The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4) Read online

  Rakken sank to the ground in a cross-legged position and gestured for Wyn to join him. The position woke an old memory of Irokoi teaching Wyn how to cast a circle for the first time. Irokoi was the oldest by a considerable margin; he and Aroset had been born close together. Then there was a gap, followed by the twins, Torquil, and last, Wyn.

  Rakken unfolded a pocket of space—a trick he used frequently to store small objects in close reach—and pulled forth a clear, flat piece of crystal.

  “To hold the spell, once it’s set,” he said in answer to Wyn’s unvoiced question. “I do not plan to repeat this every time we wish to discover Irokoi’s location.”

  That was impressive. Tracking spells were usually transient things.

  Rakken held out the feather in one hand, the crystal in the other, and Wyn met him palm-to-palm, carefully trapping the objects within their two-person circle. Rakken drew in a long, slow breath and let it out, and Wyn let his own breathing fall in with his brother’s. Wyn held no pretensions about his spellcasting abilities. He might be powerful, but he lacked knowledge. Rakken was a sorcerer, and he took the lead with casual ease, while Wyn struggled to remember how to follow. It had been a long time.

  Rakken built the form of the spell, centred on the feather, and extended the invitation, like holding out a hand to a dance partner. Rakken’s spellwork was all grace and delicate lines, and Wyn’s contribution was clumsy enough to make Rakken raise an eyebrow, but they both felt it when the pattern clicked into place. Blood calls to blood, as Rakken had said: his, Wyn’s, and Irokoi’s.

  Wyn’s inexperience faded away now that they’d found the point of synchronicity. He could feel what Rakken had meant before, about the spell needing more power. That faint sense of Irokoi-ness petered out before reaching the end of its leash. Rakken built a dam around that line of connection, holding back the building power between him and Wyn with a multi-tasking precision Wyn envied. All Wyn had to do was draw power into that reservoir.

  Lightning twined around them and crackled in the air, and every sense grew sharper. Wyn reined in the urge to flare out his wings because it would break Rakken’s circle, but he threw back his head and welcomed the fine mist condensing on his skin, the dampness of the soft earth beneath them. He felt so alive, his whole body singing with a wild energy that made him want to launch into the sky and fly to cold and heady heights. Rakken’s magic was familiar not only from past experience but because it hummed kin. That wasn’t something Wyn was used to finding any comfort in, and yet, to his magic, it did not seem to matter.

  Tracking spells weren’t usually so complex, but this one held more magic than Wyn would have dared alone. Rakken’s hold on the patterns never faltered, even as the power became bright as the sun to Wyn’s leysight and he closed his eyes against the glare.

  How long was Rakken planning to hold the spell? How deep did Wyn’s own power go now? It was both exhilarating and terrifying not to know where it might end, like jumping off a cliff in the dark.

  Rakken’s hand spasmed, and that was the only warning Wyn got before the spell released, snapping out with the speed and fury of a shellycoat’s attack. It unfurled from Wyn and Rakken, on and on and on until it seemed impossible that it could go further, but the energy they’d built sustained it, that long, long line, past the point where it should have faded.

  And then it caught.

  Wyn jerked as sensations flooded him: sea salt and parchment, and the midnight frost that was Irokoi’s magic. Rakken’s fingers dug into his in silent demand, and Wyn obediently sent more power into the thread. The line thickened, stabilising, and heat flashed into the feather and stone both. Wyn hissed as it flared white-hot between their palms but held on until Rakken let go, carefully de-powering the spell. The taut fishing line disappeared from Wyn’s awareness.

  He opened his eyes to examine his hands. The one that had touched Irokoi’s feather was now reddened and smeared with ash, the feather disintegrated. Rakken examined the crystal that had been in the other.

  “Well?” If it hadn’t worked, they’d now lost their ability to cast another tracking spell.

  Rakken nodded and held up the crystal. It had changed shape and colour, as if Irokoi’s feather had been merged with it to form a single object, an obsidian stone in the shape of a feather. Perhaps that’s exactly how Rakken had done it. When Wyn examined it with his leysight, he could see the threads of the tracking spell coiled neatly inside, ready to spring into being with the right trigger: blood, he decided. Rakken had tied it to their bloodline.

  “That should last long enough to find our errant brother, unless you plan to waste another month frittering about the estate before taking action.”

  Wyn didn’t rise to the bait. “Where is Irokoi? That sense did not match my knowledge of any of the courts.”

  “Deeper Faerie.” Rakken might have been made of the same stone as the tracking spell.

  Deeper Faerie. Ice slithered around Wyn’s lungs. The fae courts were tame and civilised, in comparison. One did not simply venture into the deeper realms unless one was foolhardy or very, very sure of one’s power. They held the oldest and strangest denizens of Faerie, with no faelords to keep them in check. And power came with age, to fae.

  “We will need a Gate,” Wyn said slowly, thinking aloud. Temporary portals couldn’t access the deeper realms, even if he’d been familiar enough with the resonances there to attempt it. The magic there was too strong and changeable; only a Gate was stable enough to bridge the distance. But most Gates were built between allied courts in the surface realms rather than to Deeper Faerie. Where would he find a Gate of the sort he needed? Had ThousandSpire had one? He couldn’t recall, but it would be of no use in any case, not with the Spires currently inaccessible.

  Rakken made an unfocused sound of agreement, pocketing the tracking spell and getting to his feet.

  “Give me the spell, Rake.”

  Rakken turned, raised one eyebrow, and didn’t even bother to voice the response: And why should I?

  Wyn answered anyway. “Because I don’t trust you not to go running off alone, and we stand a better chance of finding Koi and freeing the Spires if we work together.”

  A slow smile spread on his brother’s face, one of dark amusement. But to Wyn’s surprise, Rake pulled the stone from his pocket and threw it lazily to him. Wyn caught it, sucking in a breath at the heft of it. It had a weight disproportionate to its size and practically sizzled with magic.

  “To be honest, I expected more argument,” Wyn confessed.

  Rakken shrugged. “I can wrest it from you easily enough if I wish.”

  “You can try,” Wyn couldn’t help saying, needled, tucking the spell-stone carefully away.

  Rakken ignored him, which was probably for the best. Wyn wrestled down his irritation. “Do you know of any Gates to Deeper Faerie, brother?”

  Rakken didn’t answer, instead putting a hand against the tallest of the Standing Stones. He looked through the gap in the stones as if they showed a view more interesting than Stariel’s misty night, and Wyn didn’t have to extrapolate hard to know that Rake was seeing the Spires. There was something sharp and leashed in him that made Wyn uneasy, something that made him think of a wild creature, cornered and unpredictable.

  “Do you?” Wyn prompted again, when it seemed as if Rakken’s plan was to continue ignoring him all night. “I know you’re keeping something from me.”

  “You flatter yourself; I keep many things from many. You are in no way unique in this respect.”

  “I don’t see why you wish to play games about this, Rake. Surely you wish to find Koi as much as I do?”

  Rakken gave a sharp laugh, the sound of something breaking, but when he turned there was only weariness in his face. “The Court of Dusken Roses has a Gate to the part of Deeper Faerie where Irokoi is. How neatly coincidental for you. You should have destroyed that fucking plant when I told you to.”

  16

  Visitors

  Het
ta woke early the next morning, intending to be up with plenty of time to discuss things with Wyn before her meeting with the linesmen today. Her body, however, had other ideas. She re-counted the pattern of lavender bathroom tiles for the tenth time and closed her eyes, willing her stomach to return to proper behaviour. This had absolutely no effect, and in desperation she reached out for Stariel.

  A glass of cold spring water on a hot day, the relief so immediate and so welcome that she gave an involuntary moan.

  she asked the land.

  Stariel only sent its standard reassurance image of mountain bones.

 

  Should she be worried about leaning against Stariel for help with this, given recent issues with entangling herself too deeply? But she didn’t release her grip on her land-sense, currently entirely willing to make that bargain if it meant keeping her stomach under control.

  She spent a moment examining Lamorkin’s heartstone, swinging it back and forth on its chain. It was still a pale bluish white. Was it her imagination that it seemed a little darker than last night? She tucked it away.

  She was surprised to find Wyn in her bedroom when she returned, a risk despite the earliness of the hour. Oh, how she wished they didn’t have to worry about such things! His dark eyes flickered over her, worried.

  “Hetta…”

  “I’m all right, actually,” she said, checking her timepiece and hurriedly beginning to dress. “No shocks, and Stariel has been surprisingly helpful on the nausea front this morning. But never mind that—tell me about last night.”

  He told her what Rakken had found with his tracking spell and held out the tangible result. She took the strange stone feather from him, finding it unexpectedly heavy. Stariel nudged around her as she examined it with her magesight, careful not to disturb the dense web of alien magic nestled in its centre.

  “How difficult is it to find a Gate to Deeper Faerie, then?” she asked.

  Wyn didn’t immediately reply, watching her in a way that made her feel…not exactly self-conscious, but oddly flustered as she located her stockings and pulled them over her knees.

  “If you can’t stop yourself getting distracted, I shall have to ask you to leave,” she said primly.

  He laughed, giving himself a small shake. “My apologies. Gates to Deeper Faerie aren’t exactly common, but Rake says that DuskRose has one that comes out to near where Irokoi is. The Butterfly Gate. Apparently all of DuskRose’s Gates are in the same place—so any new one we build will undoubtedly spring forth near it.”

  Hetta felt for the knot of magic in the greenhouse, but the dusken rose still slumbered. “That seems a rather large coincidence. How does Rakken know the location of DuskRose’s Gates, anyway?”

  Wyn shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me, but it explains why he gave the tracking spell into my keeping so easily. He can’t go to DuskRose.”

  “Why not?”

  Wyn hesitated. “He and Cat killed DuskRose’s Crown Prince, Queen Tayarenn’s only son. It’s what prompted the High King’s intervention in the feud between the courts.”

  “Oh.” Right. Hetta stared down at her hands, feeling oddly detached. Well, no wonder DuskRose held such enmity against ThousandSpire. Murder. She couldn’t seem to get her head around it, that Rakken had done such a thing—even though he’d proposed to do exactly that before, when he’d planned a coup against his father. It had been too easy to fall into the habit of not taking Rakken seriously, between the flirting and dark humour. Ought she to be giving house room to such a person?

  But more immediately, how in Prydein were they supposed to make peace with DuskRose, given that history? Although, the High King hadn’t asked for peace, precisely, and she knew from experience how exact fae were. An idea began to form.

  “You said that we can’t turn down DuskRose’s invitation without giving offence—and that accepting it and building the Gate to get there would be seen as endorsing an alliance.” She checked the timepiece again.

  Wyn gave a tentative nod.

  “Does that logic apply in reverse?”

  His eyes widened. “That’s…”

  “Very fae thinking, I know, but do you think it would hold with the High King?”

  “Are you truly proposing to invite DuskRose to our wedding?”

  She rather liked how flustered he sounded by that. “Yes. I don’t love the idea of planting that rose—or of Princess Sunnika at my wedding, if it comes to it—but if it gets us a step closer to Irokoi… Does it commit us to anything more than general peace with DuskRose? Because I’m all for general peace—and perfectly willing to install a Gate to ThousandSpire as well, as a gesture of equal opportunity allyship in all directions. Peace for everybody. Feel free to come up with stronger arguments for or against it.” She glanced at the clock again. “Although, actually, it would be better if you didn’t just now as I probably don’t have time for it.”

  He turned back, expression warming as he took in her appearance. “I shall save them then. You look lovely.” He smiled, a spark of devilry in his eyes, and she quickly stepped back and out of reach.

  “If you muss me up—”

  “I can be very careful.”

  She prodded him in the chest. “You—” but she broke off as he gathered her in his arms and held her crushingly close. She let herself close her eyes and just breathe in the solid comfort of him before pulling herself together.

  “I need to go,” she told his chest.

  “Yes.” He didn’t release her.

  “Wyn…”

  He took a deep breath and stepped back, his arms dropping. His eyes were dark with worry. “Good luck.”

  She’d intended to go straight down to where the linesmen were working, but she heard the chief linesman arguing with one of the village councillors as soon as she emerged into the stables. She sighed. Did the blasted man have to stick his nose into everything?

  She went to rescue the chief linesman; this particular councillor could talk for hours, stalling the lines work for an equal measure of time, and he didn’t like that most of the linesmen weren’t Northerners, even if Mr Adeyemi, the chief linesman, originally hailed from Greymark. Greymark was, apparently, not Northern enough despite being the old Northern capital.

  Gracious, she reminded herself as she rounded the corner. I am a gracious overlord.

  “And what if people don’t choose to use the elektricity, eh?” the councillor was saying to the linesman. “Won’t it build up in the lines and cause fires?”

  She managed to extract the chief linesman, though unfortunately not without leaving a disgruntled councillor in her wake. Wyn would have ruffled feathers to smooth over when next the two met; he had more patience with the man than she did. The metaphor made her smile; she supposed he had more practice smoothing feathers than most.

  “Elektricity doesn’t work like that!” the linesman burst out as they set off down the driveway.

  “Yes, I know,” she assured him, but the man’s indignation was such that he was determined to rebut each and every one of the councillor’s points in detail, and she was quite out of patience with both of them by the time they made it to the point along the driveway where the lines had so far reached and where the rest of the crew had gathered.

  The greater cities of the South had had elektricity installed for many years now, even in the poorer areas, but in Stariel much of the estate remained without. The phone lines had only recently reached as far as the House, and it still hadn’t been wired up for elektricity, though the lines themselves now ran that far. Hetta intended to run lines not only to Stariel House but to all the many cottages and smaller settlements sprinkled over the estate. Her services had significantly improved the cost of the installation, but they still couldn’t afford to do it all at once; the later stages to the more far-flung parts of the estate would have to wait until the next harvest season.

  The main driveway ran along the lake shore, Sta
rwater a sparkling deep blue in the pale sunlight. She lifted her face towards the warmth when they stopped, determined to enjoy it. The air still held a fierce bite, and the moment the sun went behind a cloud, the temperature would plummet.

  A sudden splashing made her turn towards the lake, and the cause of the sound drew her up short.

  “Oh.” She let out a faint breath of surprise, her heart beating rather loudly.

  “My lord?” The linesman looked between her and the lake with a faint frown of puzzlement. Clearly he wasn’t seeing the same thing she was, because there was no way he’d be looking at her rather than the enormous lake monster if that was the case.

  Said enormous lake monster craned a neck that went up and up and up, tilting its head like a horse until it could fix Hetta with one gargantuan golden eye. Its hide was dark and sleek as a seal’s, gleaming like wet pebbles. A long, fluked tail rose lazily behind it before slamming down and sending up a spray.

  She struggled with the hysterical laugh trying to force its way out of her throat. I suppose all those local legends about the nessan living in Starwater had to be based on something.

  “Is something the matter?”

  She and the nessan stared at each other for several eternities. Stariel pulsed at the back of her mind, creating an unsettling duality, as if she were merely the glass through which the faeland was examining the creature. The nessan raised one foreleg with slow deliberation, spreading its webbed foot like a lady unfurling a fan. The gesture was so unexpected that Hetta didn’t process what it meant until after the nessan had ducked its long neck and disappeared back beneath the dark waters.