The Prince of Secrets

by A J Lancaster

  “Good news, everyone!” he told the Valstars. “We have successfully saved Hetta from wicked fae.”

  It was perhaps fortunate that the thunderstorm he’d summoned earlier chose that moment to break, removing the need for speech in favour of everyone urgently seeking shelter as the skies opened. The Valstars streamed back towards the house, squawking like a flock of indignant chickens.

  He kept his wings spread and let the rest of Hetta’s family pull ahead, savouring the rain on his feathers.

  “What are you doing?” Hetta made an exasperated sound, though she hadn’t let go of his hand. She waved an arm commandingly, and Stariel diverted raindrops to create an umbrella above the two of them. Her already wet hair slicked against her skull. He ran a hand over it and bent down to kiss her again. “You’re in a very strange mood,” she grumbled, though she pressed herself tight against him, as if she too were trying to reassure herself that they were whole and together.

  “It’s been a very strange day. My father is dead, ThousandSpire is in uproar, and who knows what your family are going to say when we reach the house now I’ve done such a spectacular job of scandalising them, but I am free of my oaths, Hetta, and you are safe. Stariel is safe. And I am home.” He tilted his head back and laughed, letting the storm magic crackle between his feathers.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for taking the time to read my book! I hope you enjoyed it.

  The Prince of Secrets is the second book in the Stariel Quartet. The next book in the series is The Court of Mortals, which should be released in 2019. Keep turning the page for a sneak peek of the first chapter. If you’d like to be emailed when it’s released, please click here to join my mailing list.

  Please consider reviewing The Prince of Secrets on Amazon or Goodreads, even if you only write a line or two. Reviews mean a lot to authors, and I appreciate every one!

  Sneak Peek: The Court of Mortals

  “I won’t forgive myself if I electrocute you,” Wyn said.

  “Well, don’t electrocute me then,” Hetta replied calmly. She was perched on one of the great flat rocks inside the circle of Standing Stones and the two of them were blessedly alone in the countryside—a state that was becoming harder and harder to achieve these days. “I have complete faith in you,” she said, drawing her feet up and crossing her legs. The day was unusually warm, and she shucked off her coat and put it neatly beside her.

  Wyn narrowed his eyes from the opposite side of the circle, weak spring sunshine glinting in the white-blond of his hair. He stood a few feet from two of the taller stones.

  “I’d rather you sat on the ground, if you must treat this so lightly.”

  Hetta doubted it would make much difference where she sat, but she slid off her stone obediently and extended her land-sense towards the soft earth. The magic of Stariel Estate came at her call, and even after three months of being Lord of Stariel, it still filled her with wonder. Focusing, she encouraged the water to drain away from the top inch of soil, creating a wide dry circle around herself. There were still so many things she didn’t know about being lord, but she’d discovered this particular trick a few weeks ago. And very useful it’s been, given recent weather, she reflected wryly as she arranged herself on the grass. She preferred not to get the seat of her trousers damp.

  Wyn took a deep breath and measured the distance between them. “I don’t trust my control in this form.” He shrugged out of his coat, folding and placing it on top of the nearest stone. His expression was carefully neutral, which meant he was feeling self-conscious, but he didn’t let it show as he returned to his previous spot and changed. Between one moment and the next, he shed the proper butler and became fae, complete with wings, horns, and pointed ears. It changed the aspect of his face subtly, his features sharpening, the colour of his eyes deepening. Hetta found the transition disconcerting, as if he’d donned a costume on top of his real self. Except this was his real self. It remained hard to think of it as such, particularly since she could count on one hand how often she’d seen it.

  But he was still Wyn, still the man who made her heart sing, and the prickle of unease settled under that weight of familiarity.

  “What a pity I had all those shirts specially made for you,” Hetta reflected. The shirts she’d given him as a Wintersol gift were made to accommodate wings and meant he didn’t need to go bare-chested when he changed shape. Why had she thought that would be a good idea? She’d relied on her costuming contacts from her old theatre days for the unusual request, back before anyone other than her immediate family knew about the fae. Wyn’s supply of such shirts had increased over the last few months, so he’d clearly commissioned more, probably feeding the spreading rumours about him, inside the estate and out. But still not any modified coat. Perhaps he didn’t think it worth the bother to get one tailored.

  “Love, I’m about to undertake a potentially dangerous experiment that depends not only on my focus and self-control but on your quick reflexes if something goes awry, and you’re complaining about a missed opportunity to ogle my shirtless self?” His wings shifted restlessly. He was easier to read in his fae form, unable to keep his feathers betraying his emotions.

  She leaned her elbows on her knees and took a moment to consider. “Yes, that’s exactly my complaint.”

  His eyes danced. “Hetta. You aren’t helping my concentration.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point of this exercise? Isn’t that why you’ve been torturing us both with your self-imposed celibacy these past few months while you practiced? So you could prove to yourself you wouldn’t lose control of your magic under pressure?”

  He scoffed. “Not entirely self-imposed, love. You’re conveniently ignoring Stariel’s contribution.”

  “Well, figure out your part of it first and then we’ll tackle Stariel’s,” Hetta said. “It has to calm down eventually, doesn’t it?” This last was a skyward plea to her estate, which had been nearly as troublesome as her relatives when it came to her and Wyn’s relationship—only where they were opposed, Stariel was now rather too enthusiastic. “Who knows, perhaps it’s only been so troublesome because it needs reassuring that you’re not about to explode into a lightning storm the minute you get excited.”

  He mock-glowered at her choice of words, though the corner of his lips twitched. “The minute I get excited?” he teased. “Are you maintaining that your emotional state has no effect whatsoever over the land you are magically bonded to?” He eyed the space between them again and sighed. “Would you be willing to move fifty yards further away?”

  “No,” Hetta said without hesitation. “Stop procrastinating.”

  A hint of spice coloured the air, out of place amongst the meadow-scents of crushed grass and warm stone. It was gone before Hetta could identify the exact composition, but she knew it was Wyn’s magic, rising with his temper and disappearing as he wrestled it under control.

  “Do you realise exactly how unpredictable and powerful my magic has been these past months? How dangerous I could be if I lost control over it?” In direct counterpoint to his ominous words, a bumblebee weaved drunkenly around one of his horns before deciding there was no nectar to be had there and continuing on its way.

  “I’m perfectly aware, but don’t try to tell me you would’ve agreed to try this if you weren’t certain you could control yourself, or at least certain that I wouldn’t be in danger.”

  Wyn sighed and capitulated. “Not no danger. There is no such thing, in this world. But, yes, I’m very sure I won’t harm you.”

  “Then why are you delaying?”

  He rubbed his horn. “Very sure is not completely sure. I worry.”

  “You worry too much. Think of the rewards, instead!” She put her hands behind her head and leaned back against the flat rock, knowing the position would emphasise the curves of her breasts against her blouse. Wyn tracked the movement, unable to help himself.

  “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused.

&nb
sp; “Well, if your control over your magic is fractured by only very mild flirting, you’re of no use to me,” Hetta pointed out.

  “I intend,” he said, voice gone deep, russet irises nearly swallowed by black, “to be of very great use to you, my Star.”

  She shivered as their gazes locked. “Stop delaying then,” she said. “Or with our luck, our ‘chaperone’ will turn up before you’ve begun.”

  Wyn’s nose wrinkled at the reminder that Hetta’s cousin Jack was more likely than not to come hunting for them. Jack had taken it upon himself to guard Hetta’s virtue, whether or not she wanted it guarded. And whether or not it actually needed guarding. Wyn’s erratic magic and Stariel’s attitude were perfectly adequate chaperones without additional help, she thought sourly.

  “Very well.” He smiled, a hint of wickedness in it. “But next time we test your lord-powers, I reserve the right to interfere with your concentration similarly.”

  “Done,” she agreed.

  Wyn closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, fanning out his wings. They lit up in the sunshine, hundreds of overlapping jewels. They were blue now, though little flashes of iridescent purple, indigo, and even emerald caught the light as his feathers rustled in the slight breeze. Silver frosted each wing tip. It was a recent change. They’d been silvery white before he’d gone to the Court of Ten Thousand Spires to rescue her, through the Maelstrom. He’d come out with his wings broken and feathers torn free, humming with power. His wings were healed now, but the feathers had grown back with an entirely new colouration. Hetta chose to take it as a sign—blue, after all, was Stariel’s colour, and after the events at the Spires, he no longer owed an oath-debt to the fae courts. Surely that meant they didn’t have to worry about Faerie politics anymore?

  She knew, deep down, that there was no way that could be true, and not least because they still didn’t know who ruled in ThousandSpire. They’d heard nothing from Wyn’s homeland since their escape. Was no news good news?

  Hetta pressed her fingertips into the earth and burrowed a little deeper into Stariel than she normally would, ready to react if something went wrong. That was how it had gone the first time Wyn’s new magic had surfaced unexpectedly: lightning on a clear day, and Stariel snapping it out of the air like a dog catching a stick, both of them wide-eyed with shock, hair standing on end with the static remnants.

  “You’ll do fine,” Hetta said. And Stariel and I will catch it if you don’t, she added silently.

  He unfurled his wings to their full extent, and a feral wildness rose in him, bringing with it the smell of dust after rain and the thick spice of cardamom. His skin grew faintly pearlescent, the strands of his hair into a liquid metal that matched the silver filaments on his blue, blue wings. Pressure beat against Hetta’s eardrums, and she swallowed.

  In that moment, Wyn looked exactly what he was—a prince, full of strange magic, alien and inhuman. The Standing Stones made an appropriate backdrop, connected as they were with Stariel’s most magical ceremonies. Last year, when Hetta had been kidnapped by King Aeros, Wyn had used the stones to forge a portal between Stariel and the Court of Ten Thousand Spires. The remnant of that passage was still visible behind him, in a line of dead grass between the two tallest stones.

  Power swelled in the air, and though the sky was clear, in the distance Hetta felt clouds respond to Wyn’s summons, a storm trying to begin with him at its centre. Leaning in to Stariel, she discouraged the unnatural weather. It felt remarkably like taking handfuls of grain and scattering them, only to have the wind whirl them back into piles as quickly as she could throw.

  Wyn corralled the effect with visible effort. The gathering of distant stormclouds ceased and the power shifted to the here and now, rippling in the air in front of her.

  Wyn glowed, and lightning—or at least its lesser cousin—curled around him in blue-white snakes. He opened his eyes, and Hetta gasped. In the russet of his irises, tiny bursts of lightning flickered, as if the storm was looking out. Goosebumps broke out on her arms, every fine hair standing on end. Stariel crouched just beneath her surface, waiting to pounce. She held her breath.

  Wyn smiled and drew a smooth shape in the air. The lightning wound down his arm and pooled in his hand, a stuttering ball of blue-white charge. He laughed and held it up, joy shining in him.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” he said, letting the ball spin slowly.

  Hetta exhaled and let her grip on Stariel ease. The land still watched, of course. It was aware of everything within its borders, but it saved special focus for events outside the ordinary. Before ThousandSpire, it had viewed Wyn’s magic with suspicious jealousy, but those events had changed its attitude completely. It curled around him like a cat, as if it would scent-mark him if it could.

  she told the faeland. She’d probably caused this too, somehow. I need to know more about being lord of a faeland, she thought, not for the first time.

  “Can I come closer?” Hetta asked, getting up.

  Wyn transferred the blue orb from one hand to the other. “Slowly,” he warned. “People carry their own elektrical field. They start to interfere with each other and I need to adjust for that.”

  Hetta took one tentative step forward, then another. The air on the grassy hilltop grew dry and thick with ozone. All her instincts screamed danger, but she ignored them and kept going. The storm in Wyn rippled in response to her movement, contained but churning. She took several more steps and felt the moment the magic began to unravel.

  “Stop!” he said. His chest heaved with exertion, primaries spread wide. Little sparks arced from feather to feather. His silver hair stood on end, rippling in response to currents not caused by wind. The lightning in his eyes almost obscured the russet. He’d never looked less human, an unearthly creature of storm and wind. “I’m going to have to ground the power,” he said slowly, shifting his stance wider.

  “I’m ready,” Hetta said, gathering up Stariel again. The land bristled under her skin, heather and pine and bluebells. Wyn nodded.

  The power slammed into the ground at his feet in a rush, and Stariel leapt, swallowing it in a single gulp. For a moment, Hetta was blinded by the sudden assault on her magesight, and she stumbled. Strong arms steadied her, and she found herself crushed against a warm male chest.

  “Hetta,” he said. Just that, just her name, but there was such a wealth of affection in it that the two syllables sounded like something far more important. The lightning was gone from his eyes. He smiled, though she could feel his heart pounding under her hands. “Do we call that a success or a failure?”

  She was about to answer when the world shuddered. They both gripped each other for balance before realising simultaneously that the world wasn’t literally shaking; something was disturbing Stariel’s magic. Hetta reached for Stariel for an answer and received it between one breath and the next. There. She turned instinctively towards the source of the disturbance.

  Between two of the stones, where Wyn had made a portal to the Court of Ten Thousand Spires a few months ago, the line of dead grass was spreading, reaching towards them. Not them, Hetta realised in horror. Reaching for Wyn.

  The dead grass was just the visible sign of the searching tendril of foreign magic creeping into Stariel. It tasted of storms and minerals and blazing heat and Hetta recognised it: ThousandSpire. In the space between the stones, hints of another landscape glimmered in and out of focus—a city built of towering rock needles.

  Anger not all her own blazed up, and for a heartbeat her and Stariel’s desires were one.

  She wasn’t sure if the words came from her or the estate, but both of them meant them. She shoved power at the incursion, her own magic entwined with Stariel’s.

  ThousandSpire was bigger and older and probably stronger than Stariel, but they were in the heart of Stariel’s territory. She a
nd Stariel forced the incursion out, inch by inch, until the space between the stones settled to show only the forested foothills of the distant Indigo mountains that bordered Stariel.

  She wobbled with the sudden release of tension. Wyn stood a few feet closer to the old portal than he’d been, and he looked down at himself and back up to where ThousandSpire had tried to reach through, slow horror creeping over his face.

  “It wants you,” Hetta said. “The Court of Ten Thousand Spires.”

  “Yes,” Wyn said, folding the horror under a mask of composure, though every feather was still raised.

  “Why?” Hetta asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

  Wyn opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment Hetta’s cousin Jack came rushing into the stone circle like a red-headed dervish.

  “What in blazes was that?” he said, spinning around and searching frantically for danger. He spotted the line of dead grass making an arrow from the two stones towards Wyn’s feet and whirled on Wyn. “What did you do?” he demanded. A quick glance at Hetta and he added, for good measure: “And what do you two think you’re doing, wandering off alone together?”

  “In order: I don’t know; Wyn was experimenting with his magic; and none of your business,” Hetta said. Jack bristled. He was a broad-shouldered man with brilliant red hair, but when he bristled he looked like nothing so much as a bulldog with a bone.

  “What do you mean, experimenting?”

  But Hetta had no patience for her cousin right now. She put a hand on Wyn’s shoulder. He started.

  “I thought the wards we set were supposed to stop portals from forming inside the borders?” she asked him quietly.