The Prince of Secrets

by A J Lancaster

  “You!” The pistol didn’t waver. “I know what you are!”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I am fae,” Wyn said, keeping very, very still.

  This took some of the wind out of her sails, though the gun didn’t drop.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to reassure myself that your husband was recovering from the poison.”

  “So you can finish him off! I warn you, this is loaded.” She brandished the pistol in a worrying way; they were unreliable things, from what Wyn knew of them.

  “Mrs Thompson, I have no doubt of that after our last interaction, but I do not wish any harm to you or your husband. I was not responsible for the attack, but I am in part to blame for his injury. The creatures that bit him were intended for me; he was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. May I come in? I would like to talk to you both.”

  “You think I’m going to let you in the house?” But she lowered the pistol slightly. Progress.

  He risked a smile and spread his arms, slowly so as not to startle her. “Well, as only you can see me, it may look a little odd if we continue to converse on your doorstep.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What have you done with your wings?”

  “I’m a shapeshifter, a true one.” He’d been right; she’d never met a greater fae. “May I come in? I promise to abide by guestright.” A house wasn’t a faeland, and her invitation would have no effect on his ability to enter, but manners were still important.

  “Who is it, Mabel?” came the bank manager’s voice from the townhouse’s interior.

  Mrs Thompson hesitated, and Wyn saw her suddenly become aware of the quiet street, of the fact that her neighbours would hear her extended conversation with no one.

  He waited, hands still spread wide. A postboy on a bicycle turned into the street and barrelled past Wyn without pause, his tyres juddering over the cobblestones.

  “It’s Mr Tempest,” she said eventually. “He says he means no harm. He wants to come in.”

  “Tell him to come in then.”

  Wyn didn’t move. Mrs Thompson fixed him with a long, slow look. “If you do anything I don’t like, I’ll put another bullet in you without hesitation.”

  He nodded carefully. “I would expect no less.”

  She shook her head and yanked the door open, backing away from it while still holding the gun. At least it wasn’t pointed at him anymore, though her stance made it clear this remained an option.

  Pretending not to be acutely aware of the weapon’s location, he made his way into the house. Mrs Thompson warily led him through to the sitting room, where Mr Thompson sat at a writing desk in the corner, leg propped up on a footstool. The bank manager was paler than he should be, with deep circles under his eyes, but he was upright and appeared to be in possession of his usual faculties.

  Relief flooded Wyn, heady as malt whiskey. Marius’s report from the bank had suggested the antidote had probably done its job, but Wyn had needed to see it for himself to make sure.

  “Forgive me for not getting up,” Mr Thompson said with a vague gesture at the thickness of bandages distorting his trouser-leg. His gaze flickered over Wyn, looking for signs of injury. “You don’t appear any the worse for wear.”

  “I heal very fast,” he apologised. “Though the bullet hurt considerably.” He raised an eyebrow at Mrs Thompson, who put the pistol down on a sideboard, still within arm’s reach, and scowled at him as if sheer ill-wishing could cause him to vaporise.

  “Will you sit down?” Mr Thompson said when it became apparent his wife wasn’t going to do the honours.

  Wyn sat carefully on the pink-and-tan-striped sofa. “I want to apologise for the injuries you suffered.” He repeated what he’d said to Mrs Thompson.

  The bank manager’s expression was difficult to read, but he seemed puzzled rather than alarmed. Mrs Thompson remained stony-faced.

  “So you admit it then—that you’re not human?” Mr Thompson asked at the end of the explanation.

  It was becoming easier to say it aloud, with repetition. “I am fae.” Maybe soon he would be able to drop it casually in conversation without first pausing to prepare himself for the reaction it might cause. “I’m curious to know what gave me away.” Had it been Aroset’s doing? It seemed both too subtle and too human a gambit for her, since neither of the Thompsons bore any signs of compulsion.

  “The former steward of Stariel wrote to me,” Mr Thompson said. “He was bitter at the loss of his job and claimed you’d framed him.”

  “That is untrue.” And also made even less sense than any of Wyn’s other theories; the former steward, Mr Fisk, hadn’t known Wyn was fae. Or at least, so he’d thought. Could he have misjudged? Wyn’s mind raced. Mr Fisk had run after it was discovered he’d been skimming from the estate’s accounts. “I cannot even claim to be responsible for his fraud being discovered.” He wished he had been responsible; it stung that Mr Fisk had been quietly sabotaging Stariel’s accounts for so long without Wyn noticing what was going on. But Mr Fisk had always jealously guarded his books.

  Mr Thompson added, “He claimed you had unnatural powers to make people believe what you wanted them to, and that’s why he ran.”

  Wyn’s threads of speculation multiplied. Setting aside just how Stariel’s former steward knew Wyn was fae, how did he know he was capable of compulsive magic? Only greater fae could compel. Could Mr Fisk somehow have found out about Wyn’s compulsion on Marius’s ex-lover? Or the binding he’d placed on Gwendelfear, to keep her from speaking his true name while she’d been imprisoned at Stariel House? But Wyn was nearly certain Mr Fisk hadn’t been aware of either of those when he’d fled. Had one or other of them contacted Mr Fisk after he’d left, as revenge on Wyn?

  If it had been Gwendelfear, she would scarcely act without her princess’s knowledge. Sudden suspicion spiked in him. There had been that moment in the library with Sunnika, a moment of personal rather than political anger at Wyn’s attachment to Stariel. If his mortal reputation was blackened such that he had to leave Stariel, then Hetta would have no reason to negotiate with ThousandSpire for the release of his oath. Which would leave ThousandSpire still indebted to DuskRose. It would be a neat way for the princess to seem to keep her own hands clean, a tactic prized by the fae courts.

  Mr Thompson was eying him guardedly. “Well?”

  Ah, yes. He still needed to answer the actual question being posed him. The problem, of course, was that Wyn did have powers of persuasion, even if he’d never used them on Mr Fisk. Wyn somehow didn’t think the Thompsons would find that answer reassuring.

  “I have no unnatural powers of persuasion,” he said, the sharp technicality of that truth catching on his teeth. Compulsion wasn’t unnatural, for greater fae. “I like to think I’m a reasonably persuasive person, but if I could make people believe anything I wished, then my recent injuries seem curiously masochistic.” Wyn smiled at Mrs Thompson, who did not smile back. Her husband, however, nodded and relaxed fractionally, convinced by this argument. Guilt twisted in Wyn’s chest. Do not trust the fae, he wanted to say. For we will deceive you with truths.

  “How many of you are there?” Mrs Thompson demanded abruptly.

  Wyn had to resist giving a very fae answer to that; he knew what she meant. “Have you been seeing lowfae?” he guessed. “Little creatures, mostly.” Most lowfae had basic don’t-see-me glamour, but Mrs Thompson had pierced the glamour of a royalfae with ease; lowfae should prove no difficulty to her.

  Mrs Thompson rolled her lips around. “There have been more of them, of late.” And she was worried about it—which would have made the Thompsons ripe for suspicion against anything fae, not knowing the reason for the change. The Iron Law had never technically applied to lowfae, but they didn’t thrive cut off from the ambient magic of Faerie, so they had largely retreated with the lesser and greater fae.

  Wyn hesitated, but this was something the Mortal Realm would need to adjust to, sooner or later. It might
as well begin here. “There will be more. The fae have been kept from this realm for a long time, but that is no longer so. This is a time of change.” Rakken’s words came back to him, uneasily. He saw that same uneasiness in the Thompsons and couldn’t blame them for it, but he set it aside, along with the problem of exactly who was responsible for Mr Fisk’s accusations. “In any case, my reason for coming here—other than to check on your health—was to inform you that I am resigning my position as steward of Stariel. Therefore, there will be no reason to fear granting Stariel a loan because of my influence there.” The words tasted acid, but he spoke them calmly enough. “I can assure you that the figures I presented you with were solid, but you are welcome to re-examine them, of course. Lord Valstar is perfectly numerate and likely to become more so with experience. I do not agree with the bank’s prejudices against females, but Lord Valstar has many male relatives who may aid her in the interim if it remains necessary. I have drafted a notice for my replacement, but I’m not sure how long it will take to bear fruit.”

  There was a long pause in which Mr Thompson considered him, again with a faintly puzzled expression. Eventually he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry to hear that,” surprising his wife nearly as much as Wyn. “As fae or no, you seem to have a good head for figures.” He glanced towards his desk. Perched on the glossy black surface were Stariel’s missing accounts books. “The business case you and Lord Valstar put together is solid, as you say.”

  Wyn had never been quite so touched by a compliment, but Mr Thompson wasn’t done. “I’m persuaded to make a case for the bank to grant you an initial loan, when I am well enough to return to work. Which will be soon, I think,” he said, reflecting on his propped-up leg. “As I have not fallen asleep so far today.”

  Mrs Thompson plopped down onto the ottoman. “He’s a fairy!” she reminded her husband.

  The bank manager shrugged. “That isn’t the bank’s concern so long as he isn’t ensorcelling people. I’m merely concerned that he is a suitable steward for the estate’s finances.” He frowned at Wyn. “The bank will need to be assured that the predicted cashflow from the rents of the Dower House can indeed be achieved on the timeline you put forward before the greater part of the loan will be granted.”

  Wyn laughed. He couldn’t help it. The world had tilted on its axis again, shifting a burden with such suddenness that it left him giddy. It had been so long since he’d felt like he’d done anything right, since he’d felt like he’d made matters better rather than worse. It felt like the first ray of dawn after the longest night.

  “That is…thank you,” he said when he found his voice again.

  Mr Thompson flicked his thanks away. “I hope you will reconsider your resignation.”

  “Ah, there are other considerations, but may I take the accounts books back?”

  Wyn left the bank manager’s house feeling oddly anti-climactic. He hefted the accounts books under his arm, considered the long road stretching to either side, and shrouded himself in glamour. Removing his shirt and coat whilst holding the books required a certain amount of juggling, but he managed not to drop them.

  He’d changed back and forth between mortal and fae form so much recently that the contrast was, if not less jarring, more familiar. All the iron of the street did strange things to his fae senses, warping the leylines around the streetlamps and guard railings. He wrapped the books carefully in his shirt and coat before placing them in his satchel and affixing it in place. It didn’t hang as neatly as he would have preferred, and he thought again of the specially designed harnesses of the fae.

  Frigid air worried under his feathers as he rose, nips of snowflake-promises. Flying through sleet for the return journey seemed a fitting accompaniment for his mood, though he hoped it would hold off for the accounts books’ sake if nothing else. Would Hetta’s exasperation be softened if he turned up dripping and woebegone on her doorstep? The small victory of the loan would probably do the trick, regardless. That thought buoyed him up briefly, but the attempt to distract himself didn’t survive long in the cold clarity of the snowbound sky, the world spread small below him.

  What was he going to do about Rakken’s plan? He couldn’t drag Hetta into murder. Or a coup, for that matter. And myself? Can I drag myself into it, if need be? He had run for ten years and across realms to escape bloody familial betrayal, and it hadn’t been long or far enough. Tonight, Rakken would return for an answer to the unanswerable. You are weak, Hallowyn. His father’s words taunted him, ironic given the subject under contemplation. What did weakness mean, here?

  It happened between heartbeats, a psychic shock so powerful it jerked his wings out of rhythm. One second he was arrowing smoothly through the clouds; the next, he was falling. Gravity wrenched at him, his stomach dropping before he righted himself. Every hair stood on end.

  Someone was invoking his name. Someone he loved, invoking his name in fear.

  He hadn’t built a portal in nearly a decade, and only the greatest of mages would attempt to build one aloft. He knew this, but still the magic rose up in a wave, shivering with urgency. No. Ripping himself apart through reckless impatience would benefit no one. Folding his wings, he plummeted, willing gravity to strengthen, not flaring out his wings until the last possible second. He hit the hard earth with a crunch, the impact juddering his bones as he stumbled through a half-dozen steps, falling to his knees as the momentum dispersed.

  He didn’t take the time to stand before thrusting his hands out and tearing at the fabric of the mortal plane. Words he hadn’t spoken in years streamed out of him, clumsy on his tongue as he focussed on the resonance his name had invoked.

  I am Hallowyn Tempestren.

  He poured magic and will into the spell, but it was like trying to make the ocean boil, a vacuum absorbing power without end. His only reward was the lightning smell of ozone, a hint of metals and dust. The signature hit him like a struck gong, fear ringing through all the dark places in his soul. He knew it as he knew the span of his wings—or perhaps even better than that, given how little time he’d spent in his fae form in recent years.

  Even if he hadn’t, there was only one place that was so tightly and specifically warded against translocation. He rose to his feet, staring at the space in the air that remained relentlessly unmagical, showing only the half-frozen field he stood in, strewn with the sad remnants of swedes.

  He could be mistaken. Maybe it hadn’t been Hetta summoning him. Maybe the summons hadn’t come from where he’d thought. And maybe bluebirds would begin nesting amid tonight’s snowstorm.

  He launched skywards, driven by new urgency; he had to get back to Stariel. What had happened? She was supposed to be safe at Stariel. Sunnika had sworn guestright; Rakken had promised them a day of truce. Straining wingbone and muscle to their limits, drawing on air magic without concern for the cost, it seemed to take both no and too much time to reach the estate.

  The instant he crossed the border, he felt the wrongness, Stariel’s alarm soup-thick. His senses stretched to breaking point but couldn’t locate Hetta, even as he closed on Stariel House. Wings burning, he flew straight to his own room, over the balcony and in without pause, and slammed into the wall opposite, taking the impact on his palms. He smelt the intrusion before he turned: copper and old-fashioned roses caught in a storm.

  “Mrow?” Plumpuff stared up at him from the box he’d set up for her and her kittens beside his bed.

  Aroset’s signature was strong enough to choke on, and his gaze fixed on a brilliant spot of crimson next to the cat. In moments he had it in his hand, a crisp blood-red note. Plumpuff grumbled at him as he tore it open.

  There were only two lines, in his sister’s tight copperplate. He could almost hear her crowing as he read.

  Come and get her, little Hollow. Did you like the kittens?

  31

  Godparent’s Gift

  Aroset, not Rakken, not coincidence, had been responsible for the half-fae kittens. Wyn put a hand on th
e cat’s head and reached. Plumpuff was only an animal, and he went through her mental shields as easily as tissue paper. She made an uncertain grumbling noise, but he ignored it as he searched for the threads of compulsion. There were none. Or—wait, the barest hint of copper, so subtle it was hardly there at all. Subtler than he would’ve given Aroset credit for. So subtle he’d missed it. It was inactive now, but he was sure it had once been a passive listening spell. That was why it hadn’t thrown up any of his alarms; it had no compulsive or aggressive capabilities. But information was power. What had Aroset managed to learn, through Plumpuff’s ears or through those of the housefae Wyn had let back into the house because of her kittens?

  Wyn plucked the copper thread out of Plumpuff. The cat blinked suspiciously at him before settling back to wash her kittens. He was a weak-hearted fool, and Aroset had known and used it against him. How could he have been so foolish as to assume his eldest sister would accede meekly to Rakken when her first plan fell through?

  He stood, gripping Aroset’s card so tightly it crumpled in his fist, but it didn’t relieve the awful pressure building in him. Aroset had Hetta. Aroset had Hetta. Which meant…his father had Hetta. Lightning shivered under his skin. He had to get her back. He would burn the world down if he had to.

  Stariel hit him with a wordless demand for information. His knees buckled, and he stumbled against the wall. Clear skies above, how did Hetta bear being bound so closely to the faeland? The insides of his skull reverberated with the implied threat as Stariel bore down, its need such that Wyn could nearly discern words: Tell it where Hetta was or else.

  He snarled and pushed an image of ThousandSpire at it.

  Stariel, to his astonishment, answered him with an image of the Maelstrom overlain with a swinging blood-red pendant.