I’ve lain awake convincing myself not to come find you.”

  Or maybe, Rinka thought, relieved and giddy and ten thousand other things she couldn’t name, it was not a good idea to hear these words. She could now not ever unhear them.

  “One cannot have everything one wants,” she made herself say.

  He laughed, a new recklessness on his face that she hadn’t seen before. “How true that is. I have very little of what I want. My entire life is a compromise, don’t you see? I must compromise my own morality to keep an untenable peace. I must compromise on the rare occasion I can tolerate sitting at court, listening to the pleas and petitions of people I can never satisfy. I must even,” he said, “compromise my heart. I must be married to a woman I do not love, a woman who does not love me, all to appease a family who would sacrifice the happiness of one of their own just to be closer to the throne. I was not ready to be a husband, and certainly not a king.”

  Rinka kept her eyes steadily on his chest—not his face. His face was too alive with feeling. “Forgive me, but that is what it is to be born a prince. I have trouble feeling sorry for you.”

  But I do feel sorry for you, Alban. I’m sorry you have found yourself in this position. I think it unfair too. The words danced on her tongue, and she fought against saying them.

  “Yes, I imagine you do.” His laugh was bitter. “You, who live utterly without fear. You were born into a similar position—I know of your father and his place on the Council, your clan’s political legacy—and yet you seem comfortable with that power, as I never have been.”

  “You’re mistaken, my king. I don’t live without fear. But I don’t fear my own power.”

  After a moment, he smiled sadly. “I wish you could teach me how to do that. I want . . .” He sighed. “I want good things for my country. I know it may not seem that way, but I do.”

  “There are some, I think, who believe that. Who think you could be a good king.”

  “That’s kind of you, but I’m not a fool. I know my failings.”

  No, you’re not a fool, Rinka wanted to say.

  You are like me. You are trying to find your way.

  I want to help you find it.

  Rinka stayed tensely silent.

  “I have always wanted understanding,” Alban said at last, pacing once more, his gaze distant. “Education. Friendship, between faeries and humans, faeries and mages. A different world, one not plagued with prejudice and ready to burst at the seams with barely contained violence. My mages plot in their towers, my people stir restlessly as border towns endure the terror of faeries who are understandably afraid and frustrated. And you faeries . . . I do not understand you. I don’t understand your ways, your customs. Your magic. I have been afraid, I think, to learn, for once I learn, then I must act.” He paused and sighed into the darkness. “You’re right. I have been a coward. There is no greater coward than one who has the capacity to change and yet refuses to. I have wanted understanding, but I don’t know how to achieve it, so I let others act on my behalf, even when I don’t agree with them.” His voice was bleak. “My father would have known what to do.”

  Rinka had turned to watch him as he spoke. They were pretty words, perhaps engineered to elicit her pity, but the feeling on his face was genuine.

  She moved toward him.

  “It isn’t too late, my king,” she said slowly. “We have been doing good work, the faeries and myself.” She hesitated. “The queen. And we will continue to. We can blame today’s incident on an overzealous member of the Shadow Guard, a disturbed inquisitor. No one need know about Rohlmeyer’s part in this, or yours. If they did . . . the other faeries, they would not stand for it. That information would disrupt everything we have been working toward, and I will not allow
it. We must all continue our work, which is more important now than ever after recent events. We will work, and nothing is stopping you from joining us.” She paused. “It would be good for morale to see your face at more of our meetings. It would send a message.”

  Alban was quiet for a long time. “And it would be dangerous as well. Every time I see your face, it is dangerous. I have never felt . . .”

  Silence, taut and cracking.

  Rinka blew out a frustrated breath. “In faery culture,” she began, hating herself for saying it, “it is common for a man to take many spouses and lovers. And for a woman to do the same. We do not believe in obstructing passion when we are lucky enough to find it.”

  They were close now, in a dark stretch of corridor between torches. Rinka’s back was to the wall, and the cold seeped through the fabric of her gown, chilling her. She shivered—from the cold, from the heat of the king—and let her eyes fall closed when Alban cupped her face.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he whispered.

  Rinka leaned into his touch, opened her eyes. Realized his nearness, and ripped herself away.

  “I don’t know,” she snapped, emotion clouding her vision, her voice, her thoughts. “I never know what to say around you. I find your world confusing and contradictory and exhausting. You feel the same passions we do, but you hide them and dance around them. I thought it would be easy here. I thought I would come to the capital and know I was in the right place. I thought I would find friends, not . . . you.”

  “Rinka—”

  “And you’re a human.” She had to say it; it was the most basic, the most important reason why she should walk away from him before it was too late. “I am a faery,” she said, “and you’re a human. It isn’t done. You know we cannot—If anyone were to ever find out . . .” She closed her eyes. “The taboo, my king, they say it exists for a reason. They say that if a human and one of the magic folk were to—”

  “The old stories are hardly more than children’s tales,” Alban said. “And anyway, I’ve had a thought just now.”

  “Oh?” She was seething—at him, at herself. She needed his touch. She needed to walk away, now. “And what is that?”

  “If it is a matter of reaching understanding,” he said, “of education and forming friendships between our peoples, what better way to do that than with a human and a faery who love each other? Who are united not just politically but also through love?”

  She stared at him, astonished. “Your logic is flawed, my king. For one, the mere sight of us together would inspire not friendship but outrage, even violence. For two, it is wildly presumptuous to assume I love you.”

  “Well,” Alban said simply, “don’t you?”

  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t admit to it.”

  He was quiet, and then said, “I’ve a counterargument. About the sight of us throwing the kingdom into a violent frenzy.”

  It wasn’t a funny thought, and yet his tone was so matter-of-fact that Rinka had to hide a smile. “Oh?”

  “We don’t tell anyone.” Alban took her hands, his eyes soft.

  “Oh, that’s brilliant.”

  “I’m serious. Maybe it’s not about showing off our love to everyone—at least not yet. You’re right that disregarding everything else, flouting the taboo, whether it’s antiquated superstition or not, would incense many. But Rinka, you said it yourself: Faeries don’t believe in obstructing passions, and I’ve done just that for far too long now—not just with you, but with everything. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of pretending everything in my life.”

  “If we are found out, it will ruin everything we’re working for,” she said flatly, trying to distance herself from the idea and failing. Her heart leapt at his words.

  “So we won’t be found out.”

  Leska’s words came back to Rinka. “The queen has many spies.”

  “We’ll be careful.”

  “And I came here to work, to do great things.”

  “And you have done that, and you’ll continue to. Only now you’ll have the help of your king. I’ll have to be careful about that too, of course. It will not go unnoticed if I suddenly become completely responsible.” He laughed, let his gaze fall to their joined hands. “You inspire me, Countess.”

  “And you frustrate me endlessly. This is a horrible idea.”

  “And yet?” His gaze came back to her, hopeful.

  “And yet,” Rinka said, touching his face, tired of ignoring her own heart, “I have never felt this way before, and I don’t want to lose it.”

  What if she never found this again? This fullness, this rightness, this . . . warmth, rising fast in her heart. She could not bear living with that regret. She no longer wanted to fight this. Despite her misgivings, the pull of Alban’s nearness was inexorable.

  She could no longer fight this. She wouldn’t.

  Alban must have felt her relax, for he smiled and smoothed her hair back from her face, and then—a light brushing of his lips against hers; a whisper of skin against skin; a caress of his hands down her throat, down her arms, coming to settle at her waist. He pulled back from her, hardly breathing, and Rinka’s eyes felt heavy. They did not move, held in this moment by the weight of what they had just done.

  And then, impatient, need rising like a tide within her, Rinka let out a soft noise, and the king returned to her—rougher now, desperate. His body pressed her back against the wall, and the stone was hard and cold against her skin, but even that was somehow exhilarating as Alban gathered her up against him, as he groaned her name and kissed her. His hands were hard on her hips, and then they were tangled in her hair, holding her in place as his tongue parted her lips and their kisses grew fevered. Rinka slid her arms around his neck, letting him lift her up, letting him pin her there. When he pulled back to breathe, she gasped against his mouth and let her head tip back against the wall.

  He found her throat, kissed her, nipped her lightly. “Rinka,” he said, his voice changed now—darker, heavier.

  Rinka was floating, she was wild. Her skin tingled, her body arched up to meet his every touch.

  “Can I come to you tonight?”

  And Rinka knew that she should deny him. She should put an end to this. The queen had spies. Leska would be worried; Garen would be livid.

  But . . . together they could build a bridge.

  “Yes,” she whispered, and the bashful smile on Alban’s face made her feel bright as the sun. “Yes, my king. You may.”

  8

  IT WAS AS THOUGH a fuse had been lit, and set everything ablaze.

  The king came to her that night. He came to her every night he could. They even met during the day, between appointments, when they were feeling especially daring.

  Sometimes they would be more careful—snatched bits of conversation in seldom-traveled corridors, ciphered messages delivered in progressively elaborate ways. But sometimes they would have no patience for such delays. Sometimes, when Alban would find Rinka on her way from the kitchens to the stables, or as she came in from the city with Leska’s favorite pastries, he would come up behind her, slide his arms around her until she began to laugh, tug her gently into the nearest empty room, and lock the door behind them.

  On these occasions, Rinka could never find the will to scold him, or think too hard on the risk they were taking. She was too caught up in this—in him, in them. The intoxicating boldness of it—overseeing meetings between faeries and humans who lived near each other on the border, designing shared villages that would accommodate both human and faery lifestyles . . . and then, later, secretly, finding each other, sliding into each other’s arms as if they’d been doing it for ages.

  A king, as it turns out, has no problem obtaining the keys to even the most unused, forgotten rooms in his castle. Like the old art gallery on the third floor, which had become a repository for unwanted things—sculptures needing restoration, paintings by artists who were no longer in vogue.

  It was into this art gallery that Ri
nka and the king stumbled one afternoon.

  “It’s eerie in here,” said Rinka, not really protesting, for Alban had half-fallen onto a huge wooden chest and was pulling her onto his lap.

  Alban kissed his way up from Rinka’s neckline to her lips. “I thought you would like it.”

  “Why, because it’s dusty and full of old things?”

  “Because it’s full of secret things,” Alban countered, and pulled back a nearby covering to reveal a painting rich with color and texture, a portrait of blessed Ebba, the sacred figure of faery legend. It was too ostentatious a style for the current fashion, but so full of feeling that Rinka felt something inside her stir in response. When she turned back to Alban, she saw how his eyes shone.

  “Is it considered tactless for me to say that even her beauty pales in comparison to yours?” he said.

  Rinka laughed. “Not tactless, no. A little overdone, maybe.”

  He frowned, and she caught his face in her hands, and kissed him.

  Then there was silence in this room thick with age and neglect, as Rinka held Alban to her and let him touch her. He untied the ribbons of her sleeves and slid them down her arms, revealing her white shoulders. He cupped her head, tracing his thumbs along the curving points of her ears with a wonder that had yet to diminish since that first day in the forest. They began to move in a way that had become familiar to them these past weeks.

  “Rinka,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I do love you. It isn’t just about this. I hope you know that.”

  “I know,” she whispered, and began to show him her own love, warming him slowly in the cold, forgotten gallery. It was easy to feel, in that moment, as though they were the only two in the entire world.

  * * *

  But soon there came a day when, during a meeting in the Great Room, Rinka was reminded in no uncertain terms that they were in fact not the only two in the entire world.