Summerfall (10 page)

This was senseless, foolish, but Rinka was past reason. Alban had slid his fingers into her hair; they tangled there, tugging lightly as he nipped her neck, her shoulder. Rinka let her hands drift down the buttons of his coat, fumbling with each closure. She needed this; she needed to silence the questions whispering in her head. Oh,
weeks
away from him, without his touch. Unthinkable, that she could ever have walked away from this.

Alban whispered her name and pulled her down with him as he settled on the throne. For a moment, a fleeting thought—
not here, are you mad?—
but then Alban’s hands slid beneath her gown, and Rinka no longer cared. She knew only the touch of his hands, anchoring her against him; the taste of his kisses; the sound of his gasps, and the heat of her body responding to his.

She knew only her love for him, and his for her, and the certainty that everything, somehow, would be all right. Even though soon she would tell him her news and then leave him, for who knew how long. Tears pricked her eyes and she held him to her. Lord Steffen Drachstelle would try to ruin their work—ruin their
world
—and he would fail.

They were building a bridge too high and too mighty for even a dragon to fell—even if they had to begin at opposite ends of the world to do it.

But then Alban stilled beneath her; his eyes snapped open to stare past her. He yanked down her skirts to cover her.

“Alban?” whispered Rinka, hazy with pleasure.

“Oh, betrayal,” came a mild voice from behind them. “I am utterly shocked and dismayed. Cousin, take my hand, or I shall faint.”

Rinka turned, terror sweeping through her in a sickening wave, to see Queen Liane, Lord and Lady Drachstelle, the Seven mages, and a mess of wide-eyed courtiers standing at the open throne room doors.

13

I
N THAT FIRST MOMENT,
too shocked for panic, Rinka noticed nothing but the inappropriately comical fact that half the observing courtiers had styled their hair into something like Rinka’s own—braids throughout, some bound into knots, others ornamented with baubles and pearls.

They did not like her, but they appreciated her sense of style. Rinka almost felt like laughing.

Then the queen said blithely to her guard, “Seize her,” and Rinka’s shock fell away.

The Seven shifted to let the guard pass, and Lord Rohlmeyer, standing at their head, turned unblinking, rheumy gray eyes onto Rinka. His gaze fell to the pendant at her neck, and his right hand flexed against his white robes. Rinka’s skin prickled at the force of the cold power vibrating around him.

But more frightening than that was the stony satisfaction on the faces of Lord and Lady Drachstelle. The thorn in Rinka’s mind, that niggling sense of confusion, let loose a sharp burst of pain. Pieces of understanding came to her:

The door, ajar.

The hushed voices—but not so hushed as to be misunderstood.

The movement in the shadows—that flicker, that whisper of fabric.

She had been followed. They had
wanted
her to overhear them.

To find Alban—in the throne room, as they knew.

To confront him, to be comforted in his arms—as they knew.

And now, not to be found out, for that had happened long ago—but to be exposed in front of everyone.

There was no hiding it now, no pretending it away.

Beneath the force of everyone’s stares, Rinka felt dread sink its teeth into her gut and bite down, hard.

Maybe the Drachstelles, the queen, would use this moment not just as a revelation, as a way to exile Rinka and the other faeries, but as a weapon. A justification for punishment.

For binding and servitude.

Rastia smiled; she must have seen Rinka’s comprehension. She whispered something to her husband, placed her hand lovingly over the dragon on his heart.

Rinka nearly lunged from the dais to throttle them herself.

But Alban had already slid out from under her. Before Rinka could move, he had put himself before her and the approaching queen’s guard.

“On what grounds, Liane?” His voice was dangerously calm.

“Well, my darling, there’s using magic against the king, for one. Adultery, for two.” The queen threw him a hard smile. Rinka couldn’t tell if she was angry, or hurt, or simply glad to have bested him.“Come, you’ve had your fun, and there are too many witnesses here to keep this secret any longer. Let us do what must be done and put this nastiness behind us.” Her smile thinned. “I am a forgiving woman.”

Rinka wanted to protest, to defend both her honor and Alban’s—the very idea of using magic to ensure Alban’s love was vile—but then, several thoughts slammed into her like physical blows:

The queen doesn’t know I no longer possess magic.

The queen doesn’t know I carry her husband’s child.

The queen must never know—not about the child, not that Alban loves me.

I must get away from here, to save both of us.

I must—we must both of us—pretend.

“Is this true, Rinka?”

Alban’s voice was hoarse, full of misgiving. He stood, seeming adrift beside her, his coat hanging loose about him.

“Have you charmed me?” he whispered, taking a step back.

For a moment, Rinka stood, gaping. And then she understood.

She saw the disgust twisting Alban’s face, how he recoiled from her.

How his eyes, locked on hers, were somehow still warm and pleading and urgent.

Trust me
. Looking into his eyes was almost like hearing his voice.
I can save us.
If not
us
, then at least you and me.

Rinka felt suspended in mid-air, caught in the snare of her own horror. She hoped he was right.

She stepped back from him, and it was agony. She forced haughtiness, boredom, onto her face and angled herself away.

“And if I have?” she said, coldly, forcing out the words past a throat full of tears. “It was only for fun. I wanted to see what it was like,” she said, cutting her eyes to Liane, “to seduce a king.”

The gawking courtiers became a sea of whispers. Even the queen blanched, to hear the words aloud.

But Lord and Lady Drachstelle . . . Rinka could not be sure they were convinced. Their eyes were too sharp.

Then came the sound of scuffling boots, a heavy shove of a body, and a young mage Rinka didn’t recognize pushed Garen into the throne room. The mage seemed a bit older than Leska, and wore the same muddy colors of an apprentice, though with a silver cord at his waist—the mark of those next in line for initiation to the Seven.

“Garen!” Rinka cried, and tried to go to him, for his face was dark with bruises, and she could smell the acrid mage magic coating him—but the queen’s guard blocked her way.

“Your Majesty,” the young mage said to the queen, his eyes glittering with triumph, “this faery has some information I think you’d like to hear. I caught him using magic against the apprentice Leska. He was trying to blackmail her, but I stopped him. Tell her,
drekk
.” When Garen didn’t respond, the young mage kicked him, hard. He seemed to take pleasure in the violence of it. “Tell her!”

“Calm yourself, Drosselmeyer,” said Rohlmeyer, rubbing his thumb absently against the buckle of his belt. His gaze had never left Rinka’s pendant.

Garen glared at the king with his one good eye, and then at Rinka. She thought she saw, through his anger, a great sadness, and something of an apology.

“Countess Rinka,” he said thickly, “is with child.”

The silence that flooded the room was unlike any silence Rinka had experienced before—rather than an absence of sound, it was its own presence. It seemed all sense of life had been sucked from the room.

Alban was the first to move, stepping down from the dais and away from her. Rinka was left alone in front of the throne, flanked by guards.

“Countess,” said Alban, stunned, “is this true?”

Strangely, Rinka did not cry, or even feel like it. She simply felt pummeled by the silence, and in too much pain to react. A great weight was pressing on her from all sides. Thinking quickly, she managed a smug smile, flattened the folds of her gown to emphasize the roundness of her belly. When she heard the shocked courtiers’ reactions, her smile grew.

“See for yourself,” she said.

“No,” breathed the queen. “That isn’t possible.” In that moment she seemed her age at last—a mere girl, unsure how to proceed—and Rinka felt sorry for her. Though not nearly as sorry as she felt for herself, or for Alban. He was struggling for composure, his jaw working.

She could not watch him any longer, or she would lose hold of the moment. She had to stay strong, for herself, and for him. For their doomed child.

No, not doomed. Not while Rinka drew breath. She hoped Alban would feel the same.

“But who is the father?” Steffen asked quietly. Beside him, Rastia stood, silent and calculating.

Rinka shrugged. “I’ve taken many lovers since arriving at court.”

A few courtiers made sounds of disapproval. Rinka did not look at Alban.

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” said Rohlmeyer. “Defend yourself.”

Then he withdrew something from the pocket at his belt—a stone, dark and heavy. He thrust it out at her, and an imprecise, sloppy wave of icy cold magic flew out from. The magic hit not only Rinka, but also three of the windows, cracking them; a stretch of floor, sending a cascade of tiles flying up into the air; one of the queen’s guard, leaving a charred gash across his torso. The force seemed to suck the air out of the room. Garen cried out.

The blast caught Rinka across her temple, and she fell. She managed to catch herself on her hands and knees. The shock jarred her; stars burst across her vision, and her head swam. Her temple stung with frostbite. She put a hand to her belly and said a silent prayer.

Even through her pain came the shocking realization:
The mages are trying to copy our magic. Make weapons out of it, as Garen and the others are trying to do—but with stone rather than iron. Wood rather than metal.

The implications made her stomach heave.

“Rohlmeyer, you will stop at once,” spat Alban.

Immediately, Rohlmeyer lowered his arm, though power still crackled white around the pendant in his hands, and his eyes were anything but repentant. “At least we know now,” he murmured, “the identity of the father.”

Alban turned, ignoring him, to addressing everyone gathered. “No matter what has happened here, I will not have bloodshed or violence in my throne room, is that understood?”

“Of course, my king,” intoned Rohlmeyer. Behind him, the young mage Drosselmeyer’s glare was mutinous.

“Now,” said Alban, “to put things to rights.” He went to Liane, took her hands in his, drew her close and kissed her forehead. The young queen stood silent, her lips drawn tight.

“I have done wrong by my queen, and by my country,” Alban said, and though he spoke quietly, his words were clearly heard. The room held its breath. “I may have been charmed, I may have been misled, but I must still take responsibility for my actions, magic or no. And so must this . . .
faery
. . . no matter whose child she might carry.”

Then Alban turned to Rinka, and though she knew—she
hoped
—that an understanding had passed between them, that this was all an act, she couldn’t help but flinch at the ugliness of his expression.

“This criminal will be imprisoned, here in Wahlkraft, in one of the tower cells, until her child is born. At that time, the creature will become property of the Seven mages and my royal physicians. I suggest, Rohlmeyer, that you use this opportunity to learn as much as you can about whatever faery magic the creature may possess . . . by whatever means necessary.”

Even Rohlmeyer seemed surprised, blinking several times. “Yes, my king.”

“When they are finished with it . . .” Alban began. Then he paused, and Rinka, through her shock, saw his free hand clench and unclench, and clung to the sight with everything in her as evidence that Alban—
her
Alban—was still somewhere inside the monster saying these words.

“When they are finished with it,” he continued, his voice hard and full of anger, “the creature will be executed. As will its mother.”

14

R
INKA WAS PUT
into a cell in a low, wide tower on the western side of Wahlkraft. The room was windowless and cold, as though inside this space, winter had already begun.

The first night, she sat immobile and did not sleep, or cry. She simply stared into the darkness. No one could see her, so it didn’t really matter, and yet she felt that if she moved, she would cry, and if she cried, she would be the most awful fool. She had brought this upon herself, hadn’t she?

But the next morning, when her breakfast was shoved through the slot in the door, something changed. For the two seconds the slot was open, and torchlight illuminated the pan of cold gruel, everything came back to Rinka. She realized that her belongings had been seized, that she wore a threadbare, shapeless gown that had no doubt clothed other prisoners before her. She thought of Garen and the others, and what might be happening to them.

She thought of Alban and the vicious words he’d thrown at her. How she had seen nothing of him since that day and was unsure she ever would again. How he had called their child a
creature
.

She scooped up a handful of gruel, ate it, sat in silence for a moment or two, and then was promptly sick on the floor.

In the silence of her cell, she drew herself into a knot and lay down on the cold stone, her arms around her belly, and sobbed.

*    *    *

The days dragged on, and became weeks. Rinka understood the passage of time by counting her meals—breakfast, lunch, dinner. At first she thought it was generous of them, to provide her so much food. She doubted all prisoners received such treatment.
Them
—the Drachstelles, Queen Liane. Even Alban, forced to pretend.
Perhaps
forced to pretend.

Wasn’t he pretending?

The more time passed, the less Rinka could be sure of that. She began wondering if everything between them had been a dream.

But then she realized—of course.

The food wasn’t for her, no. Not really. None of her captors cared if she survived.

But to keep
the creature
alive—that was the thing.

Of course.

She ate her dinner that day, and forcing it down was like swallowing sand, but she ate every speck of it. She licked the platter clean.

She was Rinka, daughter of Kaspar of the faery Council.

If they wanted to keep her baby alive, then they would. She would see it done, and maintain her own strength as best she could. It wouldn’t be long now, before they came to take her child from her. Most faery babies were born after six months, and somehow she thought this particular baby would arrive sooner than that.

And when they did come, Rinka decided, she would make them wish they had killed her instead.

*    *    *

It was early November, if Rinka had counted correctly. Perhaps a bit later. It was becoming difficult to hold on to her sense of things.

To keep from losing herself completely, she had begun to tell her daughter stories. She knew it would be a girl. She had come to know her child quite well by now, with no one else for company. Her movements and moods, her personality.

Her daughter would be a warrior. She knew that, too.

So she told her stories—of blessed Ebba, and the sea wind who had loved her. Of the faeries who had ventured beyond Cane, exploring the Whispering Sea. As the legend went, they had been swept off to another land across the great ocean, too far to be reached by natural means, and would someday return with power unimaginable.

Rinka told her human and mage stories, too—of the rider and the pirate queen, the mason and the fiddler. Of lonely Mira and her vengeful winter.

Of the young king who had dared to love a faery.

*    *    *

Then, one night, heavy and in pain, Rinka heard movement at the door.

She stared blearily at it, waiting. It wasn’t time for a meal.

And yet the door opened. There was a rustle of movement, a torch, a silhouette.

“Rinka,” came a voice, and Rinka thought she must be hallucinating. It would not be the first time, here in this cell. Arms were helping her into a sitting position, gathering her against a warm, broad chest. Someone was kissing her forehead. Someone’s wet cheeks were against her own.

She did not understand, and said so.

“I’m sorry, darling,” the voice said again, ragged, and then the voice registered, and Rinka pulled back to see his face.

He was crying; he desperately needed a shave.

He was
here
.

“Alban?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to you sooner,” he said. “They’ve been watching me, and your cell. I wanted to come to you, but I couldn’t risk defying the Drachstelles again. I couldn’t risk civil war.” He searched her face, brushed her sticky, unwashed hair back from her eyes. “Rinka, I never stopped loving you. I was trying to save you—”

“I know.” She remembered the look that had passed between them, that awful day. Her need for him to understand. “I know what you did. Where . . . what happened to Garen and the others?”

His hold on her tightened. “They were imprisoned, kept separated. I’ve kept the worst from happening to them, but the Drachstelles continue pushing for execution. We can’t trust any of them now, they say. First one faery bewitches the king, another blackmails a mage, and then what? More will follow. And Rohlmeyer agrees, of course . . .”

Rinka tried to sit up, winced. “Execution? Alban, no—”

“It’s all right. They’re fine. My guards are freeing them as we speak, escorting them north to the forest. They’ll be waiting for us there.” He kissed her head, pressed his cheek against hers. “I’m getting you out of here, tonight.”

The shock of his presence was settling inside Rinka slowly. She realized anew her pain, her filthy clothes, her fear. She let out a gasping sob and seized Alban’s coat.

He tucked her head beneath his and held her as she cried, whispering how he loved her. There were tears in his voice, and Rinka relished them. They reassured her that he was still her own.

“How are we leaving?” she whispered.

“Garen and the other faeries will be waiting in the forest, ready to leave. The rest of my guard will arrive soon, and escort us to meet them. No one will hurt us, and then you’ll be on your way home.”

Home.
It seemed a strange concept now. Rinka pressed her cheek to Alban’s chest, struggling to think. “But you said you would kill me, in front of everyone. That you would kill . . .”

His hold on her tightened. “The Seven mages, and my physicians, will testify that the child died shortly after birth, and that you did as well. I will make them.”

The words chilled her. “Who will believe that? And Rohlmeyer—”

“Rohlmeyer knows nothing, and he won’t ever,” Alban said, his voice tight with hate. “I haven’t included him in this, nor any other mages who might think as he does. A few of the Seven are still loyal to me, and they have helped—and will continue to—as best they can. I trust them, and have forbidden them from saying anything to Rohlmeyer. And as for evidence, Leska is friends with a faery sympathizer in the Kingsmarch whose aunt recently died in childbirth. The baby too. She’s bringing their bodies back now and will help me disguise them. They’ll . . . they’ll look close enough.”

Startled, Rinka said, “But Leska, they’ll—”

“No one knows of her involvement—not even those among the Seven whom I trust—and they never will. Leska is in no danger.”

Nevertheless, it was too gruesome, too risky. There were far too many ways in which this plan could fall apart.

“You cannot desecrate that poor woman’s body,” Rinka began.

“Leska’s friend assures me that the woman would have wanted us to. She was an eccentric, and she was passionate about peace. And it is only a body now.” A pause, and then he said thickly, “Do not tell me I can’t do this thing, this one thing that can save you.”

She could not stomach it. It was vile. She felt she might soon be sick. And yet . . . she put a hand on her belly.

“We’ve made a mess of things,” she said at last.

“We have. I wish I knew a better way to fix it.”

Sounds came to her—two of Alban’s guards, waiting outside. Her fellow prisoners, crying out, mumbling.

“How long until the rest of the guard arrives?” Rinka whispered.

“An hour, perhaps,” Alban said, and laced his fingers with Rinka’s, across the swell of her belly. “Not long.”

She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his breathing, and together, in her cell’s dark corner, they waited.