The Court of Mortals (Stariel Book 3) Read online

  “I can even read, Marius Valstar,” Rakken said dryly.

  Catsmere huffed at them both. “How much further, mortal?”

  They’d left the library behind a block ago, walking through the cobbled streets and aged stone buildings that characterised Knoxbridge.

  “Not far,” he said, as they came to the walkway he’d been aiming for. “Down here.” He diverted them down the path beside the Maudlin Bridge, which led to a side entrance to the Knoxbridge Botanical Gardens. Unlatching the gate, he gestured them through.

  “In there,” he said, pointing at the shed a stone’s throw from the fence. Although the Botanical Gardens were open to the public during the day, few people came in this particular entrance, since it consisted of sheds, piles of compost, and glass houses rather than flowerbeds. He unlocked the shed he’d taken over for his own experiments and waved the two inside.

  Princess Catsmere deposited Rakken onto one of the benches next to the door while Marius hurried to find the first-aid kit. Rakken changed back to his fae form as he sank down, which said he was more badly wounded than he’d admitted to.

  “The taps run only cold water, I’m afraid, but I’ll put the kettle on for hot,” Marius said as he handed Catsmere the kit.

  She didn’t say anything, so he went and put the kettle on and filled a bowl with water. When he returned, the twins were engaged in a dance of coordinated efficiency. Catsmere undid straps as Rakken peeled off his leather harness and undershirt, suddenly bare to the waist.

  Marius swallowed, taken aback by the deep wound in Rakken’s side, as if someone had tried to disembowel him with something the size of a sword; if Marius had been injured like that, he wouldn’t have been upright, let alone able to walk. Let alone conscious.

  Catsmere gestured impatiently for the water bowl. Marius put it down beside her with a thump, feeling entirely superfluous to the proceedings as she began to clean the wound. Rakken held still and impassive as stone. He looked up and met Marius’s eyes.

  “Admiring my musculature, Marius Valstar?”

  “This is horror, not admiration!” Marius snapped. “Since someone seems to have tried to slice you right through!”

  “How foolish of me to confuse the two.” Rakken grinned, slow and wicked, clearly enjoying discomfiting him. A spike of panic threatened to pierce through the fog of surreality. Had Rakken figured out his secret or was he just being flippant? Marius wanted to ask for clarification, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask about.

  Catsmere didn’t look up but whacked her brother with the damp cloth, making him wince. “Leave the mortal alone, Mouse. This needs stitches.” She didn’t seem nearly concerned enough, given the severity of the injury, but then fae did heal faster than humans.

  “Probably,” Rakken agreed dispassionately. “But I’m unwilling to be stuck with iron needles.” He tapped the first-aid kit.

  Marius stared at him for a moment, heart still beating twice its normal speed. “You’re not allergic to blackthorn, are you?”

  Rakken didn’t know the species, but when Marius went out and returned with a branch of the shrub from the nearby hedge—and several scratches for his trouble—he sniffed it cautiously and said, “It has no hostile properties that I can tell.” His gaze went meaningfully to a tub near the door, where a yarrow plant was flourishing, and he gave Marius an edged smile.

  Marius ignored the subtext, and the guilt that came with it. It was just plain good sense, investigating plants with anti-fae properties, wasn’t it? Not everyone was resistant to compulsion, after all, and it wasn’t as if the two fae even seemed particularly worried by the yarrow plant’s presence. Maybe it was the preparation of it that mattered. Did it need to be dried or some such thing?

  Marius looked at the wound in Rakken’s side and decided now wasn’t the time to ask, although the fae wasn’t likely to tell him in any case. He focused back on the blackthorn, worrying. “It’s not sterile, though.” Two blank looks. “It means you’re more likely to get infected.”

  Their expressions cleared. “I am not a mere mortal, Marius Valstar, to sicken from every stray disease,” Rakken said with a shrug, then winced at the motion.

  “Yes, well, at your own risk be it then,” he said, exasperated. “I’m just trying to help, though the gods know why, since I’m sure you’re both up to something nefarious.”

  Catsmere ignored them both and used the long thorns and thread from the first-aid kit to begin stitching Rakken’s wounds. It must have hurt, but Rakken showed no sign of discomfort other than to lean back against the wall and shut his eyes. Fatigue emanated from him.

  “Keep still,” she instructed.

  “Are the two of you ever going to explain what you’re doing here?” Marius asked. “Or what you want with Wyn?”

  Rakken spoke without opening his eyes. “Because, dear mortal, our sister might have claimed the Court of Ten Thousand Spires, but it has not claimed her. She has not bonded to the faeland; it does not recognise her as queen.” His tone got even colder, until each word carried frostbite, and when he opened his eyes, they burned with arctic fury. “Neither does it want me, nor Cat, nor any of our other siblings.”

  Marius’s eyes widened. “You think the Court of Ten Thousand Spires wants Wyn as its new king?”

  “Yes,” said Catsmere.

  “And our sister will have come to the conclusion that if the faeland’s favourite is dead, then it will have to choose from those remaining of the bloodline,” Rakken finished.

  23

  Night Flights

  As dusk deepened into true night, Wyn frowned down at the three remaining golden hairs he’d taken from Princess Evangeline where they glinted against the dark wood of the coffee table, shining pieces of guilt and failure. One more try, he steeled himself.

  Half of him wondered why he was bothering; he’d voluntarily donned the dismae for good reason, after all, and that hadn’t changed even after twenty-four hours of wearing the miserable constructions. But if he could work out the release mechanism, he could at least gain a temporary respite from them, enough to sleep…and the part of him that had grown up in a fae court disliked relying on Queen Matilda’s goodwill for his freedom.

  In theory, it should be possible to coax the spell into believing Princess Evangeline’s hair was the same as receiving permission from Queen Matilda’s bloodline, even in the absence of the key. Theory was all very well, but in practice, every time he thought he’d nearly unravelled the thing, it collapsed in on itself, bit down on his magic, and sent a punishing shock of storm-magic through him.

  But this time… he held his breath and carefully touched the tip of one golden hair to a fine weft of the spell. If he’d judged correctly, this ought to—

  He hissed as distorted elektricity punched through him and broke off the attempt, the single hair sizzling up in a puff of smoke. Usually he was immune to his own charge, but whoever had constructed the dismae had a nasty streak, turning the prisoner’s magic against them. They’d also known their business when it came to spellwork, unfortunately.

  This is the problem with trying to understand magical constraints from the inside, he thought, collapsing back into his seat with a sigh. Or perhaps it is merely my mediocre magery. The repair of his broken oath and the Maelstrom might have flooded him with new power, but power wasn’t the same thing as knowledge.

  He considered the remaining two hairs, shook his head, and tucked them away in a little fold of paper placed carefully in his pocket. The acrid smell of burnt hair lingered, and he got up and pushed open the balcony doors, stepping out into the cooler night air.

  The little courtyard lay deep in shadow as he stood, listening to the quiet of the sleeping palace. Cut off from his leysight, the world seemed emptier than usual. He looked up. No starlight penetrated the thick cloud layer above, and the reflected glow of the city’s lights washed the sky a deep yellowish grey. It drew him, nonetheless.

  No, he told himself sternly. That would b
e foolishness.

  But what if he was letting paranoia rule him? His unlocked balcony doors could be mere mortal oversight—Queen Matilda did not seem the type to set such a trap, and he had not told her that stormdancers came winged. In any case, he could be out and back again before anyone noticed.

  Without glamour, though? What if someone looked up at the wrong moment? But mortals rarely looked up. And I can fly high, if I can get out of the courtyard unnoticed. Hmmm. He eyed the distance required to clear the top of the courtyard. Not much room for error and even less without magic. Stormdancers had air magic that helped them fly, particularly crucial when taking off, but with his magic crippled, he’d be relying on pure muscle power.

  Still half-undecided, he changed forms, and it was almost but not quite like stretching a sore muscle, relief mingled with frustration at not being able to complete the motion. Disorientation riddled him, just as he’d suspected might happen when the magic that should have flowed smoothly in this form didn’t. The itch of the dismae magnified a thousandfold, and he furled and unfurled his wings several times, trying and failing to dispel the sensation.

  He climbed up on the ledge, spreading his wings for balance. If he misjudged this and ended up on the ground, he’d have to climb up to the balcony again—a vertical takeoff from ground level within the tight constraints of the tiny courtyard would be impossible without magic.

  He looked down again and grimaced. Perhaps this is not the time for complete recklessness. Skirting along the balcony until he faced the wall of the building, he began to climb. The stonework provided a reasonable number of footholds, and he was tall enough to reach windowsills, pulling himself up to higher levels. Eventually he hauled himself onto the roof of the palace and flared out his wings, feeling much more confident. His stomach lurched as he leapt and gravity took hold, but he beat powerful downstrokes, bearing him upwards and out of its grip.

  The air over Meridon had a comfortable degree of heat in it, and gaining height wasn’t as hard as he’d feared. Without the dismae, the sheer quantity of the city’s iron would have tangled his leysight into knots. With them, there was only a vast, eerie vacuum below.

  Even so, his tension eased as the air rushed past his feathers, giving the illusion of freedom. The world spread small beneath him, the palace shrunken to a series of pale rectangles surrounded by dark parkland on three sides. The walkways were easy to make out, lit up like lines of tinsel, and beyond them the bright stretches of streetlights marked the roads. The houses and shops were darker squares, their occupants mostly asleep at this time of night.

  He could not help drifting towards the hotel. Hetta. He could fly to her. And then…? They could run back to Stariel, but Stariel was part of Prydein. Hetta couldn’t just ignore her queen’s commands, not without consequence. And Stariel and Hetta aside, the fae were coming back to the Mortal Realm. The world was changing. He could not leave such important negotiations to fae who did not look so kindly on mortals as he.

  Reluctantly, he banked, turning back towards the palace. As he drew closer, soaring over the grand buildings, something glinted in the moonlight. Something white, amidst strange-shaped shadows, at the entrance to one of the inner palace buildings. He banked again, frowning at the shapes, and the shadows resolved into recognisable forms.

  Bodies.

  His magic rose in a wave, crashing against the iron constraints like the tide hitting a seawall with a spray of pain. He pushed the magic down with a wince, folded his wings, and plummeted, landing in a clumsy rush.

  In the shadow of great locked doors lay two bodies of guards, and specifically two of his guards, from earlier today. Lightning buzzed under his skin, shorting out and snapping down his nerve endings, but he couldn’t rein it in until he saw the small movements of their chests. They were alive. Thank the stormwinds. But what was going on?

  He crouched to inspect the men, but there was no obvious wound on either. He shook William’s shoulder, but the man remained locked in slumber. Both men had the slow breathing of the deeply unconscious. Stormcrows, but he wished for his leysight; without it, he couldn’t tell if it was magic holding them under, nor use his own to bring them out of it. How long had they been like this? He thought of Gwendelfear, here in this mortal city. If she was here, her princess could be also—or some other DuskRose greater fae with the power to compel. But how would enchanting guards benefit the Court of Dusken Roses?

  A glint of whiteness again, in the corner of his eye. Wyn turned and stared numbly at the white feather on the stone steps. Oh dear. The unlocked balcony had been a trap. He scanned the scene for other tell-tale signs. Yes, there was a second feather peeking from beneath the second guard’s body. They were both wispy down feathers, making it hard to identify species at a glance, but he knew what whoever found this scene was supposed to assume. Someone had wanted to make very sure the right person—or rather, the wrong person—got the blame for this, whatever this, exactly, was. Which meant—what? His eyes fell on the great ornate doors to the building. He didn’t know what lay behind them, but no doubt it was something intended to incriminate him.

  He let out a small, bitter laugh, quickly stifled. Whoever did this didn’t know my wings have changed. His mind raced, counting up possibilities and motivations. Did whoever had done this want him to flee, thus proving his guilt? Or was this scene to provide an excuse to drop the privileges of ‘honoured guest’, to justify the extraction of information from him in harsher ways than mere questioning? He hadn’t thought the queen the type to take that route, but her patience with his vague answers had been wearing thin today.

  If it was the first, he needed to get back to his room immediately and hope Queen Matilda wasn’t persuaded by this amateur attempt to frame him.

  If it was the second…he swallowed. I am here to prevent a war, he reminded himself. He had to hope his judgement was sound, that Queen Matilda hadn’t set this up herself.

  He climbed up the side of the building, a dark emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time hard in his chest—betrayal. He’d been unforgivably careless, too trusting, not expecting treachery from mortals in the ways he would’ve from the fae courts. His own magic, petrichor and cardamom, lay thick and heavy on the back of his tongue, frustrated by the dismae, but the height made it easier to get airborne again, and he swept up into the night sky.

  The palace was still silent when he made it back to his rooms. When would the outcry come? Abruptly not prepared to wait, he stalked through to the interior door without bothering to change to his human form and yanked it open.

  The captain of the guard had his fist raised to knock, and stared at him in shock. Behind him were several other guards, all of them braced for hostile action, and Wyn knew, in that moment, that they had not come to treat him gently. The second route, then, he thought with a sinking heart. He’d misjudged.

  The captain recovered himself with a shake and straightened. “Prince Hallowyn Tempestren, by order of Her Majesty—” He broke off as the ground shuddered.

  Danger screamed against his senses, every feather standing on end. Again, storm magic instinctively flared out only to be reflected back, and he winced at the shock. The storm winds curse iron and those who spellwork it. He strained, listening, gritting his teeth with the effort of not stretching out with his leysight to identify whatever was causing the ground to shake.

  The guard captain’s eyes went wide with fear. “Prince Hallowyn, I must ask you to desist your magic—”

  Wyn stared at him in incomprehension and then raised a cuff, about to protest that there was no possible way he could be responsible for any magic, but then the scent hit him and he froze, froze in mingled disbelief and fear, the fear of feathered things trapped deep underground. No. But that darkness-and-rock scent, of caves and things unseen by daylight, was unmistakable.

  A wyrm. Someone had sent an actual wyrm into an actual human city for him. Ah well, he thought faintly, at least that simplifies matters.

  24

>   Wyrm

  Distantly, Wyn supposed that the wyrm meant Aroset was now the Queen of Ten Thousand Spires, and beneath his panic, he felt a stab of worry for his other siblings. But there had been three of them, united. How had Aroset overcome that?

  Think about that later: survive the wyrm first.

  The guard captain was still staring at him in guilty confusion, and Wyn whipped the man’s ornamental dagger out of his belt before he had a chance to protest. It was as laughable as a toothpick, but better that than nothing.

  “Hey, you can’t—”

  “Run,” he snarled at the man, pushing him back into his men, making no attempt to soften his strength to mortal levels. The captain staggered.

  “Now, Your Highness—” His eyes went wide as something roared in the courtyard behind Wyn.

  “Run!” Wyn repeated. “It’s me it wants!”

  The men took one look at his expression and fled.

  The palace would become his tomb, if he was trapped here. He didn’t have his magic; he desperately needed his wings if he was to have any chance at all against the wyrm. He whirled, determined to make it back to the balcony, but a shadow blocked out the sky, and he caught a glimpse of thick, maggot-pale flesh: a nightwyrm, then. Too late.

  He darted back through the door into the hallway, wrenching it closed behind him just as the wyrm crashed through the balcony glass and into his rooms. The wyrm slammed against the interior door. Splinters ricocheted, and he ran down the hallway in the opposite direction to the guards. Behind him, the wyrm hit the door again and went through it with a crunch.

  It was huge, but it wasn’t very manoeuvrable, and therein might lie his only advantage. He couldn’t let it build up momentum. He didn’t dare slow down to look, but he heard it gaining speed and dashed through a doorway to his right, slamming that door shut as well, just in time. The hair on his neck rose as it rushed past, bringing with it the smell of mould and dank earth.