Summerfall (3 page)

A low, harsh cry to her right snapped her out of her self-pity.

She turned her horse toward the sound, and when she found the source, lying by the water, she forgot her humiliation at once.

It was a man—a human—and he was hurt.

Rinka dismounted and went to him. “Sir? Hello?” She took him gingerly by the shoulders, and turned him in order to see his eyes.

He glared up at her, brow knotted with pain. “Unless you’re a healer, get your damned hands off me.”

She did as he said, but didn’t move away. She had touched a human;
she was kneeling beside a human
. Her earlier disappointment faded, and she let her eyes rove over this man hungrily, noting the small, rounded ears, the ruddy skin, the
presence
of him. He was young—around Rinka’s own age in human years, she presumed—and tall; leanly muscular, clean-shaven, with dark hair flying everywhere. But for all his youth he held himself like an older man, even with that wound. He was the sort of person who filled a space without meaning to. The clearing in which they sat seemed to pale and shrink around him.

“I’m not a healer,” she admitted. “But I can help you get to one, if you’ll let me. Where are you hurt?”

He motioned to his midsection, where a patch of his surcoat gleamed dark with blood.

Rinka hissed in a breath and attempted an expression of pity. Gawking at the sight of red blood would not, she assumed, be appropriate. His fragility entranced her. She found herself wanting to examine him.

“Salt of the seas, that looks painful.”

“You don’t say?” he said wryly. Then he paused, as if thinking over her words, and then he
really
saw her—her pointed ears; her white hair, which she had unbound in a temper before storming out of the castle, unwilling to feel the constraints of her ribbons; her eyes blue like a stormy winter sky.

“You’re a faery,” he whispered, and something about the awe on his face, something about how his dark gaze drifted across her cheeks, her lips, her throat, made Rinka shift where she knelt beside him. Her skin prickled as though he had touched her with his hands. “You’re one of the faeries who came today.”

“Yes, and I hope you’re happier about it than the queen was.” She said it sharply, unthinking, to mask the sudden feeling of something slow and hot within her awakening. He was watching her with raw fascination, as though she were a marvel. He was drinking her in. She shifted in delight.

This was what she had been waiting for—a human as intrigued by her as she had always been by them.

“I hate to admit it,” the man whispered, “but I’ve actually never been quite this close to a faery before.”

And then he was reaching for her. His fingers traced the curve of her ear, brushing the ends of her hair.

His dark eyes shot to hers, and Rinka should have moved away from his touch. She should have been insulted at his blatant stare.

But she understood that feeling of wonder, and was flattered by it. She nearly reached for him herself, in fact. That color in his cheeks, and his fragility, despite his height. To see a human like this, to be allowed to stare . . .

“I take it you’ve never seen a human this close, either?” he said, smiling.

Rinka felt herself released from the spell of the moment and gathered her skirts. The color rose in her cheeks, and that seemed only to entrance him further.

“Perhaps I’ll leave you here to rot in pain,” she said, unsettled at how easily he had flustered her. “You don’t look likely to die of that wound any time soon. It’s hardly a scratch, even by your standards.”

“All right, don’t get snappish,” he said, and sat up slowly, though his eyes lingered on her face. “I was only making an observation.”

“Where is your horse?” she said, leaning down to help him stand, trying not to steal curious glances at him and failing.

“He ran off when the wildcat attacked us.”

“Wildcat?”

He gestured irritably at the mangled carcass a few paces away. “I was hunting.”

“Not very well, it would seem.”

He snapped his head up to look at her, and yet again she felt that pleasant, faint awareness in her belly. He was leaning on her and his arm was around her shoulders, his fingers falling near the open collar of her tunic. His hair was unkempt, as were his clothes. There was something unfinished about him, and Rinka liked it. She liked that there was mud on his face and he did nothing to clean it.

Then he smiled. “You say whatever you think, don’t you?”

“To my detriment,” Rinka answered, and guided him toward her horse. “Now, if I help you, can you ride?”

He eyed the horse dubiously. “There’s no saddle.”

“I don’t use saddles.”

“You faeries are a strange lot.”

“And you humans are clumsy.”

His eyes danced—danced!—as if he had no other care in the world than to be amused by her. This was not a day for dancing eyes. And yet Rinka relished the sight of them. She turned away to hide her smile, but he caught it anyway.

“Well?” he said, laughter in his voice. “How will you help me, then?”

She knelt, laced her hands together.

“But I’ll hurt you,” he protested.

“Nonsense.”

He laughed outright. “Fine, fine. I’ve heard faeries are strong. If I break your hands, though, don’t blame me for it.”

But her hands were fine, and then he was on her horse’s back, straddling it awkwardly. Rinka tried not to laugh and mostly succeeded, and then climbed up behind him. As she slid her arms around him to take the reins, he stiffened.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Rinka said, trying to remain dispassionate. It was difficult—the heat of his body pressed against hers was exhilarating—but he was wounded, after all. She could be patient.

“Not at all,” he said, though she thought his voice sounded strange.

As they returned to the castle, he recounted his tale of the wildcat attack, with much bluster and grandiose gesturing that Rinka pointed out would exacerbate his wound. He directed her to the stables, and she thought nothing of it. He was a huntsman, perhaps, charged with bringing back meat for that evening’s feast.

He began to pontificate on the likelihood that his horse would return to the stables on his own, or if he would have to send out a groom to retrieve him—and Rinka thought nothing of it. She was thinking, instead, of this man’s warmth, and how he smelled of earth and sweat and leather.

It wasn’t until she helped him dismount in the stable yard that everything became clear. He slid off, lost his balance, and stumbled into her arms. Rinka stood and held him; one of his hands was on her arm, and the other rested at the curve of her back. His head bowed over hers. Their gazes met, and locked, and simmered, and Rinka’s breath came high and thin, and her blood buzzed beneath her skin.

And this was what Rinka had long ago given up trying to feel for Garen: This pull, this bend, this sense of quiet astonishment and
at last
.

This was what she had been yearning for—a moment of connection with a human.

She just hadn’t expected that connection to be quite so . . . charged.

At a rustle of movement from behind Rinka, the man glanced over her shoulder, stepped away from her, and grinned. He took her hand and kissed it, his lips lingering against her knuckles. It was innocent to Rinka’s mind—faery greetings even between strangers were typically much more intimate—and yet the color rose in his cheeks.

“Countess,” he whispered. Then he limped past her, and as Rinka turned to watch him, she saw them—a stablehand, a groom, and two guards.

They bowed to him, accepted his claps on the back and his warm greeting. They murmured, “Your Majesty,” and glanced back at Rinka curiously.

Once again, Rinka found she could not breathe. She tingled with the echo of his lips on her skin; her body hummed with the memory of his body bending over hers.

The king’s lips. The
king’s
body.

She had nearly kissed the king.

Or, he had nearly kissed her.

She wasn’t sure which was worse.

4

F
OR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS,
Rinka managed to avoid another private encounter with King Alban. In fact, except for the formal feast that first night, she had seen nothing of him at all.

It shouldn’t have been so easy, as she gathered with the other faeries, Queen Liane and her advisors, and the Seven mages every day to discuss the growing tensions at the border. But apparently the king hated attending to such matters. He hated paperwork, he hated playing politics, and according to some of the more shocking rumors Rinka heard during her early days in Wahlkraft, he hated the queen herself.

One morning, Rinka considered this last piece of information as she readied herself for the day’s first meeting. Her attention was divided between her reflection in the mirror and Leska, who moved about Rinka’s chambers, tidying. The day after the welcome feast, Leska had been assigned to Rinka as her personal attendant—apparently upon Leska’s request. Garen had immediately declared her a mage spy for the king, but Rinka wasn’t so sure about that. Leska had sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, but there was an openness to her expression and the way she carried herself. Rinka wanted to trust her.

“But why would the king hate his wife?” Rinka asked Leska, fiddling with her braids in the mirror. “He married her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but he really had no choice,” Leska explained. “The Drachstelle family has been itching for the High Throne for some time now. When King Emerik died the year before last, Alban came under tremendous pressure to marry Liane and appease the Drachstelles for a while. They insisted having Liane as queen could only help Alban, as it would gain him favor with those loyal to the Drachstelles, who have become more and more popular in recent years.” Leska shook her head. “You can imagine how these machinations seemed to a sixteen-year-old boy, his father recently dead, thrust into ruling so young. His wife so obviously nothing but a puppet of her family.”

Rinka had read about King Emerik’s death, of course, and Alban’s coronation, but being here, in his city, made the situation seem much more immediate.

“I suppose, under those circumstances, I would hate her too,” Rinka mused, inspecting her reflection in the mirror. She could not seem to get her braids to lie quite right. Irritated, she tugged them out and started again.

Leska cleared her throat. “You’ve been asking many questions about the king.”

“Oh,” Rinka said, waving her hand, “I was only wondering about this king who apparently can’t be bothered to rule his kingdom. Always off hunting or visiting his mage friends in the mountains or who knows what else. He may not have wished for any of it, but he has a duty; that’s what happens when you’re born a prince.”

Leska excused herself and went to gather Rinka’s linens. Rinka was glad for the moment alone to compose herself, because the truth was that she did find King Alban’s situation sympathetic. She imagined it must be overwhelming to be king, and lonely as well, with a father recently dead, a mother who died during childbirth, a loveless arranged marriage. Rinka found herself wishing she could comfort him, and then glared at her reflection, willing away the foolish thought. A king could take care of himself. He was no concern of hers outside the political realm.

And yet . . .

She had not managed to banish the memory of last night’s dream. In it, Alban had kissed her fingers once again as he gazed at her, there in the forest, his eyes darkening, and then his fingers had skimmed down her body, drawing down her gown, and then his lips—

“Countess,” Leska said, hurrying back into the room. “The queen is here, in your sitting room.”

Rinka stood. “What? Why?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Hurry, let me help.”

Together they hastily tied Rinka’s braids and finished lacing the ribbons at the sides of her gown. With a quick glance at the mirror, Rinka hurried out.

“My queen,” she said, sinking into a deep curtsy upon entering the sitting room. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you.”

“I’m sure,” the queen said, poised and unruffled in the high-backed, brocaded chair. Two of her handmaidens stood near the door, their faces still but their eyes seeing all. Rinka felt exposed before them, and wrongly dressed. The queen’s handmaidens wore modest gowns, lovely and rose-colored, high-necked, and Rinka . . . well, faeries enjoyed beauty and gloried in their bodies, and the design of their clothes reflected this. Rinka had brought her more subdued gowns with her from Geschtohl, aware that human modesty was much greater than that of faeries, but even the most demure faery fashions seemed scandalous in comparison to those of Erstadt. Rinka’s gown today was of a sheer, stormy blue silk, embroidered with delicate golden birds that shimmered as she moved. The neckline was low, the sides tied with gossamer ribbons, the back open, fabric pooling at the curve of her waist.

“My queen,” Rinka said, determined not to show any sign of discomfort, “may I offer you some refreshment?”

Liane declined with a slight wave. “Countess, I wonder if I might ask you something?”

“Anything, my queen.” Rinka poured tea for herself, wanting something to do with her hands.

“It seems my husband is quite taken with you.”

Somehow, Rinka managed to keep from staring at the queen in astonishment. She inclined her head, hoping her expression was more serene than her thundering heart. “I’m honored, my queen. But what is his interest in me? He barely spoke to me at the feast.”

“Yes, but you met him before that, didn’t you?”

Rinka nearly dropped her cup. “Well, yes, my queen. The day I arrived, I went for an afternoon ride in the forest north of the castle. The king had been hunting, and was wounded. I helped him back to the stables, where his guards attended him inside.” She paused, meeting the queen’s eyes. Her mind raced through that day, as it had done many times since, searching for wrongdoing. “I’m afraid I didn’t know who he was until we’d arrived back at the castle. You can imagine my embarrassment.”

“You didn’t know who he was?” Queen Liane laughed and shot a skeptical look at her handmaidens. “Can you believe it? Not recognizing the High King of Cane. But then, faeries know little of the world outside their forests and their strange moving villages. Isn’t that right, Countess?”

“On the contrary, my queen,” Rinka said, swallowing her indignation, “I’ve studied your culture and customs for years.”

The queen seemed surprised, and her eyes narrowed. “Have you? I’ve heard the faery Council has begun discouraging such learning in recent years. That they have been advocating an attitude of isolation.”

“Some on the Council have, yes,” Rinka conceded. “But it’s not an attitude held by everyone. Many, like myself, think that encouraging education, and cooperation across cultures, is more important than ever during troubled times.”

“Is that what you consider this to be? A troubled time between our people?”

Rinka considered retracting her own words, but only for a moment. She trusted candor; it had always served her well.

“I do, my queen,” she said. “But I believe this tension to be misguided, the result of misunderstanding rather than true discord.”

The queen gave a small smile that Rinka couldn’t interpret. “And you have come here to correct that misunderstanding, Countess?”

“I and the others of my delegation, yes. It is our hope to . . .” She paused, searching for the right words. “To build a bridge between our two peoples. We are all children of one kingdom, are we not? Why, then, should we be at odds?”

“You are frank, Countess,” said Liane, still with that strange smile. “I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, my—”

“I’m sure it was alarming, to be in such close proximity to a human man for the first time. I’m sure you found yourself flustered.” And with that, the mood shifted. “Perhaps that is why you found yourself incapable of recognizing your king that day?”

Rinka managed a smile. What game was the queen playing?

“I admit it was startling, my queen. They are . . . loud, dirty creatures.”

The queen laughed, echoed by her handmaidens, and rose. Rinka followed with a curtsy.

“You are amusing, Countess,” said the queen. “We are all so pleased you’ve come to Erstadt.”

Then Liane glided away, her handmaidens trailing out after her.

Rinka sank into her chair, unsteady. Leska hurried out of the bedroom.

“Well,” said Leska, taking the queen’s vacated seat, “that was certainly interesting.”

Rinka narrowed her eyes. “It’s low work, isn’t it? Tying braids, fastening gowns? It must be a welcome diversion to listen in on others’ conversations.”

“Countess—”

“Tell me, Leska, why did you, a mage apprentice, request to be appointed my handmaiden? It seems an ill match for someone of your accomplishments.” Garen’s pendant, at Rinka’s neck, vibrated in response to her anger—quietly, but even so.

Leska’s gaze flickered to it and back up. “Do you distrust mages, Countess?”

“I distrust suspicious appointments. I’ve no reason to distrust mages.”

“And I’ve no reason to distrust faeries.”

“Then why? To spy on me?”

“No. To protect you.”

Taken aback, Rinka stared. “Whatever for?”

“Come, Countess,” said Leska gently. “You know why you’ve been summoned here. Unrest is building between humans and faeries, and you are here to see it doesn’t escalate beyond that. But there are those who—”

“Who want it to escalate.” Rinka rose and went to the window, hugging herself. The city was a dazzling expanse of white. Even considering her delegation’s cool reception, she could not believe this place could conceal the kind of evil her father and Garen had warned her about, the kind of evil hinted at in Leska’s careful words.

“Do you believe,” Rinka said quietly, “that there really could be war?”

“Yes, if certain people have their way. I think the rumors troubling your people are the product of a small group of humans and mages making horrible decisions.” Leska paused. “I hope it is small.”

“This group must be powerful, though, to have caused such a fuss.” Rinka sighed, toying with the curtains. They were emblazoned with the royal crest—the sea serpent, long and coiled. The Somerhart family’s sigil. “I confess, I worry that if there was ever a war, we faeries would fall. The land listens to humans, it recognizes them as the rulers of Cane. The king could easily use his bound mages to work the land in his favor, and against us.” She let the fabric fall. These were not thoughts she welcomed, or suspicions she had ever wanted to give credence. And yet how could she not think them, considering Leska’s ominous warnings and the queen’s peculiar behavior?

“How could we possibly fight against the land itself, if it comes to that?” Rinka said.

Leska was quiet for a long time. “Countess, I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but I will say this: Peace is important to me, and if I can help one of those tasked to maintain it, then I’ll do so gladly.”

Rinka turned, an uncertain smile on her lips. “You are comfortingly forthright, Leska.”

Leska inclined her head. “As are you, Countess.”

“Why can’t all the world be this way? It seems a simple thing.”

“To that, I have no answer. But I do know we don’t all have to like each other in order to live with each other. And that’s what I want to help others understand.” Leska made for the door and then turned back, considering her. “So you have met the king, then?”

Rinka bristled, thoughts of war abruptly forgotten. “It was only one time that I saw him. Only once. And even that was an accident. I did nothing wrong.”

“Of course you didn’t,” said Leska.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

A pause. Then Leska said, “Yes, but I’m not the one you have to worry about. The queen has spies. They move about like birds, and they do her bidding without question.” She frowned, thoughtful. “Be careful, Countess.”

Rinka stepped away from the window. “I came here to represent my people. To work toward peace and understanding. That’s all.”

Leska gave her a small smile. “I know. That’s obvious to me. Now, come. They’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

Rinka followed her, and somewhere along the route to the Great Room, where they did much of their work, Leska left for one of the western towers, for her studies, and Rinka was left alone. And though she knew her heart was true, that she meant what she had told Leska, she nevertheless found herself holding her breath each time she turned a corner, and hoping, for reasons she couldn’t put into words, to see a face she knew she shouldn’t want to see.