The King of Faerie (Stariel Book 4) Read online

  It had been waving at her. Goodness. She gave a small hiccup of laughter, all at once delighted.

  “My lord?”

  Hetta turned back to him with a bright smile. “Right. Sorry. Shall we be getting on?” She began to walk again, the gravel crunching under her boots.

  They stopped where a smaller path split off the main driveway towards some of the northern tenant farms. A long line of fresh earth showed the progress of the lines so far.

  “It’s going to rain tonight,” she said. “So I’d better not put in more trenching than you’ll get to by then.”

  When they’d agreed the next bit of trenching should go as far out as Gorse Cottage, she hesitated, uncertain in a way she didn’t enjoy. Oh, for goodness sake! You’ve already done this many times before! She let herself sink a little deeper into her awareness of the estate, drawing up a detailed map of Stariel in her mind’s eye. Stariel had had a little difficulty with the concept of maps at first, since that wasn’t at all how the estate perceived itself, but eventually they’d managed to integrate the two.

  When they were ready, she drew a mental line on her map where she wanted the earth to shift and pulled. The sensation was akin to running a finger down one of her own tendons, feeling sinew pull tight.

  She opened her eyes, unsure exactly how much time had passed. Had it been only a second, or several minutes? A narrow trench ran away from her feet, disappearing out of sight, and the linesman didn’t look concerned that she’d been absent for too long. She let out a long breath of relief.

  ???

  She gave the faeland a mental pat, and it happily brushed against her.

  “It’s done,” she repeated to the linesman, who tipped his hat and said something that she didn’t hear because something in the distant sky snagged her attention. A bird? She frowned and squinted, reaching for more information, but whatever it was hung just outside her borders in the direction of the station, maintaining height with a deliberateness that wasn’t natural. Oh, how infuriating to see something but not be able to sense it.

  But even without her land-sense, she knew it wasn’t a bird. No bird moved like that. No bird was that big. No bird had wings of shattered red-and-gold so brilliant they shone even at such a distance.

  Aroset.

  Aroset, who should’ve been trapped in ThousandSpire, but who was somehow and incredibly here instead. Stariel roared up in alarm and Hetta wobbled, losing her balance as she tried to reassure the land through her own horrified reaction.

  “Are you all right, my lord?” the chief linesman asked. He followed the line of Hetta’s gaze blankly. Glamour. Aroset was under a glamour. No one else could see her.

  Too many things no one else could see today.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she lied. Dizziness threatened, and she took a long, slow breath, extending her senses into the land as if she could use Stariel for support like the roots of a tree. This is no time for dizziness! she told her body firmly.

  How could Aroset be here? Why couldn’t she be nice and safely trapped in the Spires? Gods, if Aroset was here, she’d no doubt try to target Wyn again if she could. Where was Wyn? Awareness of his location followed hard on the heels of the thought, and his spark brightened in the web that connected her to all of Stariel’s people.

  Her attention split, and she was simultaneously here, in a crowd of murmuring linesmen, and in the kitchen at Stariel House. Wyn was talking to Cook, but Hetta couldn’t parse his words because the chief linesman was again asking her if she was all right. That had never happened before—usually her awareness homed in on wherever she focused and she lost all sense of herself.

  Wyn frowned and broke off mid-sentence, canting his head as if straining to hear something. There was a splash from the lake, a fish jumping. Her head pounded at the sensation—humans weren’t meant to be in two places at once—and there was a sudden snap of magic as they pulled together.

  Oh no, she thought, dismayed, because she knew exactly what she’d accidentally done as Wyn appeared out of thin air beside her, and knew exactly how much he hated the way his father used to translocate him on a whim about the Spires. He held a mug half-raised to his lips in one hand, and he stayed locked in the position for a single startled moment, eyes widening as he took in his new location.

  The chief linesman stepped back with a squawk, surprise spreading to the rest of the crew like a ripple.

  “Sorry,” Hetta said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “What’s wrong?” Wyn scanned Hetta, his gaze resting on her abdomen for a fraction of a second longer than it ought. Really, if he didn’t stop his fussing it wouldn’t be her who gave things away earlier than necessary.

  Hetta pointed towards the distant red speck of Aroset, but the sky was empty. “Dash it, she’s gone now. I saw Aroset, hovering outside the bounds.” Had she been mistaken? It had been so comforting to think of Aroset neutralised; the single good thing to come out of the Spires being stuck in stasis.

  If Aroset was truly here in the Mortal Realm, how could Hetta protect everyone from her? Hetta could keep Aroset out of Stariel easily enough, but life didn’t stop at the estate boundary. Gods, Marius, she thought. He wasn’t safely inside Stariel’s boundaries—and Aroset had a particular reason to target him. A fierce urgency filled her, to gather up everyone important to her and hold them close, to keep them safe through sheer proximity.

  Calm down, she told herself. Marius is halfway across the country from here, and how would Aroset even know where to find him? But this wasn’t that reassuring, since Aroset had shown an uncanny ability to create portals to wherever she liked.

  Wyn didn’t change forms as he searched the horizon for his sister, but he sharpened. His fae nature lurked close to the surface, bringing a vibrancy, a sense of otherness not wholly disguised by his neat appearance. “I cannot sense her along the leylines,” he said in a low voice after a moment. “But she is very capable of shielding her presence from me, if she wishes.”

  Hetta’s heartrate was slowly returning to normal, helped by the absence of lightning strikes from enraged fae princesses. She scanned the empty sky. Had she imagined seeing Aroset? It would certainly be nice to think so—much nicer than the alternative.

  “Sir,” the chief linesman said, his tone oddly dreamy.

  Hetta jerked; she’d forgotten their audience. She turned back to find the entire crew had fallen silent, all weirdly mesmerised by Wyn. He wasn’t a stranger to them, and he wasn’t in his fae form, but they were looking at him like men dying of thirst who’d just spotted a pint of ale. She gave a choked laugh, even though it wasn’t that funny. It was the sort of reaction Rakken usually got. All the royal fae Hetta had met exuded a magnetism that they didn’t seem able to entirely eliminate, but Wyn’s was normally damped. Had he foregone that now? He always appealed to Hetta, which meant she had to lean heavily on Stariel to double-check whether the glow of him was any different to its usual level. He did seem brighter than usual.

  Wyn froze, and then a slight shudder of distaste ran through him. The atmosphere shifted, the glow of him dimming to Stariel’s perception. He tucked his fae nature away with ruthless efficiency and straightened, smiling pleasantly around at the group.

  “Mr Adeyemi.” He acknowledged the chief linesman with a nod. “Forgive my abrupt intrusion.” Did he practice the various degrees of nods for all occasions? His Helpful Butler one was similar but somehow implied much less superiority. Did fae get training in this sort of thing? Though I suppose I did get drilled on degrees of curtseys at school, Hetta reflected. So I shouldn’t tease.

  The linesmen came back to themselves with a shake.

  “Is that all you needed me for today?” Hetta asked the linesman quickly. She felt like there were two Hettas—one of whom was smiling and nodding and pretending that everything was fine, fine, fine; the other simmering with fire just beneath her fingertips, ready to throw at every unexpected shadow.

  Mr Adeyemi nodded
, gesturing at the trenching. “We’ve enough to be getting on with.”

  She and Wyn went straight to Stariel Station. The train line through the valley marked the eastern boundary of the estate. There was no sign of Aroset.

  Hetta looked helplessly at the empty skies. “How is Aroset here? Does this mean the Spires aren’t in stasis anymore? Or that she was never stuck there in the first place?”

  “I fear the latter, though Rake will know for sure.” He looked skywards. “I’m going to fly the bounds. I’ll be able to see further along the leylines that way, if she is still out there.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Be careful.”

  He nodded. “I will.” But he didn’t move.

  “Are you waiting for me to leave before you change?” Hetta eventually asked. She looked around; the stationmaster gave a wave from inside the ticket office. “Or is it Mr Billington’s sensibilities you’re sparing?”

  A sheepish smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “Ah. My vanity surprises even me sometimes.” He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to her. A fraction of hesitation, and there was a soft, soundless explosion as his wings unfurled. The dying light gleamed on the tips of his horns, picked up the network of silver filigree in his feathers.

  Hetta couldn’t help glancing back at the ticket office. The stationmaster’s mouth was partly open, his cup of tea frozen halfway to his mouth. Wyn gave him an ironic salute and took off in a whirl of feathers, leaving a faint tang of spice in the air. He rose swifter than a bird, though she suspected his urgency sprang more from a desire to be out of sight than from the need to begin his search.

  The stationmaster transferred his attention to her, and she raised a cool eyebrow at him, as if to say, what of it? She was determined that Wyn’s nature should be—well, not ordinary, exactly, but not cause for remark from locals.

  The stationmaster swallowed and looked away, putting down his cup.

  Hetta sighed and began to make her way back. Her family weren’t going to be pleased at what she was about to tell them.

  17

  A Delicate Situation

  “No one is to go outside the estate bounds until I say so, and certainly not until I get back,” Hetta told her family later that night. She’d called an impromptu family meeting in Carnelian Hall. “Aroset is dangerous, and she may attack anyone she knows is related to me.”

  Alexandra shrank into the chesterfield, her face pale. “I thought it was safe now.”

  “You’re safe within Stariel; she can’t cross the boundary without permission.” Technically greater fae could enter without permission, though it meant they left their power at the border, but Hetta had spent some time giving Stariel strict instructions on Aroset specifically. She was fairly certain the estate would enforce her will even without her being here, but the risk still worried her. If only I had more practice at this lording business. Did other faelords grapple with such uncertainty regarding their faelands? If only I didn’t need to leave the estate to go to this DuskRose affair.

  “Thank Simulsen I dried so much rosemary this season!” Grandmamma said brightly, looking around at the assorted cousins. “Who wants to help me make up some more anti-fae charms?”

  “This is not acceptable!” Aunt Sybil grumbled. “Can you not simply talk to your sister, young man, and explain matters?” she asked Wyn.

  “I am sorry, Lady Sybil. I wouldn’t hesitate if I thought doing so would do any good,” Wyn said softly. He’d spent much of the day flying the borders, trying without success to catch another glimpse of Aroset.

  “And just how long are we supposed to stay here for?” her uncle Percival asked. He stood by the mantel, a thin man with spectacles. “I need to be getting back to my classes.” Uncle Percival and his wife were both academics at Knoxbridge University. He’d been due to leave tomorrow. “I admire the sentiment, but it’s not a practical solution, Hetta. Half the family’s already outside the bounds. Your brothers, for one.”

  As if she didn’t already know that! She didn’t like to think of her two brothers out there, potentially vulnerable, though Aroset probably wouldn’t recognise Gregory. Marius, though. Aroset knew Marius, and probably would try to harm him if she could, since last time they’d met the backlash from his telepathy had sent her sprawling.

  “She’s here, not in Knoxbridge, and she has no reason to go there, since she doesn’t know where they are.” Hetta hoped that was true, but she had another plan in case it wasn’t, involving an entirely different one of Wyn’s murderous siblings. If Rakken couldn’t come with them to DuskRose, he might as well be useful to them here—and she was fully prepared to wield the supposed debt he owed her against him to make that happen, if need be.

  “The same could apply to me, if I take the train down,” Uncle Percival pointed out. “You’ve said fairies don’t like iron; why should this woman bother following every train south?”

  “Maybe,” Hetta agreed reluctantly. “But I’d still much rather you didn’t. Wyn and I shouldn’t be gone very long, anyway—less than a day, we think, but maybe two.” Rakken thought Irokoi’s location was quite close to the Gate. “Surely you can put off your return that long, Uncle? Please?”

  “You are taking a chaperone with you, of course?” Aunt Sybil said, narrowing her eyes.

  Hetta met them. “No, Aunt, I’m not. Only the two of us are invited, and the fae don’t care about such proprieties in any case.”

  Aunt Sybil clucked as Aunt Maude fiddled with one of the many charms she wore.

  “Perhaps we could convince this fairy woman to leave if we made the right offering?” Aunt Maude asked in her soft voice. She’d been superstitious even before the fae had been revealed as real and had taken the news as permission to further indulge herself.

  Hetta rubbed at her head. “I very much doubt it, since she wants both me and Wyn dead.” Making offerings to fae? Hetta made a private vow not to tell Aunt Maude about the wing worshippers Marius had mentioned.

  There was a slightly affronted pause. “I will light a candle beseeching Mother Eostre to calm angry spirits, then,” Aunt Maude said, sounding far less dreamy than usual.

  Jack frowned at Hetta. “You sure you should be going to this fairy ball?” in your condition he narrowly avoided verbalising.

  “It’s a ball, not a battlefield. I’ll be fine,” she said, even though she wasn’t at all sure of what they might encounter in Deeper Faerie, assuming they did manage to find and use DuskRose’s Gate there. But how much trouble could they really run into in the short time they planned to be there for? Well, probably a lot, but it wasn’t as if she and Wyn were defenceless.

  “I’ll keep my gun by me,” Jack said. “In case she comes back.”

  She swallowed. “Thank you.” Her hand sought the lump of the heartstone, but it was tucked safely out of sight under her clothing. I’ll figure out how to deal with Aroset after DuskRose; Stariel can keep everyone safe for a day or two. After the DuskRose ball, if they found Irokoi, well, that would put them in a better place to deal with the murderous princess.

  There was an awkward pause in which it became clear her family’s questions had finally run dry. People began to shift, forming small knots of murmured conversation. Uncle Percival picked himself up with a huff. “Well, I am going to pack. I’ll take the train down tomorrow,” he said testily, waiting for someone to contradict him. Hetta held her tongue but sent a pleading look to his daughter, her cousin Caro. Caro’s mouth thinned but she nodded; she’d talk to him.

  Lady Phoebe, who hated awkwardness, fluttered nervously next to the coffee table. There was a bridal catalogue resting on it, and she seized upon it as a way to change the subject away from upsetting things, flipping it open to a bookmarked page.

  “Have you given any thought to what flowers you want, Hetta, dear?” she said, smoothing out the pages. “Peonies are lovely, but they’re only in season until July.” She looked hesitantly at Wyn. “Maybe roses would be better.”

  “I am happy
to be guided by your advice on this,” Wyn said diplomatically.

  “That’s a pretty sentiment, but the wedding’s bloody well going to be before July, isn’t it?” Jack said.

  “Language!” his sister Cecily reproached him.

  “Begging your pardon,” he added, not looking the least apologetic.

  “Yes, well…” Lady Phoebe made a helpless gesture. “Perhaps we could settle on some of the arrangements in advance? And then that could help save time once you…set a date.” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “Of course,” Hetta said, trying to accept this peace-making offer for what it was.

  The slightly awkward void in the conversation was filled by Cecily’s husband, Mr Frederick Fenwick. He’d accepted the talk of fae without comment, but he seemed eager to contribute to a change in subject.

  “I can strongly recommend marrying a Valstar.” He looked fondly at his wife. “Cess and the girls are the best things to ever happen to me.” His attention roved around the high-ceilinged room. “And this place was meant for families. Be good for this old place to have kiddies running through it more of the time.”

  “Not till after the wedding, obviously,” Cecily said, flushing. Aunt Sybil, Cecily’s mother, made a firm sound of agreement.

  “Obviously,” he agreed. “What do you say, Wyn? Do you see yourself as a family man?”

  Hetta stared down at her hands and fought down the fit of giggles she could feel trying to force their way out. She snuck a look at Wyn, who’d lost his usual composure and seemed temporarily unable to speak.

  “Ah—I am looking forward to marrying my own Valstar,” Wyn said, sidestepping the subject with the care of a man navigating a bog. “We hope the event we are to attend at DuskRose will bring us closer to gaining the permissions I need.” They had told her family, in the loosest terms possible, that Wyn still needed an authorisation from the fae High King to marry Hetta.

  Aunt Sybil grumbled. “It is all very well to be fastidious about these things, Mr Tempest, but this is taking much too long for my liking—you must realise the impact on my niece’s reputation!”