Summerfall: A Winterspell Novella

by Claire Legrand

  “Stand there if you must,” Rinka snapped, “if you really think I intend to hurt him.”

  After a moment, the guard who had spoken bowed, and the four of them turned and left.

  Rinka crossed the room to Alban, longing for the return of her magic, if only for a few moments, so she could feel a bit steadier. Instead of yelling at him as she had planned to, she found herself leaning hard against his chest. She allowed his arms around her; she allowed herself to breathe in his familiar scent.

  “How could you?” she whispered, mortified at her sudden hot tears but unable to stop them.

  “Rinka, tell me what’s wrong, I beg you—”

  “How could you?” She spat the words and stepped back from him. She was reeling, she was blind with disbelief. “A wall, Alban? A wall around the faery lands? Financing the Restoration, making them part of your army—that band of bloodthirsty savages. ‘Cleansing’ the faery lands with the approval of the king. We’ve been working for months now to prevent this kind of thing from happening, Alban, and you let him talk you into it!”

  Alban stared at her, horrified, and then something came together in his eyes. “Drachstelle.” He said the name like a curse.

  “I heard him and Rastia, not twenty minutes ago. They said they convinced you to build a wall, to finance the Restoration—”

  “He tried to convince me of these things, yes, and he failed. I listened to his entreaties—Oh, the faeries could be building a secret army. Oh, why shouldn’t we take practical measures to separate ourselves from them? Do you honestly think I’d agree to that?”

  She stared, taken aback at the ferocity of his expression. “Then why would he have said—?”

  “Because he didn’t want to disappoint Rastia? Because he is hungry for power and, I suspect, more than a little deranged? I’ve no idea, Rinka.” He took her hands, and Rinka let him, stunned at his passion, so different from the man she had met months ago. “As long as I draw breath, I will not allow these things to happen. I mean to root out such plots. I mean to create peace. Remember, darling?” He stroked her wrist. “I meant what I said to you, about building a bridge. Nothing has changed. It will be slow—it has been slow—and maybe . . .” He touched her face, wistful but resigned. “Maybe it will be different than we thought—the two of us, together. But I won’t stop trying, even without you at my side.”

  “They said . . .” Rinka paused, not wanting to say the words. “I heard them talk about binding us to you. The seven of us faeries. I heard them talk about forcing the ritual.”

  Alban looked ill. “Rinka, I would never do that. The mages enter the agreement of their own free will, knowing what it entails. To inflict that upon someone without their permission—that is an evil I will never permit, as long as I draw breath. Besides, odds are it wouldn’t even work. I’d be risking your lives as well as mine. Forced bindings are problematic for a reason.” He paused. “Although, it is a thought. What if we did—not now, but someday—invite seven faeries to bind with me? Seven faeries for Seven mages. Only those faeries who were in full consent. That would give faeries equal political footing with the mages, communicate to the kingdom that the relationship between faeries and the crown is one of trust and friendship.”

  It was a good thought—one, Rinka realized, she hadn’t even considered, too caught up in the suspicions of those around her. “That would be a grand gesture,” she agreed, “but getting the Seven and the queen, and your judges, to consent would be . . . challenging.”

  Alban smiled wryly. “Indeed. But, as I said—someday. I think it a worthy goal to work toward. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, but . . .” But I will not be here when you do. Miserably, she sank down onto the thrones’ dais. She needed to tell Alban her news, but couldn’t find the words to do so.

  “Rinka,” Alban said, sitting beside her. “You hear what I’m saying, don’t you? You believe me, that I would not have agreed to these things?”

  “Lord Drachstelle—”

  “He is a powerful man. He has powerful allies here in Erstadt and throughout the rest of the kingdom—and, yes, in the mage country.”

  “Allies who hate faeries,” Rinka said, her voice hollow.

  Alban paused. “Yes. But they are not the whole of the kingdom, Rinka. Most people do not want war. Remember? That hasn’t changed. They may not understand faeries, but they don’t want war, and neither do I, and I swear to you”—he took her hands in his again, his voice low and urgent—“I will stop them. Let Steffen think he has convinced me. Let him lie to his wife, let him lie to everyone and sneak about in the shadows. He will not succeed. I will. I’m the king and they are not. I command an army, I approve construction, and they do not. Without my cooperation, Lord Drachstelle will have to sulk his way back home and build a wall around his own lands, and good riddance.”

  Rinka let out a burst of relieved laughter. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “He and Rastia can sit behind their wall plotting until they grow wrinkled and gray.”

  “Ugly and wrinkled and gray.”

  “We could send Lord Rohlmeyer with them,” Rinka suggested, striving for lightness.

  “Oh, if only that were possible. Our bond keeps him here, and I don’t know of a way to undo it.” Alban brushed away her tears, a soft smile on his face. “Rinka, I’m sorry you had to hear Steffen say those things. What you must have thought of me . . .”

  She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I don’t wish to think about it.” Then she smiled. “When you were speaking just now . . . you never looked more like a king.”

  He kissed her finger, and she shivered and traced his bottom lip, lightly. With that touch, the mood shifted and softened. Many questions still hovered in Rinka’s mind. She did not understand the Drachstelles’ conversation, and something about it stuck in her, troubling her, but she ignored these questions and focused instead on Alban’s face.

  “What do you wish to think about?” he asked, low.

  Rinka told him with her eyes, desperate for comfort as their conversation lingered bitterly in the air, and Alban seemed to understand. He kissed her, softly at first, holding her as if he were afraid that pulling her too close would ruin this stolen moment. But Rinka craved him, now. Never mind discretion; never mind what she needed to tell him, that her mind screamed at her to stop. She needed to erase the Drachstelles’ conversation from her memory; she needed something to quiet her racing thoughts, to reassure her that Alban loved her, that the horrors she couldn’t stop imagining would never happen. So she tugged on his jacket and pulled him close, deepening the kiss.

  Alban responded at once, sliding his arms around her, drawing her closer. He moved lower, brushing his lips across her neck. Caution gave way to desperation, heat, need. Their breathing turned ragged, their hands impatient. Alban rose and tugged her to her feet, and together they stumbled to the throne.

  This was senseless, foolish, but Rinka was past reason. Alban had slid his fingers into her hair; they tangled there, tugging lightly as he nipped her neck, her shoulder. Rinka let her hands drift down the buttons of his coat, fumbling with each closure. She needed this; she needed to silence the questions whispering in her head. Oh, weeks away from him, without his touch. Unthinkable, that she could ever have walked away from this.

  Alban whispered her name and pulled her down with him as he settled on the throne. For a moment, a fleeting thought—not here, are you mad?—but then Alban’s hands slid beneath her gown, and Rinka no longer cared. She knew only the touch of his hands, anchoring her against him; the taste of his kisses; the sound of his gasps, and the heat of her body responding to his.

  She knew only her love for him, and his for her, and the certainty that everything, somehow, would be all right. Even though soon she would tell him her news and then leave him, for who knew how long. Tears pricked her eyes and she held him to her. Lord Steffen Drachstelle would try to ruin their work—ruin their world—and he would fail.

  They were building a brid
ge too high and too mighty for even a dragon to fell—even if they had to begin at opposite ends of the world to do it.

  But then Alban stilled beneath her; his eyes snapped open to stare past her. He yanked down her skirts to cover her.

  “Alban?” whispered Rinka, hazy with pleasure.

  “Oh, betrayal,” came a mild voice from behind them. “I am utterly shocked and dismayed. Cousin, take my hand, or I shall faint.”

  Rinka turned, terror sweeping through her in a sickening wave, to see Queen Liane, Lord and Lady Drachstelle, the Seven mages, and a mess of wide-eyed courtiers standing at the open throne room doors.

  13

  IN THAT FIRST MOMENT, too shocked for panic, Rinka noticed nothing but the inappropriately comical fact that half the observing courtiers had styled their hair into something like Rinka’s own—braids throughout, some bound into knots, others ornamented with baubles and pearls.

  They did not like her, but they appreciated her sense of style. Rinka almost felt like laughing.

  Then the queen said blithely to her guard, “Seize her,” and Rinka’s shock fell away.

  The Seven shifted to let the guard pass, and Lord Rohlmeyer, standing at their head, turned unblinking, rheumy gray eyes onto Rinka. His gaze fell to the pendant at her neck, and his right hand flexed against his white robes. Rinka’s skin prickled at the force of the cold power vibrating around him.

  But more frightening than that was the stony satisfaction on the faces of Lord and Lady Drachstelle. The thorn in Rinka’s mind, that niggling sense of confusion, let loose a sharp burst of pain. Pieces of understanding came to her:

  The door, ajar.

  The hushed voices—but not so hushed as to be misunderstood.

  The movement in the shadows—that flicker, that whisper of fabric.

  She had been followed. They had wanted her to overhear them.

  To find Alban—in the throne room, as they knew.

  To confront him, to be comforted in his arms—as they knew.

  And now, not to be found out, for that had happened long ago—but to be exposed in front of everyone.

  There was no hiding it now, no pretending it away.

  Beneath the force of everyone’s stares, Rinka felt dread sink its teeth into her gut and bite down, hard.

  Maybe the Drachstelles, the queen, would use this moment not just as a revelation, as a way to exile Rinka and the other faeries, but as a weapon. A justification for punishment.

  For binding and servitude.

  Rastia smiled; she must have seen Rinka’s comprehension. She whispered something to her husband, placed her hand lovingly over the dragon on his heart.

  Rinka nearly lunged from the dais to throttle them herself.

  But Alban had already slid out from under her. Before Rinka could move, he had put himself before her and the approaching queen’s guard.

  “On what grounds, Liane?” His voice was dangerously calm.

  “Well, my darling, there’s using magic against the king, for one. Adultery, for two.” The queen threw him a hard smile. Rinka couldn’t tell if she was angry, or hurt, or simply glad to have bested him.“Come, you’ve had your fun, and there are too many witnesses here to keep this secret any longer. Let us do what must be done and put this nastiness behind us.” Her smile thinned. “I am a forgiving woman.”

  Rinka wanted to protest, to defend both her honor and Alban’s—the very idea of using magic to ensure Alban’s love was vile—but then, several thoughts slammed into her like physical blows:

  The queen doesn’t know I no longer possess magic.

  The queen doesn’t know I carry her husband’s child.

  The queen must never know—not about the child, not that Alban loves me.

  I must get away from here, to save both of us.

  I must—we must both of us—pretend.

  “Is this true, Rinka?”

  Alban’s voice was hoarse, full of misgiving. He stood, seeming adrift beside her, his coat hanging loose about him.

  “Have you charmed me?” he whispered, taking a step back.

  For a moment, Rinka stood, gaping. And then she understood.

  She saw the disgust twisting Alban’s face, how he recoiled from her.

  How his eyes, locked on hers, were somehow still warm and pleading and urgent.

  Trust me. Looking into his eyes was almost like hearing his voice. I can save us. If not us, then at least you and me.

  Rinka felt suspended in mid-air, caught in the snare of her own horror. She hoped he was right.

  She stepped back from him, and it was agony. She forced haughtiness, boredom, onto her face and angled herself away.

  “And if I have?” she said, coldly, forcing out the words past a throat full of tears. “It was only for fun. I wanted to see what it was like,” she said, cutting her eyes to Liane, “to seduce a king.”

  The gawking courtiers became a sea of whispers. Even the queen blanched, to hear the words aloud.

  But Lord and Lady Drachstelle . . . Rinka could not be sure they were convinced. Their eyes were too sharp.

  Then came the sound of scuffling boots, a heavy shove of a body, and a young mage Rinka didn’t recognize pushed Garen into the throne room. The mage seemed a bit older than Leska, and wore the same muddy colors of an apprentice, though with a silver cord at his waist—the mark of those next in line for initiation to the Seven.

  “Garen!” Rinka cried, and tried to go to him, for his face was dark with bruises, and she could smell the acrid mage magic coating him—but the queen’s guard blocked her way.

  “Your Majesty,” the young mage said to the queen, his eyes glittering with triumph, “this faery has some information I think you’d like to hear. I caught him using magic against the apprentice Leska. He was trying to blackmail her, but I stopped him. Tell her, drekk.” When Garen didn’t respond, the young mage kicked him, hard. He seemed to take pleasure in the violence of it. “Tell her!”

  “Calm yourself, Drosselmeyer,” said Rohlmeyer, rubbing his thumb absently against the buckle of his belt. His gaze had never left Rinka’s pendant.

  Garen glared at the king with his one good eye, and then at Rinka. She thought she saw, through his anger, a great sadness, and something of an apology.

  “Countess Rinka,” he said thickly, “is with child.”

  The silence that flooded the room was unlike any silence Rinka had experienced before—rather than an absence of sound, it was its own presence. It seemed all sense of life had been sucked from the room.

  Alban was the first to move, stepping down from the dais and away from her. Rinka was left alone in front of the throne, flanked by guards.

  “Countess,” said Alban, stunned, “is this true?”

  Strangely, Rinka did not cry, or even feel like it. She simply felt pummeled by the silence, and in too much pain to react. A great weight was pressing on her from all sides. Thinking quickly, she managed a smug smile, flattened the folds of her gown to emphasize the roundness of her belly. When she heard the shocked courtiers’ reactions, her smile grew.

  “See for yourself,” she said.

  “No,” breathed the queen. “That isn’t possible.” In that moment she seemed her age at last—a mere girl, unsure how to proceed—and Rinka felt sorry for her. Though not nearly as sorry as she felt for herself, or for Alban. He was struggling for composure, his jaw working.

  She could not watch him any longer, or she would lose hold of the moment. She had to stay strong, for herself, and for him. For their doomed child.

  No, not doomed. Not while Rinka drew breath. She hoped Alban would feel the same.

  “But who is the father?” Steffen asked quietly. Beside him, Rastia stood, silent and calculating.

  Rinka shrugged. “I’ve taken many lovers since arriving at court.”

  A few courtiers made sounds of disapproval. Rinka did not look at Alban.

  “Well, there’s one way to find out,” said Rohlmeyer. “Defend yourself.”
>
  Then he withdrew something from the pocket at his belt—a stone, dark and heavy. He thrust it out at her, and an imprecise, sloppy wave of icy cold magic flew out from. The magic hit not only Rinka, but also three of the windows, cracking them; a stretch of floor, sending a cascade of tiles flying up into the air; one of the queen’s guard, leaving a charred gash across his torso. The force seemed to suck the air out of the room. Garen cried out.

  The blast caught Rinka across her temple, and she fell. She managed to catch herself on her hands and knees. The shock jarred her; stars burst across her vision, and her head swam. Her temple stung with frostbite. She put a hand to her belly and said a silent prayer.

  Even through her pain came the shocking realization: The mages are trying to copy our magic. Make weapons out of it, as Garen and the others are trying to do—but with stone rather than iron. Wood rather than metal.

  The implications made her stomach heave.

  “Rohlmeyer, you will stop at once,” spat Alban.

  Immediately, Rohlmeyer lowered his arm, though power still crackled white around the pendant in his hands, and his eyes were anything but repentant. “At least we know now,” he murmured, “the identity of the father.”

  Alban turned, ignoring him, to addressing everyone gathered. “No matter what has happened here, I will not have bloodshed or violence in my throne room, is that understood?”

  “Of course, my king,” intoned Rohlmeyer. Behind him, the young mage Drosselmeyer’s glare was mutinous.

  “Now,” said Alban, “to put things to rights.” He went to Liane, took her hands in his, drew her close and kissed her forehead. The young queen stood silent, her lips drawn tight.

  “I have done wrong by my queen, and by my country,” Alban said, and though he spoke quietly, his words were clearly heard. The room held its breath. “I may have been charmed, I may have been misled, but I must still take responsibility for my actions, magic or no. And so must this . . . faery . . . no matter whose child she might carry.”

  Then Alban turned to Rinka, and though she knew—she hoped—that an understanding had passed between them, that this was all an act, she couldn’t help but flinch at the ugliness of his expression.