The Court of Mortals (Stariel Book 3) Page 5

  He read her easily enough and shook his head. “Nay, I know you’re no impostor, Hetta. You were right to take me to task for not believing in the Valstars’ land-sense. I don’t pretend to understand exactly how things resolved, but I know Jack wouldn’t be looking at me like I’d killed his dog if he didn’t know full well what I’d done. And if he knows, and you’re still lord…” He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Congratulations on your ascension. I’m glad of it.”

  “Forgive me if I doubt your sincerity.”

  “Credit me with enough personal vanity to be flattered that Stariel chose the same person as me for lord.” He twinkled at her. “It confirms my great taste.”

  He’s not charming, she reminded herself. Remember what he did, for his own gain. But part of Angus’s attraction was his self-assurance. And though she could lay many faults at his door, he’d never been driven by malice, and there had been a sliver of sincerity in his courtship of her. It made it difficult to properly hate him.

  “Why are you here, Angus?” she asked him tiredly.

  “To offer recompense for my sins.” He took a crisp envelope from his coat pocket and slid it across the desk to her.

  She unfolded its contents, skimmed them, and made an exasperated sound. “Really?”

  “It’s a traditional peace offering, in the North.”

  He was right, but it still sat badly, accepting anything at all from him.

  “Let my man know when it’s convenient to shift them over here,” he said, taking her silence for assent. He paused, and then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “If there’s anything else I can assist you with, I will. I mean to make it up to you, the harm I did.”

  She frowned down at his hands, which had stopped just short of reaching for hers. This was fortunate, because she wasn’t sure she could’ve stopped herself from singeing his eyebrows off if he’d touched her. Irritation and amusement see-sawed in her chest. Did Angus truly think he could simply pick up where they’d left off if he mouthed enough pretty compliments mixed with apologies? Didn’t he see that everything was different now?

  “I’m not a damsel in distress, Angus,” she said quietly. “And we’re navigating our way out of our problems without your aid. We’ve recently come to terms with the bank over an initial loan; there’ll be elektricity out to much of the estate soon.” And if the repairs to the Dower House stayed on track, further funds for other upgrades would follow. “We may not be updating the decor any time soon, but I mean to make Stariel prosperous once again.”

  “I hope your new steward knows his job,” Angus said, choosing his words carefully, and her internal see-saw settled firmly in amusement. So that was why he’d come.

  “Really, Angus? All this talk about making reparations when you’ve actually come here just to satisfy your own morbid curiosity! Or am I supposed to pretend I’ve no idea of the rumours flying thick and fast around the countryside about my steward and me? Have you come to insult me, or to tell me you’re cutting me out of polite society? That won’t work, since I’ve been avoiding you!”

  “That wasn’t very subtle, was it?” he acknowledged with a grimace. “I didn’t come to insult you, but I have heard some pretty…odd things, Hetta.”

  “Probably all true, but still none of your business.” But her concentration fractured as something tugged, deep inside. The tug came again, inquisitive, bringing with it a hint of spice. She smiled. Stariel’s interest in Wyn did have one benefit that they’d taken full advantage of. The land was inclined to pass messages on to her from Wyn if he asked it nicely, and Hetta could touch anyone within her borders once her attention was drawn. It was difficult to convey much more than emotion through the connection, but she knew that Wyn was asking if she wanted him to join them. She sent back a wordless yes and came back to her office to find Angus staring at her.

  “And that’s what you find attractive, is it? A man who’s your social inferior, who depends on you for his very employment?” He closed his mouth with a snap and a cut-off curse. Clearly he hadn’t meant to say that. He braced himself for her anger. “Ach—that was poorly said of me. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re jealous,” she said, her world tilting on its axis. Angus was jealous of Wyn? She’d known there was a dash of sincerity in his proposal to her, but she’d assumed it to be a very small dash, since his primary purpose had been to win control over the land that Stariel owned and he coveted. She’d rather thought any attachment he felt would fade quickly once his scheme failed—helped along by the fact that she’d set fire to his office upon that occasion. But if he was irritated enough to say something so deeply untactful just now, then maybe he’d cared a great deal more than she’d realised.

  “Is there something to be jealous of?” he countered, colour high. He knew he’d overstepped a line but, in typical Angus fashion, was soldiering on now that he’d done it. He was still leaning forward, the distance between them uncomfortably intimate. She could make out the individual stubble of five o’clock shadow dusting his jawline.

  “It’s none of your business if there is,” she said, leaning away from him. “And it’s highly improper of you to ask.”

  “I still care about you, as a good neighbour if nothing else. I don’t like hearing your name bandied about so in idle gossip.”

  “It’s not your job to defend my honour, Angus. And I’d no idea you cared so much about idle gossip.” She didn’t feel she owed Angus much truth, after the lies he’d tried to sell her. But what were they saying about her, outside the estate? Nine heavens, what were they saying about Wyn? They’d both known the news of his nature would spread outside the estate, sooner or later. Whether anyone would believe it was another question. Though eventually they’ll have to, if lowfae like the piskies begin taking up residence outside of Stariel as well.

  “You should care more,” Angus said, and something about the way he said it made her pause.

  “Why?” she asked, after a moment of trying and failing to work it out. “Taking care of Stariel’s interests is far more important to me than what the gossips think.” Even if her relationship with Wyn technically had nothing to do with Stariel’s interests.

  Angus shifted, clearly uncomfortable in the hard chair. Good. “It’s not only gossips.” His gaze suddenly became very serious. “The Conclave hasn’t met you yet—all they know about you is what’s being bandied about your name.”

  Although the North was part of Prydein, and thus under the rule of Her Majesty and Her Majesty’s government, the Northern Lords’ Conclave still held great political power in the North. The Conclave met twice a year, but Hetta had missed the last one, held not long after her father’s death. The gods knew her father had rarely bothered to attend, casting his vote by proxy if at all—but Angus, she suspected, was rather more involved in politics. She had an insight then that would’ve done Marius proud.

  “That’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it? They asked you to investigate the truth of the rumours.” She wasn’t sure how to feel about a mob of strange lords clucking over the rumour-mill version of her life.

  He grimaced. “I meant what I said; I came to apologise. But yes, the Conclave have asked my opinion, though ‘investigate’ is putting too formal a label on it. Only fools put much stock in hearsay, but the tales that have come out of Stariel lately have been outlandish enough to draw interest.” He gave a wry laugh. “You’d not credit half the things I’ve heard are happening here. Why, if I believed the gossip, I’d have come here searching for fairies under every chair. Half the North is swearing they know someone who saw with their own eyes your steward transform into a winged fairy!” He grinned broadly, inviting her to share the joke.

  “Not under every chair,” Wyn said calmly from the doorway. “But there are a few of us here, yes, myself included.”

  Both of them turned towards him. He wore a slight smile, and he unfurled his great silver-and-blue wings as he entered, filling the space wall-to-wall wit
h gleaming feathers.

  7

  The Prince And The Lord

  Wyn gave Lord Penharrow a cool look, taking a certain satisfaction from the way his mouth dropped open, shock robbing him of both speech and manners. But Penharrow continued to stare, and Wyn’s satisfaction changed to discomfit at the forcible reminder of how freakish mortals found his fae form. He folded his wings back with a whisper of feathers. It is Penharrow and not I who should feel uneasy here, he reminded himself. And his choice of form had been a deliberate one. It wasn’t, after all, supposed to be a secret any longer, and even if it were, he wouldn’t have Penharrow doubting Hetta’s judgement.

  “You’re a…fairy,” Penharrow mumbled, transfixed, his eyes so wide the whites were visible all around his irises. The fascination wasn’t entirely Lord Penharrow’s fault. Usually Wyn made an effort to keep his native allure damped down. If he wasn’t consciously suppressing it, he naturally exuded a low-level magnetism that made people want to be near him, to please him, even in his mortal form. It was part and parcel of being greater fae, along with his ability to shift forms. It had been harder, of late, to keep his newfound power contained, and it was something of a relief to stop trying.

  He met Penharrow’s eyes, and the man bowed his head in submission, unable to hold against such a force. Triumph filled him, only to mutate into horror a heartbeat later. Bile rose in his throat. What was he doing?

  He gritted his teeth and wound the power back under his skin. I am not the kind of fae who flattens mortals into submission. King Aeros’s expression flashed in his mind’s eye, guinea-gold eyes shining as he piled magical compulsion onto his son. He is dead. He is dead, and I am free of the Spires. But he could still taste dust and metal, still see that line of dead grass arrowing towards him, and he knew he was lying to himself. Had it been one of his siblings behind the attack, or ThousandSpire itself, still unbonded and reaching for him in desperation? Neither option was comforting.

  Hetta gave him an odd look. She was immune to his allure, now. Had she realised what he’d almost tried to do to Penharrow? He took a deep breath, settling his instincts. What was wrong with him, lately? Why had his control threatened to slip for a moment? He could not blame the season; springtime was a mild time for stormdancers.

  “You’re a fairy,” Penharrow repeated, his expression still glazed.

  “Yes,” he agreed. Making a snap decision, he changed back to his mortal shape, wings compacting with a sensation akin to itching. The lightning charge of his magic subsided a little, the currents harder to influence in this form.

  Penharrow straightened as Wyn’s power retreated, as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders, and he managed to tear his attention away from Wyn for the first time since he’d entered the room.

  “Your steward is a fairy,” he said to Hetta.

  She smiled, meeting Wyn’s eyes past Penharrow’s shoulder.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

  “Do I satisfy your purpose in coming here today?” Wyn asked, recalling Penharrow’s attention. “You did, after all, come to investigate the wild tales you have heard. Not so wild, as it transpires.”

  Penharrow glowered at him. “What enchantments have you cast over Hetta?”

  Hetta stood and Penharrow rose with her, mortal manners dictating he couldn’t remain seated while a woman stood.

  “He hasn’t enchanted me, Angus.” Her lips quirked. “Or at least, not magically. As a person, I find him perfectly enchanting. But I think we’re done here.”

  “I shall escort you out, Lord Penharrow,” Wyn said, earning a raised eyebrow from Hetta that said she expected an explanation later, but she didn’t question this pronouncement aloud. He nodded slightly.

  Penharrow rolled his shoulders, glancing between them. He was a good actor, but Wyn had faced down much better ones, and he could read the man’s displeasure despite the neutral expression he was attempting. The world had shifted beneath his feet, but unfortunately he wasn’t a stupid man, and he was rapidly recalculating.

  Wyn held open the door and said in a low tone: “You are wearing out your welcome. Hetta has dismissed you.”

  Penharrow’s eyes narrowed, noting the deliberate use of Hetta’s name. But if he’d truly cared about her affection, he should have valued her over land or power. Thank the High King’s horns he hadn’t, and that Hetta wanted Wyn, despite all the reasons she might be better off with a mortal man. That still seemed like a wonder beyond all the magic in Faerie.

  “And you do her bidding?” Penharrow asked, a sneer colouring his voice. Wyn knew this was meant to insult him, even though that made no sense from a fae perspective—why, after all, would there be dishonour in such a thing?

  Still, he chose not to respond and instead continued to pointedly hold the door. Penharrow scowled and stalked out. Throwing Hetta an apologetic glance, Wyn followed.

  “Whatever you’ve done to Hetta, you won’t get away with it,” Penharrow growled as they walked down the long corridor towards the main stairs.

  Wyn stopped. Penharrow frowned, drawing to a halt a stride later and turning to face him. Behind him, fading damask wallpaper met the wood panelling at waist height. It needed replacing, but there would be no funds to spare for such trivial matters for some time. Of all the harm Penharrow had done, Wyn found that long-term strategy of deteriorating Stariel’s financial position year after year the most unsettling. It was a very fae tactic, both ruthless and patient. Perhaps there’s a reason Hetta was attracted to this man as well as to me, he thought unwillingly.

  “If I had both the power and inclination to bend mortal minds to my will, it would be very stupid to provoke me, wouldn’t it?” he said mildly. “So either you are stupider than I estimated”—he ticked off the options on his fingers—“or you are so arrogant you believe you would be immune to such powers, or,” he paused for emphasis, “you do not believe I have used any such influence on Hetta, but it is more palatable to pretend that magic is the reason she prefers me to you. I suspect the last option to be the truth.”

  Penharrow bristled. “Are you warning me off?” He gave a bark of harsh laughter. “You might have some kind of…novelty value for now, but do you really think she wants someone like you in the long term? You’re her steward, if nothing else, someone she can order about, and she’s not the kind of woman who finds weakness attractive. You should feel threatened.”

  The darker parts of his nature flexed, urging him to rise to the man’s bait. He took them firmly in hand. This was too important. “I did not accompany you so we could engage in posturing, Lord Penharrow.”

  “Then why have you accompanied me, Mr Tempest?” Penharrow said, folding his arms. A muscle in his cheek twitched with the effort of keeping his temper in check.

  Wyn strained, listening to the sounds of the house. There was no one nearby, so he leaned back against the wall and considered Stariel’s neighbouring lord. He could feel how close he was to making a permanent enemy here. It wouldn’t take much. The man had a deep streak of pride that practically lent itself to such distortion. Resisting the temptation, he picked his words carefully.

  “Firstly, I’d like to know the precise nature of what is being said about Hetta and me outside of the estate.” And that was something Penharrow wouldn’t share with Hetta. Mortals drew strange lines around appropriate topics of conversation, particularly for those between men and women.

  Penharrow snorted. “And what makes you think I’d tell you?”

  Wyn continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And secondly, I’d like to know whether you stand as Stariel’s ally or enemy, and if you are the latter, to attempt to convert you into the former.”

  “You’re a very odd creature,” Penharrow said, frowning. Wyn didn’t flinch. Creature. “Have you no pride?”

  Distantly came the sound of chatter and a door slamming. Wyn said, very quietly, “I do, but I have tasted the results of blood feud, and I can sacrifice a hundredweight of pride to stop one
before it starts.”

  “Blood feuds? Is that what you think is happening here?” Penharrow rolled his eyes. “A mite melodramatic, don’t you think?”

  “You are the ruler of an estate, well-respected amongst the other Northern lords, I would wager. The Lords’ Conclave holds great sway in the North. Even in the South, your mortal queen must balance her desires against yours unless she wishes the North to revolt. Hetta is new to her lordship, and unusual in her gender among you. And her membership on the Conclave has not yet been ratified.

  “Even if there were nothing else occurring, how you and the rest of the Conclave treat her would affect her rule. But something else very much is occurring. I am not the only fae in Prydein, and now that the Iron Law is revoked, that will only become truer with time. Stariel is a point of overlap between Mortal and Faerie; it stands between the two worlds. If you push for your circles to oppose Hetta, that will bleed into how my people are treated as their presence becomes more widely known. And if the fae encounter only hostility; if your mortal queen is unprepared to negotiate…” He trailed off. “You are a pebble that may begin an avalanche.” He gestured. “This is larger than vengeance or jealousy or the love of a single mortal woman, Lord Penharrow, but on such small things wars might turn.”

  Penharrow’s mouth took on a grim line, as if he’d swallowed bitter yarrow tea. “Who are you? You’re not just any fairy, are you? Not with a speech like that.”

  “No,” Wyn said, inclining his head. “I am not. My name is Prince Hallowyn Tempestren. My father was king of a fae court, the Court of Ten Thousand Spires.”

  Penharrow’s expression grew even grimmer. “Was?”

  “He died very recently. The succession is as yet unconfirmed.” A line of spreading dead grass, reaching from ThousandSpire… What in the high wind’s eddies was going on in his home faeland?

  “My condolences,” Penharrow said automatically.