Summerfall (9 page)

“I must tell Alban first.” She reached blindly for Leska’s hand, hating herself for needing it, but Leska’s hand was cool and gentle, and calmed her. “I must tell him what’s happened. He’ll help us get home, help us avoid the Drachstelles’ guards, he’ll give us supplies . . .”

She lost her voice at the expression on Garen’s face. It was as though he hadn’t even heard her. He stared at her belly, repulsed.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?” She knew, of course, but some part of her, full of self-loathing, wanted to hear him say it.

“What’s wrong?” He laughed bitterly. “What’s wrong? I can’t—I want to help you, Rinka, despite everything, but—a
two-blood
, Rinka?” And with that, his mouth curled, and a darkness fell over his face. “You’ll be hunted by everyone. They’ll cut it from you, and they’ll make sure you’re alive while they do it.”

“Count Garen,” Leska spat, “control yourself.”

“Did it happen, then? Are the old stories true?” When Rinka did not answer, he pressed on, his expression cruel. “How does it feel, to have at last achieved what you’ve always wanted? You’re more one of them now than one of us, you know. Was it worth it?” His eyes crawled over her body, landing on her belly. “To have lost your power and have it replaced by a king’s bastard?”

Rinka let her shock overwhelm her for an instant, and then surged forward and slapped him. Her power—what did he know of it? What did he know of how it had felt to lie in Alban’s arms? There was a power in that, even greater than the one she had lost. There was a power in the choice she had made to love her king, and in what they had hoped to accomplish together—as rash and futile as that now seemed.

Rinka looked upon Garen’s bruising cheek and felt nothing but hollow satisfaction.

“It would seem I still have some of my strength,” she said haughtily, and then breathed, “Get out. Leave me. I don’t need your help. I would rather stay here and risk everything than spend another moment with you.
Get out.
”

He watched her for a long moment, and then left. Not until Rinka heard the door slam shut behind him did she allow herself to sink into Leska’s embrace and weep.

12

I
T TOOK RINKA
several agonizing days to find her courage, during which she saw very little of Garen. He appeared not to have told the other faery delegates the news; they treated her with the same distant politeness they had shown since the attack in her chambers.

Never had she felt so far removed from her own kind. The presence of their magic left her feeling pinched, itchy. Lonely.

But she had chosen this. Some part of her, no matter how completely she had denied it while caught up in Alban’s kisses, had known this could happen.

She woke to a morning pink and warm, to Leska bringing her unbuttered bread—the only thing she could eat in the mornings without her body protesting. And she knew, as she sat nibbling at her breakfast and gazing absently out at the lightening sky, that this would be the day.

She dressed in the most loose-fitting gown she could find, a heavy plum velvet with sheer, off-the-shoulder sleeves, provided by Leska, and a light cloak over that, though the layers were stifling. She greeted her guards, who stood waiting for her at the door to her chambers, and she went to find the king.

Every slight noise made her jump. Garen would burst out of some corridor and try to stop her. A bored courtier would see her clothing and make an astute guess. She thought she saw, in the shadows, a flicker of movement, a whisper of fabric, and reached automatically for her pendant. The feel of the dull, lifeless metal sent a twinge through her, but after days of grieving it was no longer enough to leave her sick on the floor.

Empty. She was empty now, and yet not. She put a hand to her belly.

“Countess?” inquired one of her guards.

“Nothing.” The hallway was empty, sunlit from a row of open windows. She could not allow fear to cripple her, and yet Rinka found herself so caught up in it that she almost missed the sounds of conversation from somewhere up ahead.

She paused. There—a door, slightly ajar. The door to one of the studies lining the central courtyard.

Two voices—one male, one female. Hushed.

Something about their whispers tugged at Rinka. She gestured for her guards to stay put and crept up on the door, pressed as close to the wall as she dared, and listened.

One of the voices was Steffen Drachstelle’s. The other belonged to his wife.

“I told him the truth,” Steffen said evenly. “That the citizens are restless, the mages even more so.”

“And?” That was Rastia, impatient. “What else?”

Steffen sighed. “Precisely what we agreed upon. That our lands border the faery country, that our people live in terror of the forests to the south. The faery villages crawl across the country, I told him, never in the same place from season to season. Why? The faeries hide their magic, and they do not let us see it. Why? Why would they do that if they had nothing to hide?”

“Excellent,” said Rastia. “Why wouldn’t we take the simple protective precautions of separating ourselves from unpredictable creatures? Did you say that to him, as I instructed?”

“Of course.”

“And what was his reply?” Rastia let out a small laugh. “Surely he had no protests. How could he, after that?”

“He agreed, after some convincing, that building a wall is only practical.”

“And the Restoration? Did he agree to finance them as part of the royal army? The beasts could be building their own army for all we know. I hope you told him that.” Rastia’s voice was icy. “You didn’t lose your courage, did you?”

“I did not, and how dare you believe otherwise,” said Steffen mildly. “He granted me the authority to oversee the Restoration’s integration into the royal army, and the finances to support them. He conceded that . . . cleansing . . . of certain faery lands near the border may be required, and soon. Everything will be kept secret, of course, for now. The naïve man.” Steffen sounded almost sympathetic. “The faeries here have clouded his mind, made him forget his responsibilities. He was foolish to summon them.”

“We cannot blame him,” said Rastia gently. “Their magic is insidious, elusive. We couldn’t have expected him to defend himself on his own, especially not against her.”

Her.
Her.

Rinka recoiled. They thought she was
charming
the king, forcing him to act under her influence. She put a hand to her belly. If only they knew.

“You’ve a gentle heart, my darling,” murmured Steffen. He kissed her. There was silence in the room for a beat, then two.

Then Rastia: “Did you suggest to him the idea of forcing a binding with the faeries? That would send a message no one could ignore—that no one, not even a faery, is more powerful than the crown.”

“I didn’t present that idea yet. I didn’t want to push him too far, not all at once.”

“He’ll have to act quickly. Once they learn of the wall, they’ll either fight or flee south.”

“And we will catch them. The filthy
drekks
will keep no secrets from us. Not any longer.”

“When will construction begin?” asked Rastia, equally soft.

“Next month.”

Rastia laughed. “I can hardly believe you convinced him. My clever husband.” Another kiss, longer. “You have saved us.”

“
We
have saved
everyone
,” Steffen corrected. “Let us hope Alban’s convictions do not waver. He is too easy to convince.”

Rinka could listen no longer, and fled down the corridor. She flew down the stairs, her befuddled guards just behind her. Her vision was a haze of angry tears she couldn’t quite hold back.

Drekks
. An old, nasty mage curse that left Rinka feeling as dirty and worthless as the word implied. She stumbled at the bottom of the stairs, and brushed off the aid of her guards.

Her fears, first felt weeks ago, had been realized. A wall at the border of the faery lands. A wall to keep the faeries out. The rise of the Restoration. And what after that? An invasion?

Faeries, forced into servitude—not yet, but if the Drachstelles were to be believed, then it might not be far off. Perhaps Rinka would be one of the first. She imagined undergoing the ritual against her will, Alban standing before her, making the incisions with a cold smile.

She gripped the wall, hard, and straightened. She was Rinka, daughter of Kaspar of the faery Council.

She would not allow her people to be treated like this—no matter whom she might be so unlucky to love.

*    *    *

Rinka burst into the throne room after fifteen minutes of searching—not the Great Room. Not his private study.

Here. In the throne room. Staring pensively out at the city with his hands behind his back and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his high collar undone. Looking so much like himself that Rinka’s throat ached. She let out an unsteady breath she hadn’t meant to allow.

He turned, surprised. Relieved—there, in that relaxation of his shoulders. It had been too many days without her, and Rinka saw it clearly on his face. He needed rest; his eyes were tired.

“Leave us,” she ordered her guards. “Now.”

“Rinka—” began the king, holding out his hands to her.

“Now!” Even without the magic thrumming at her fingertips, her guards paused at the terrible quality of her voice, stepped back.

Alban nodded, his eyes not leaving Rinka’s face. “She is safe with me.”

“My king,” one of the guards protested, unsure.

“Stand there if you must,” Rinka snapped, “if you really think I intend to hurt him.”

After a moment, the guard who had spoken bowed, and the four of them turned and left.

Rinka crossed the room to Alban, longing for the return of her magic, if only for a few moments, so she could feel a bit steadier. Instead of yelling at him as she had planned to, she found herself leaning hard against his chest. She allowed his arms around her; she allowed herself to breathe in his familiar scent.

“How could you?” she whispered, mortified at her sudden hot tears but unable to stop them.

“Rinka, tell me what’s wrong, I beg you—”

“How could you?” She spat the words and stepped back from him. She was reeling, she was blind with disbelief. “A wall, Alban? A
wall
around the faery lands? Financing the Restoration, making them part of your army—that band of bloodthirsty
savages
. ‘Cleansing’ the faery lands with the approval of the king. We’ve been working for months now to prevent this kind of thing from happening, Alban, and you let him talk you into it!”

Alban stared at her, horrified, and then something came together in his eyes. “Drachstelle.” He said the name like a curse.

“I heard him and Rastia, not twenty minutes ago. They said they convinced you to build a wall, to finance the Restoration—”

“He tried to convince me of these things, yes, and he failed. I listened to his entreaties—Oh, the faeries could be building a secret army. Oh, why shouldn’t we take practical measures to separate ourselves from them? Do you honestly think I’d agree to that?”

She stared, taken aback at the ferocity of his expression. “Then why would he have said—?”

“Because he didn’t want to disappoint Rastia? Because he is hungry for power and, I suspect, more than a little deranged? I’ve no idea, Rinka.” He took her hands, and Rinka let him, stunned at his passion, so different from the man she had met months ago. “As long as I draw breath, I will not allow these things to happen. I mean to root out such plots. I mean to create peace. Remember, darling?” He stroked her wrist. “I meant what I said to you, about building a bridge. Nothing has changed. It will be slow—it has
been
slow—and maybe . . .” He touched her face, wistful but resigned. “Maybe it will be different than we thought—the two of us, together. But I won’t stop trying, even without you at my side.”

“They said . . .” Rinka paused, not wanting to say the words. “I heard them talk about binding us to you. The seven of us faeries. I heard them talk about forcing the ritual.”

Alban looked ill. “Rinka, I would never do that. The mages enter the agreement of their own free will, knowing what it entails. To inflict that upon someone without their permission—that is an evil I will never permit, as long as I draw breath. Besides, odds are it wouldn’t even work. I’d be risking your lives as well as mine. Forced bindings are problematic for a reason.” He paused. “Although, it is a thought. What if we did—not now, but someday—invite seven faeries to bind with me? Seven faeries for Seven mages. Only those faeries who were in full consent. That would give faeries equal political footing with the mages, communicate to the kingdom that the relationship between faeries and the crown is one of trust and friendship.”

It
was
a good thought—one, Rinka realized, she hadn’t even considered, too caught up in the suspicions of those around her. “That would be a grand gesture,” she agreed, “but getting the Seven and the queen, and your judges, to consent would be . . . challenging.”

Alban smiled wryly. “Indeed. But, as I said—someday. I think it a worthy goal to work toward. Don’t you?”

“Yes, but . . .”
But I will not be here when you do.
Miserably, she sank down onto the thrones’ dais. She needed to tell Alban her news, but couldn’t find the words to do so.

“Rinka,” Alban said, sitting beside her. “You hear what I’m saying, don’t you? You believe me, that I would not have agreed to these things?”

“Lord Drachstelle—”

“He is a powerful man. He has powerful allies here in Erstadt and throughout the rest of the kingdom—and, yes, in the mage country.”

“Allies who hate faeries,” Rinka said, her voice hollow.

Alban paused. “Yes. But they are not the whole of the kingdom, Rinka. Most people do not want war. Remember? That hasn’t changed. They may not understand faeries, but they don’t want war, and neither do I, and I swear to you”—he took her hands in his again, his voice low and urgent—“I will stop them. Let Steffen think he has convinced me. Let him lie to his wife, let him lie to everyone and sneak about in the shadows. He will not succeed. I will. I’m the king and they are not. I command an army, I approve construction, and they do not. Without my cooperation, Lord Drachstelle will have to sulk his way back home and build a wall around his own lands, and good riddance.”

Rinka let out a burst of relieved laughter. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “He and Rastia can sit behind their wall plotting until they grow wrinkled and gray.”

“
Ugly
and wrinkled and gray.”

“We could send Lord Rohlmeyer with them,” Rinka suggested, striving for lightness.

“Oh, if only that were possible. Our bond keeps him here, and I don’t know of a way to undo it.” Alban brushed away her tears, a soft smile on his face. “Rinka, I’m sorry you had to hear Steffen say those things. What you must have thought of me . . .”

She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I don’t wish to think about it.” Then she smiled. “When you were speaking just now . . . you never looked more like a king.”

He kissed her finger, and she shivered and traced his bottom lip, lightly. With that touch, the mood shifted and softened. Many questions still hovered in Rinka’s mind. She did not understand the Drachstelles’ conversation, and something about it stuck in her, troubling her, but she ignored these questions and focused instead on Alban’s face.

“What do you wish to think about?” he asked, low.

Rinka told him with her eyes, desperate for comfort as their conversation lingered bitterly in the air, and Alban seemed to understand. He kissed her, softly at first, holding her as if he were afraid that pulling her too close would ruin this stolen moment. But Rinka craved him,
now
. Never mind discretion; never mind what she needed to tell him, that her mind screamed at her to stop. She needed to erase the Drachstelles’ conversation from her memory; she needed something to quiet her racing thoughts, to reassure her that Alban loved her, that the horrors she couldn’t stop imagining would never happen. So she tugged on his jacket and pulled him close, deepening the kiss.

Alban responded at once, sliding his arms around her, drawing her closer. He moved lower, brushing his lips across her neck. Caution gave way to desperation, heat, need. Their breathing turned ragged, their hands impatient. Alban rose and tugged her to her feet, and together they stumbled to the throne.