Summerfall (7 page)

“I should have been the one to end this. I shouldn’t have put you in this position to begin with.”

“And I could have decided not to kiss you, but I did, and here we are. You aren’t alone in this, Alban. We started it, and now we will end it.”

He moved closer; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her wrist. Took her other hand and kissed her palm. “It wasn’t enough. I didn’t have enough of you. We could have years, and it wouldn’t be enough.” His voice was torn. “Know that, Rinka. Remember that.”

She nearly turned into his arms, thinking for a desperate moment that one more night couldn’t hurt, but then managed to gasp, “Let go of me,” and he did.

This was nothing like it should be, none of it. It was not the faery way to refuse love, to walk away from passion. She wondered what Garen would think, what her father would think, if they could feel the agony of this moment. Would they pity her for being so unfortunate as to love a human, or would she disgust them? She couldn’t begin to guess; she didn’t know what to feel, herself.

When she thought Alban might not speak again, he said, “I’ll miss you.” He cleared his throat, and then, “When everything is different, when everything is better, maybe we . . . maybe this . . .”

Rinka couldn’t bear the stubborn hope in his voice. “I doubt it,” she said, her voice hard and unfamiliar, and moved past him without another word, leaving him alone in darkness.

9

T
HREE WEEKS LATER,
the queen’s cousins from the west arrived, per Alban’s summons. The moment Rinka met them, she knew they would be trouble.

Alban threw a party in honor of their arrival, and to soothe anyone’s anxieties about perceived tension between the houses of Somerhart and Drachstelle. The Emerald Hall was a vision of color that night—the deep green walls, the gilded molding, the mural on the ceiling that incorporated each of the four royal families’ sigils—stallion and nightbird, sea serpent and dragon.

Rinka wore the silken gown from some weeks past—the plum, with its iridescent sheen and the fringed golden sash at her waist. She wandered the room, restless, Leska at her side, until an attendant at the door announced the arrival of Lord and Lady Drachstelle.

When they entered the room, a vision in resplendent scarlet, Rinka observed that, were she human, she might have felt plain beside them.

The queen’s cousin, Steffen Drachstelle, was tall and slender, with a full, expressive mouth held in a knowing smile. His wife, Rastia, had dark hair and fierce eyes. Everywhere they went, they leaned close to each other, whispering, as if perpetually engaged in some conspiracy.

They glided about the Emerald Hall, greeting courtiers, sipping punch. When Leska presented Rinka for introduction, Rinka noticed Rastia tracing idle circles on her husband’s gloved palm, which bore a red embroidered dragon in the same style as the necklace the queen wore.

“And this is Countess Rinka,” said Leska serenely, in her modest apprentice’s robes, “who was instrumental in our rescue of the hostages at that school in the highlands near the start of the summer.”

“Lord Drachstelle.” Rinka sank into a curtsy. “Lady Drachstelle. It is a delight to meet you.”

“Countess, we have heard much about you,” said Steffen—warmly, Rinka thought. Or was that feigned? “I must compliment your contribution to the peace efforts.”

“And we must also compliment your dedication to nonviolent recourse,” added Rastia, her voice low and lyrical. “To have convinced our cousin the king to halt interrogation of those faeries, and to instead have them tried peacefully as they absolutely should have been . . .” Rastia shook her head and gave an eloquent smile. “You must hold great influence with Alban, to have persuaded him so effectively.”

Rinka could feel the attention of various courtiers upon her, but she did not let that—or Rastia’s smile, which seemed strangely fixed—shake her. Rinka inclined her head humbly.

“His Majesty is a thoughtful, fair man,” she said. “It only required a small word on my part to make him realize what he already knew.”

“Cousins,” said the king, entering the room and striding toward them. Courtiers bowed to him, parting before him in a wave of violets, blues, and Somerhart green. The musicians near the terrace began a joyous rendition of “The Morning of the First Queen”, the Somerhart family song.

Rinka gave her excuses and hurried away before she and Alban could lock eyes. She did not trust herself to be near both him and the Drachstelles at the same time, not after three weeks of separation. Instead, she tried to concentrate on the beauty of the night, the glitter of the room, making conversation with everyone she could find.

When the musicians began a
langzier
, Rinka gratefully fell into the line of dancers taking position. The
langzier
was an elaborate dance in which partners danced for long minutes before switching with other dancers in line. With the right number of people, it
could last for an hour or more, and it became a sort of contest to see which dancer could outlast the others.

For a few minutes, Rinka knew nothing but the relief of moving. Her first partner was a young, wide-eyed duke with a small holding in Lady Gespian’s lands, to the east, who could not seem to manage a coherent sentence in Rinka’s presence. He was, however, a passable dancer, and kind enough, and Rinka was glad for his company—until the music changed, signaling the time for a new partner. The duke passed Rinka to his left, and then, through a series of turns, Rinka found herself in Alban’s arms.

He seemed as surprised as she was, but held her firmly nevertheless, and swept her away into the vibrant swirl of the other dancers. The touch of his hands at her waist erased everything but him from her mind. She could not hide her smile when she saw him valiantly trying to suppress his own.

“My king,” Rinka said softly, “you honor me with this dance.”

“I expected you to scold me.”

So he had planned this. She laughed. “I should, you rogue.”

“My apologies, Countess.” Following the movements of the
langzier
, Alban drew her close, speaking against the white cascade of her hair. “But I had to talk to you, if only for the space of a dance. You’re lovely tonight.”

He turned her, and Rinka saw the inscrutable dark gaze of Steffen Drachstelle, watching from the side of the room.

Then Alban turned her again, and she was facing him once more.

“Lord Drachstelle is watching us,” she said, low beneath the music and the dancers’ laughter.

“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I want you to avoid both him and Rastia, as much as you can.”

She pulled back, frowning. “I cannot avoid them completely. They’re to attend the queen’s council meeting the day after tomorrow.”

“I know. I don’t mean that. I just mean outside of official functions.” A turn, a spin, and he had her even closer now. She could feel the heat of him through the drape of her gown, and her heart twisted to be so near him, at last, and yet unable to hold him as she wanted to. “I’m not trying to order you about, Rinka. It’s only that something terrible happened today, and I’m feeling a bit on edge.”

Rinka stiffened in his arms. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Do you know Ottmeyer?”

“Of course, the Sixth of the Seven.”

“He was found dead today, in the river. It is believed,” the king said mildly, holding Rinka fast, for she had nearly stumbled in her alarm, “that he threw himself from his tower.”

Rinka could not find her words, but her mind raced unhindered. “My king,” she began, somehow managing a smile at Leska as they glided past, “I hope you’re not thinking this mage killed himself so he wouldn’t have to obey the compulsion of your bond with him.”

“That’s precisely what I’m thinking.” Alban’s voice was grim. “And he would only do that—”

“If he did not want to obey one of your orders. If, by obeying that order—”

“He would condemn himself, or others of his kind?”

“Who may have committed the very crimes against faeries the Seven are investigating?”

They fell silent. Rinka stepped back from Alban and out of the line of dancers, causing the nearby pair of Garen and his human partner to stumble. But Rinka hardly noticed them; she could think only of the blood bond between Alban and his mages, her previous fears surfacing with a vengeance. Her father had feared it too. The same potential—for binding, for servitude—existed in every faery’s magical blood. There was no precedent for it, no human-faery bonding in the history of Cane, but then, the right circumstances had never arisen.

Until, perhaps, now.

Wouldn’t it be easy, with the right words, for someone to persuade the young king to bond with his faeries? Wouldn’t it be easy, with tensions so high and these random acts of violence not abating?

Wouldn’t it be simple as breathing, if the faeries didn’t agree to the ritual, to force them into it, no matter their magic? They were only seven, after all, in a castle of dozens, in a city of thousands. Rinka had read that forced bindings weren’t reliable—they could be tenuous at best and corrupted, even fatal, at worst. Of course, if the king thought it worth the risk . . .

But Alban wouldn’t. He wouldn’t, not after everything they had shared.

And what was that? A few weeks of passion, easily discarded in the face of a so-called peace. It would be a tidy solution. With seven faeries bound to him, unable to disobey his orders—surrounded by prejudiced advisors—what chaos could the king potentially bring upon the faery lands?

These were absurd thoughts, and yet Rinka could not purge her mind of them. The presence of the watching Lord and Lady Drachstelle, the fear that had been quietly plaguing Rinka since the Restoration began their violence, Alban’s horrific news—the combination shattered Rinka’s nerves and sent her hurrying outside. She felt Alban at her heels, and the terrace emptied quickly at their entrance.

Rinka leaned hard against the railing, seeking comfort in the city’s flickering lights. But the sight only served to remind her of the height of the palace, and how terrible a fall from one of its towers would be. She could not stop seeing Ottmeyer fall, and then, suddenly, it wasn’t Ottmeyer, but Garen, and his death would be her fault, because she had trusted Alban.

She closed her eyes against the image and searched for calm. These fears were irrational, and she was so unused to that feeling that it terrified her. She breathed in greedily of the cold night air. Alban would never use her like that, would never use
any
of her people like that. He was a good man.

But he was also young, and easily led. Only in recent weeks had he begun showing any backbone—standing up to the queen, to Henning, to Rohlmeyer—and a few weeks were easily reversed.

A gentle hand on her arm interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She turned, and at the sight of Alban’s familiar face, flushed from dancing, open with love for the first time in weeks, Rinka felt herself relax.

“Rinka,” Alban said, “what happened? One minute we were dancing, and the next—”

“I wonder,” she said quietly, unwilling to share her true feelings, “how many of the other Seven are considering doing the same thing.”

Alban came up beside her, grave. “Ottmeyer was young. He may not have had the discipline to endure the pain of defying me. But the others . . .” He sighed. “Rohlmeyer has not yet produced anything satisfactory in his supposed investigation. I fear I must send out more of my spies, to keep an eye on the Seven.”

Rinka turned to face him, taking care to not stand too close, to not reach out and touch him here, where anyone at the party could see.

“To what end?” she asked.

“It cannot be coincidence that Ottmeyer jumped to his death the day the Drachstelles arrived. I need to unearth a connection, if there is one. I need to know what my mages aren’t telling me.”

“You don’t think the Drachstelles encouraged him to suicide? That seems far-fetched.”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“I know I don’t like them. The Drachstelles. They give me a bad feeling.”

The king gave a tired smile. “And they do not like you, I’d imagine, and certainly not me. They never have.”

“They want the throne.”

“When Father died, they appealed to my judges to appoint Steffen steward of the throne, or at least appoint one of my uncles, up north, until I could be considered capable. The appeal was denied, and I used to wish it hadn’t been. I could have stayed a prince, and avoided the throne. But now . . . now, I’m glad.”

“I want him nowhere near the throne,” Rinka said.

“Nor do I.”

They were quiet for a long time, as the
langzier
soared on behind them. Then Alban said quietly, “Rinka, I want you to be especially careful. The Drachstelles have a way of uncovering secrets.”

“There is no secret to uncover,” Rinka said, “not anymore.”

Alban put his hand near hers on the cold white railing, close enough to press his thumb to hers. “No,” he agreed quietly, “I suppose there isn’t. But they could still do considerable damage.”

Uneasy, Rinka nodded. “You think the Drachstelles could make a new scandal out of an old secret.”

“I think I don’t know what the Drachstelles want to do, or could do, and that worries me. But I feel better having them here where I can keep an eye on them.” Then, after a moment, he said, “I liked dancing with you tonight. For a moment, before I told you about Ottmeyer, I could almost pretend . . .”

“I know.” Rinka glanced up at him. “I thought that too.”

Silence fell again, and then the tempo of the
langzier
picked up, followed by a resounding cheer from the dancers. Reluctant as she was to say it, Rinka knew he should leave, return to his guests. He seemed to read her thoughts, straightened, whispered, “Good night, Rinka,” and slipped back through the terrace doors.

In his absence, Rinka’s earlier fears seeped back into her mind, and she was left aching and uncertain in the midsummer breeze.

10

T
HREE NIGHTS LATER,
Rinka dreamed of Alban.

He was above her, pressing hot kisses down her neck, her breasts, her belly. It was a dream Rinka was not unused to having, and a welcome one, after so long apart. But then, the dream Alban’s fingers on her hips transformed into brutish claws, piercing her skin. He was a beast looming over her, and not human at all, yet he still wore his crown. Garen stood solemnly behind him, watching, his expression smug and bored, even as the Alban-beast slashed open Rinka’s stomach with one cruel swipe.

The pain of it thrust Rinka out of her dream and into the darkness of her bedroom. She struggled upright, her clammy skin sticking to the silken bedsheets. Her hands flew to her belly, but she found herself to be whole and unhurt, and she subsided against the pillows, tucking into herself like a child. Since the night of the party, and in Alban’s absence, her nervous thoughts had remained, though the palace had been quiet. The Restoration arrested and tried, reparations under way to the affected faery clans. But she could not stop thinking of Ottmeyer flinging himself out into the sky.

She absently rubbed her belly, willing away the image of Alban’s face shifting into the phantom of her nightmare, then wiped her face. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, and when she opened her eyes, blinking back to herself, thinking she would draw a bath and scrub away the poison of her thoughts, she saw it:

A flutter of white. A swift movement of shadow.

Rinka shot upright once more, sharpening with fear.

The window farthest from her was open, the curtains undulating in the breeze, though she hadn’t left the window open that evening. Leska, maybe? But Leska didn’t randomly open windows in the middle of the night.

Slow waves of dread rolled over Rinka, and she stiffened, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Someone was in the room with her—someone, maybe, in that stretch of dark shapes in the room’s far corner.

Rinka shifted, reaching for the heavy pendant on her bedside table, reaching inside herself to gather her magic—but the intruder was quicker.

He—she?—it was impossible to tell—shot out of the darkness to Rinka’s bedside. A gloved hand seized her wrist; a dagger glinted silver in the moonlight.

Rinka kicked out blindly and rolled—not enough to free herself, but enough to grab her pendant and use the solid heft of it to channel her magic into something functional. A jolt of it shot out of her, slamming into her attacker like an invisible fist—but not before the blade caught her, slicing down her side and across her thigh. Blue dripped onto her white sheets, and she stumbled to the floor, naked and clumsy with pain.

She wished she had bothered to attend Garen’s lectures on defensive magic.

She scrambled for the door to her sitting room. “Leska!” she screamed, though it was a mad hope that anyone could hear her, for her voice was hoarse with terror. “Leska, help me!
Alban
!”

The assassin found Rinka, knocking her to the ground. She screamed and tried to stand, but then came another hard blow—a gloved fist to her temple. She threw patchy bursts of magic, erratic from terror, at her attacker, but her panic made it uneven and difficult to control. One last burst of it flew wildly from her fingers, but the assassin ducked and lunged at her, pinned her against the floor with a hard arm at her neck.

Rinka struggled, gasping, clawing at the arm that trapped her. Lips against her ear, and a hot voice—it was a man.

“This is what happens to faery whores,” hissed the voice, slick and unfamiliar. “Long live the dragon.”

Rinka felt the cold pressure of the dagger against her throat, and with the certainty that she would die came an incongruous, wild desire to live.

She threw away her pendant, toward the open bathing room door, and the clatter of it against the tiles distracted her assassin long enough for Rinka to bring up her knee, hard, between his legs.

He slumped, moaning, and his grip on her neck loosened. Rinka wriggled free and leapt for her pendant, but the assassin was not far behind, grabbing for her legs, wrenching her back. Rinka scrabbled for the pendant, her fingers smearing the floor blue. With a pained cry, she stretched her abused body and found the pendant. Her fingers curled around it, and she twisted back. In her desperation, her magic felt more focused, fueled by a primal rage. She drew upon the deepest parts of herself and flung a wave of searing power at her attacker.

The force of it sent his body flying backward. He crashed into the far wall, leaving behind an uneven trail of red blood. He had hit his head. He was human.

He was not done yet. He staggered upright, leapt for Rinka once more—but she was ready for him, her pendant clutched before her in one bloody hand, the other clamping down on her thigh, where spurts of blue blood trickled down her leg. Wave after wave of magic she threw at him, until he was a charred, smoking lump in the moonlight, flickering blue. Unused as Rinka was to fighting with magic, the aggressive heat of it made even her own stomach churn.

She sank to the carpet and retched. She dragged herself across the ruined bedroom, through the sitting room, to the doors to her suite. She tried to reach for the door handle and couldn’t; her body was leaden, bleeding, throbbing, and she could no longer control it.

“Help,” she whispered, clutching her bloody pendant. “Help me.”

The last thing she knew before the pain consumed her was movement by the door. A sharp, high cry. The familiar, cold smell of mage magic. Cool hands on her face.

“Countess,” said a voice, but it was garbled and frightening. Rinka tried to shrink back. “Countess, please speak to me.”

But Rinka couldn’t. Her head was a mess of pain; her hands stung with magic. Someone had tried to kill her; someone had thrown her into the wall and cut open her leg.

She let herself fade.