Summerfall (4 page)

5

I
T TOOK SOME TIME
for Rinka to hear from her father, and when a letter from him did arrive, two days after her tea with the queen, Rinka left it on the table in her sitting room for hours before finding the courage to open it.

There was no greeting, and certainly no hint of affection. Only Kaspar’s erratic scrawl, the one that manifested when he was writing while in the grip of great emotion.

The only reason I have not come to bring you home
, the note read,
is a desire to maintain both our reputations. I will not insult you—or myself—by dragging you out of the capital like an errant child.

I hope you are proud of what you have done.

“And I hope you’re proud of yourself, Father,” Rinka muttered, glaring at the paper, “for driving me to deception.”

Then she crumpled up the letter and threw it into the fire.

*    *    *

One morning, a month after the faeries’ arrival at Erstadt, news arrived from the eastern highlands, near the border of the faery lands. A school there had been attacked by a group of faeries who had been stirring up trouble in the highlands for quite some time. The mage teachers—and the human students—were being held hostage until, according to the faeries holding them, the crown admitted to crimes of abducting faeries for magical experimentation.

Grave news, and a great blow to the work Rinka and the rest of the faery delegation, the Seven mages, and the queen and her advisors had accomplished during the past month. They had arranged meetings between leaders of villages in the more tumultuous areas along the border, and developed literature to be distributed in Erstadt schools, to educate human students on the truth of faery culture rather than wild hearsay. It was good progress, steady progress.

Despite their reception that first day, despite her continuing uneasiness since her tea with the queen, Rinka felt that together, their unlikely group was doing great work. She thought she had even begun to notice the Seven mages’ frosty temperaments thaw.

But now, with this news, everything seemed poised to change. Children held hostage, undoubtedly having to see their teachers be mistreated—and hopefully not mistreated themselves. Rinka felt sick to hear of it. She saw the anger rippling around the long table in the Great Room when Commander Henning, head of the royal army, announced the news. She felt the humans and mages shift away from the faeries among them—barely, but still noticeable. She saw the quiet anger on their faces.

Rinka met Queen Liane’s piercing gaze and did not look away.

For two hours, they pored over reports of the incident and consulted with Commander Henning. They strategized and debated the best course of action—except for Rinka, who had, since hearing the news, felt disoriented, like something inside her had shifted out of place. Like something was about to happen.

Then, in the early afternoon, King Alban burst in, banging open the doors and storming across the room. Everyone fell silent and stood to receive him.

Rinka kept her eyes trained on the ground for as long as she could without drawing attention to herself. He was here. He was
here
, and it didn’t make sense that her heart should be racing like this, that it should be suddenly impossible to sense anything in the room but his tall, disheveled presence. But her heartbeat was not slowing. Every inch of her skin felt charged with a new attentiveness that made her gown seem uncomfortable and restrictive.
It wasn’t until after everyone had taken their seats and resumed conversation, and Commander Henning began summarizing the meeting thus far for the king, that Rinka dared to look up.

King Alban was watching her.

He was trying not to; he was obviously trying to concentrate on Commander Henning’s words, on the reports before him. But his eyes kept flicking to Rinka.

Rinka kept her face impassive. Anything else would admit guilt, or discomfort, when there was nothing to feel guilty about, and it would be a show of weakness to reveal discomfort. She had done nothing wrong. And anyway, she thought, maybe she had imagined the connection between them, that day.

So she kept her head high, her expression dutiful, even when Alban’s distraction became apparent to everyone.

Beside Rinka, Garen shifted restlessly.

Commander Henning fell silent and cleared his throat. “Your Majesty?”

“What do you think, Countess Rinka?” said the king, watching her and ignoring everyone else—even the queen, whose expression Rinka couldn’t read. “I’ve heard it said you know much about these troubled regions.”

“I do, my king.” Rinka’s voice was steady, and she rose. She would not be intimidated by her own nerves. She met the eyes of everyone in the room as she spoke. “I’ve spent the past few years studying not only the customs of humans but also paying particular attention to lands along the border heavily occupied by both faeries and humans, in order to better understand our cultural and political clashes in these regions.” She came around the table to stand before the map of the highlands, which Henning had spread out over the table. “The islands south of the highlands in the Whispering Sea, known as the Queen’s Keys, are dangerous and quite remote. Certain faery clans have been able to live there without much influence from the crown or humans whatsoever. This isolation, combined with the bits of gossip they glean from trading vessels, has bred much intolerance and prejudice, allowing fanatic groups like the one holding the hostages to form there unchecked.”

Rinka fell into the rhythm of her knowledge, retreating into the comfort of its familiarity. She described to Henning important features of the southern landscape the royal cartographers had missed. As Rinka spoke, the king came around the table to stand beside her. Absorbed in her conversation with Henning and his captains, Rinka did not at first notice Alban had moved.

But then he stepped close—far closer than was appropriate—and his arm brushed against Rinka’s. Jolted, she paused, her speech faltering.

“I suggest,” said the king, moving away, “that we appoint Countess Rinka to work closely with myself and Commander Henning to organize this rescue mission. Obviously, she knows much about this region. Combined with Henning’s military experience, her knowledge should help bring us success with minimal losses.” King Alban paused at the head of the table and looked to his wife. “Don’t you agree, my love?”

The queen smiled tightly. “Yes, that does seem a wise plan, darling. And the countess will no doubt jump at the chance to prove her expertise.”

One of the Seven mages—Rohlmeyer, First of the Seven—stifled a laugh.

“And when we apprehend these faeries,” continued the king, his attention returned to Rinka, “what do you suggest we do with them?”

Rinka hesitated, sensing the import of the moment, that it might be some sort of test. But Alban’s expression was open, even earnest. She had the impression that her answer would matter a great deal to him.

The queen spoke first. “Surely you’re joking, Alban,” she said. “You know as well as any of us—”

“I don’t want to hear your talk of torture,” Alban interrupted, not even sparing her a glance, his voice clipped with anger. “I asked the countess for her opinion.”

Rinka felt the atmosphere of the room shift. Everyone was looking at her; Garen seemed dumbstruck, and the queen’s eyes were like blades. The other faery delegates wore expressions of shocked outrage.

Torture?
That such a thing could ever be
considered
by anyone at this table . . .

“I think,” Rinka said slowly, fighting past her own shock, “that torture, my king, is a cruel practice, no matter the crime, and should not be permitted. I think those responsible for this attack should be questioned, given a fair trial, and assigned punishment in accordance with royal law, which I know to be decent and fair.”

“You know much about royal law?”

Rinka set her jaw. “I have studied it for years, as any responsible citizen of Cane should, so, yes, my king. I do.”

A long moment passed, and then the king nodded. “Well,” he said with some finality, “I find myself inclined to agree with the countess. Surely we can impress upon wrongdoers the evil of their actions without becoming evil ourselves.”

“But, my king,” began Rohlmeyer quietly, “we must communicate to the populace the unacceptable nature of these faeries’ actions. Violence must be returned with violence. Anything less—”

“Lord Rohlmeyer, I wish to hear nothing more on the matter.” Alban paused, raised his eyebrows. “Is that understood?”

Rohlmeyer blinked, settled back into his chair. A tiny wave of cold magic drifted out from Rohlmeyer, as if he had let out a small sigh. Rinka felt her own magic rise instinctively within her, and quelled it—and prayed that her fellow delegates could manage the same. If one of them gave in to anger and broke their promise to not use magic while at court . . .

But then Rohlmeyer intoned, “Of course, my king.” Rinka relaxed, and felt Garen and the others do the same.

And that, it seemed, was that—though the mages and Commander Henning seemed struck with varying degrees of surprise at what had transpired, and Queen Liane spent much of the rest of the meeting watching the king as though trying to puzzle him out. Perhaps unaccustomed to someone—much less her husband—telling her what to do? Obviously, everyone had expected Alban to agree with the idea of torture; they had not expected anyone to even attempt to persuade him otherwise. Realizing this left Rinka agitated. Somehow she endured the rest of the meeting, answering when spoken to, offering suggestions when appropriate, until Henning blessedly proposed they break for lunch.

Rinka could not leave the room quickly enough, her body a mess of tangled nerves, her gown clinging to clammy skin.

And yet when she reached the haven of her rooms, she found she couldn’t help feeling pleased. She had done well. She was happy to have done well—in front of the king, yes, but to simply have worked for something good, to have proven herself useful and spoken out against cruelty.

This was what she had studied and hoped for: the ability to effect change, the opportunity to not only quell violence but also to create understanding between races struggling to find it.

She leaned against her sitting room window. The glass was cool against her cheek. She watched the bustle of the city far below Wahlkraft’s towers, and in this quiet moment of pride, she did not think of the king.

Until a knock came at her door.

When Rinka answered it, she was surprised to see the king standing there, his hands behind his back and his expression strangely contrite. Even . . . nervous. He had never seemed less kingly, even with mud on his face.

“Countess,” he said, glancing behind her. “Where is your young mage?”

“Still at her studies, I expect,” said Rinka carefully, and when the king made a move to enter her sitting room, she stepped into his path.

He stopped, abashed. “My apologies, Countess, I . . . may I enter your rooms, please?”

“Since you are my sovereign, I cannot deny you entrance, but I would ask you to refrain.”

“And why is that?”

She paused. “My king, I do not think it wise. I have no attendants present and your company could be misconstrued.”

He seemed to deflate, his gaze full of conflict. “I made you uncomfortable before, during the meeting. You jumped when I touched you.”

Rinka flushed to remember it, and hoped he would not notice. “I was engrossed in our strategizing, my king. I was caught off-guard.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He ran a hand through his hair, and then, as if sensing how young that made him look, dropped his hand abruptly. “I’m sorry for that, Countess, I meant no offense. It’s only that . . .”

It seemed as if he would say more, then. He took a step toward her, hesitated, stepped back, and yet still his nearness was an overwhelming thing, there at Rinka’s door. She refused to move and let him see how his presence affected her. She watched him, her heart pounding, waiting. If this had been any other man, if this had been any other situation, she would have long since pulled him to her. It was not the faery way to ignore the pull of wanting, and unless Rinka was utterly misreading him . . . the softness on his face, the heat of his gaze . . .

But he was the king, and he was married, and that was an important thing to humans, a solitary thing. They did not take multiple spouses, or a spouse and lovers. At least, if they did, it was rare, considered neither legal nor morally acceptable. And he was a
human
, and things were fraught enough. Children being held hostage. Talk of war hissing through the country.

A queen who seemed already to know too much.

No, Rinka.

No.

She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. It was a dreadful mistake, because the king’s gaze shot to her lips, and there was a leaning, a sway of his body into hers, and hers into his. They were caught in the fullness of possibility; there was nothing left between them but the pull of each other.

Then the king’s mouth twisted. He stepped back, unable to meet her eyes, shame obvious on his face. He turned on his heel with an indistinct apology and left her.

In his absence, Rinka felt cold and rattled, and terribly frustrated. She stepped inside her sitting room, shut and locked the door behind her. She slid against the wood until she sat on the plush red carpet, and touched her tingling lips.

6

A
STRATEGY
had been decided upon, and the Shadow Guard dispatched. Yet Rinka found herself in a state of endless unrest.

She had been one of the key engineers of this rescue mission, and therefore her reputation as an asset to the crown depended upon its success. The tension between the other six faery delegates and the Seven mages required constant maintenance outside meetings, where they had no choice but to speak. Rinka seemed to always be carrying messages back and forth between them, an emissary of sorts. The mages recognized that she did not share the prejudices of her kindred, though they still managed the occasional condescension; and the faeries searched for any excuse not to talk to the mages unless it was absolutely necessary. This did not, however, keep them from treating Rinka more coldly, as though she was somehow betraying them by doing exactly as they asked.

And then, of course, there was Garen, who had noticed the king’s recent fixation and kept needling Rinka about it.

Her patience on this last point had been worn especially thin, but Garen was right—she could not seem to escape the king’s attention.

He found her in the castle corridors, even when Rinka deliberately took a roundabout route from her rooms to the Great Room; or to the central courtyard, where courtiers gossiped beneath the queen’s silver oaks. Rinka would flee to the stables, desperate for an afternoon ride to clear her mind, but there he would be—playing cards with the groom, sending frissons of feeling down Rinka’s arms at the sound of his unruly laughter.

Alban always seemed surprised—even embarrassed—to see her when they did meet, as if he had forgotten she now lived at Wahlkraft and, having been reminded of it, wished he could forget. He would mumble a greeting, try to avoid looking at her . . . but he wouldn’t entirely succeed. Their gazes would lock, even if only for an instant, and the temptation to close the distance between them would be overwhelming.

That was usually the moment at which Garen chose to make his presence known with a message for Rinka, or a request for her attendance at some meeting with some influential courtier who, no, couldn’t possibly wait another moment to meet her.

“I know what you’re doing,” Rinka said to Garen after one such occasion. “Stop following me everywhere.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re in quite a mood,” he said mildly, and Rinka spent the rest of the day in appointment after dull appointment, smiling politely through her anger.

On a particularly balmy afternoon, Rinka explored the city to distract herself. She hoped there, away from the castle, she would see nothing of the king. She grew weary of feeling perpetually frustrated around him, and even wearier of Garen’s snooping. Did Alban plan their many chance encounters, or was it mere coincidence? Was he really reluctant to talk to her, or was he fighting the same awful compulsion she felt?

Rinka let the crowded city fold her into its rhythm, hoping for anonymity. However, even clothed in a relatively inoffensive gown of dusky blue, her hair bound in a modest knot, she felt many eyes upon her as she wandered the main thoroughfare. Not only was she a faery—noteworthy enough—but she was one of
the
faeries, the seven who had been summoned and accorded titles of nobility. Famous, then, or at least infamous. Rinka knew public opinion regarding their titles was mixed. What had the faeries done to earn that honor? They had neither endured apprenticeship, like the mages, nor been born into a royal human family. Ennobling them was an insulting gesture, some thought; an offense to the order of things.

But what can you expect, from a young and inexperienced king?

Rinka ignored the whispers, though they tested her already thinly held composure. When she stopped to peruse bolts of silks in the south market, the merchant did not immediately approach her. Instead, she stared unabashedly at Rinka, and at last came forward with a curtsy.

“Countess? Is that correct?” Ruddy-faced with auburn hair, the merchant seemed uncomfortable. “My apologies, I don’t know how to properly address you faeries.”

Rinka forced a smile. “You may call me Rinka. ‘Countess’ makes me nervous, still. I haven’t gotten used to it.”

The merchant let out a hesitant laugh.

“Tell me,” Rinka said, pointing to an iridescent silk of gold and rich plum, “do you dye these yourself? They are exquisite, this one in particular.”

The merchant beamed and strode forward. “I do, Countess—er, Rinka. Would you like to order a new gown for yourself? This fabric would be divine against that white skin of yours. Like wine on snow. Or perhaps this one—”

Rinka laughed, the tension melting from her shoulders. To have an ordinary conversation with an ordinary human was a gift she had sorely needed. “In fact, I would love a new gown or two, and you seem just the person to help me.”

But the merchant did not respond—now staring past Rinka, her eyes widening; now dropping to one knee.

“Countess,” came a voice, and Rinka allowed herself a moment to close her eyes, to breathe, to stifle her irritation—and the sudden surge of joy in her heart.

“My king,” she said smoothly, turning into a low curtsy. “What a pleasure to see you.”

“And the same to you, Countess.” Alban put out his hand to help her up, and Rinka could not help but take it, could not help but lose her breath as he stepped back to regard her.

“You are unspeakably lovely today,” he said, low, and then opened his mouth as if to say more before stopping himself. He turned to the merchant, who still knelt. “Madam Farber, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my king,” said the merchant breathlessly.

“Please rise. There’s no need to kneel before me.” He helped her stand, his smile kind. “Continue with your customer. I don’t mean to intrude. I was simply out walking, and the countess happened to catch my eye.”

“Of course, my king!” And Madam Farber rustled around in her stores, drawing out bolt after bolt of opulent fabric while Alban watched them, amused, conversing with passers-by.

Rinka kept glancing at him, her nerves buzzing. She had never seen him like this—out in the city, among the common folk. The mood on the street blossomed into excitement; shoppers whispered and pointed, and bustled over to pay their respects. And the king greeted them by name and laughed with them as though they were not his subjects but his friends.

She had never seen him in that light tunic, emerald with gold trim, with his collar open to cool his skin, his smile open and natural. He seemed much more comfortable out here than he ever had in his castle.

Rinka turned away, staring hard at the silks. She could no longer bear to look at him, and felt a sudden empathy for Garen. Was this what it was like for him, to love Rinka as he did, with no hope of anything ever coming of it?

“Countess?”

She returned to herself horribly flustered, cursing Alban, cursing the innocent Madam Farber for holding up the silk to Rinka’s skin and asking the king his opinion.

His gaze drifted up Rinka’s body until it locked with hers. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if wanting to test the fabric’s softness for himself.

Why him? Why
him?
Leska’s words of warning rang in Rinka’s mind.

“Yes,” he said at last, and Rinka hoped no one else could hear the sudden rough quality of his voice. “This would indeed make the countess a fine gown.”

At his side, the implacable Commander Henning, his gaze somewhere down the street, cleared his throat.

Alban pulled away.

“Countess,” he said, with a stiff bow. “Madam.” Then he turned and continued up the street, shaking hands with eager merchants, accepting flowers from shy children. And though Rinka did not follow, she felt the pull of him even after he had vanished from her sight.

*    *    *

The next day, without explanation, the king disappeared.

His disappearances were not uncommon, Rinka learned. The king had remarkably little patience for being king. He would periodically vanish, tearing off with one of his horses into the forest for a day or even two, leaving his King’s Guard helpless and frustrated and Queen Liane in a terrible temper—for of course she could not have missed the knowing whispers that accompanied each of his absences:

This is what happens when a queen fails to satisfy her husband.

Rinka, for one, was glad he had gone. It was a relief to walk the halls of Wahlkraft without having to worry that she would see him and at last lose control of herself.

Still . . . she
missed
him. After only a day without him, her craving to see his face bordered on the unendurable.

What a stupid thing to feel. And yet she couldn’t stop feeling it.

“And just what do you think will happen when you do see him again?” she muttered angrily to herself one morning, smoothing out the wrinkles of her lavender gown and its bodice of filmy lace. “As if
anything
will happen. Idiot girl. Nothing will happen. It’s better that he’s away.” She glared at her reflection in the mirror. “You need to get him out of your head.”

“Countess! Come quickly!” Leska burst into the sitting room, her dark hair flying everywhere. Magic sparked off of her coldly, setting Rinka’s teeth on edge.

Rinka turned, curious. Leska was not usually this excitable, breathless and beaming. “What is it?”

“We were in the aviary this morning and saw them arrive in the stable yard. The Shadow Guard, they’ve returned! All the hostages are safe.”

Rinka gasped and grabbed Leska’s hands. A wild joy overcame her—the joy of having been a part of this thing, this
good
thing that might not have come together were it not for her.

“Oh, you don’t know what a relief that is,” Rinka said, releasing Leska and making for the door. “Come with me to congratulate them? This is a momentous occasion, and—what?”

Leska’s smile was smaller now. She curtsied, obviously stalling.

“Leska? What is it? Tell me.”

Leska took a breath. “The faery prisoners, Countess. They’re being brought to the lower castle for interrogation as we speak.” At the expression on Rinka’s face, she went to her, compassionate. “I came as fast as I could.”

Rinka shook her off. “I know you did.” Interrogation? But that was a violent word, and Alban had spoken out against torture that day in the Great Room. Rinka felt anger rise within her.

“Perhaps you should not come with me after all, Leska,” Rinka said, grabbing her cloak and hurrying out. “This will be unpleasant.”

*    *    *

It took Rinka some time to navigate the labyrinth of the lower castle, for she wanted no one to find her and stop her. By the time she reached the grim block of rooms guarded by two men in black cloaks, it was too late. She heard, from inside the room, a man’s agonized cries.

Cursing Alban for putting her in this position, Rinka drew upon her magic. He had left her no choice, promise or no. She tugged at the pendant at her neck and used it to focus her power, sending a blue coil of it scuttling haphazardly down the hallway. It rattled and hissed against the stone, drawing the attention of the black-cloaked guards. With them distracted, she slipped past them and burst into the room.

“Stop!” she cried, and almost ran into King Alban, who stood, with no small amount of distress on his face, watching Commander Henning’s mage inquisitor carving open the chest of a young faery man. The man was bound to a metal table, his face a swollen mess of blue blood and purple bruises, and the mage’s eyes were alight with cold glee.

Rinka froze. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at Alban—not the bleeding faery, but at her king, who was supposed to have been away. Her king, who had spoken out against torture.

But it . . . it couldn’t be. She didn’t understand.

“Countess,” Alban began, and the sound of his voice shocked Rinka into action.

She lunged at the mage. She would knock the cruel, jagged tools out of his hands; she would set her magic upon him. But before she could do anything, Alban caught her and held her close to his body.

“Countess,” he hissed, “control yourself. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

The two door guards ran inside, dumbfounded.

“These methods of interrogation,” Rinka said, “were not sanctioned when we planned this rescue mission, my king.” It was a mighty task to keep her voice steady. “You agreed we were to try these faeries, investigate their contacts. Question them, yes, but fairly and in public. Not torture them.”

Alban watched her for a long, taut moment, and Rinka was glad for it, for the inquisitor had stopped his work.

“Wait a moment,” Alban said at last, and Rinka followed him out of the room. With the door shut behind them, alone in the corridor, he threw her a dark look. “Rinka, you should not have done that. These are matters for the crown, not for a mere countess only a few weeks at court.”

She couldn’t even enjoy his closeness, the scent of his riding jacket, his heat. She hadn’t believed him capable of allowing cruelty, and the dichotomy shook her—as did the sound of her name on his lips.

“Is that what you want?” she said. “To be a barbarian king? To torture those who have attacked you? If you think this will frighten other faeries from rising up in their place, you could not be more wrong. And I thought you were away. Is this what you do when you disappear? Cut open faeries for pleasure?”

Alban whirled. “No, never. I saw the Shadow Guard return with the prisoners, knew what might happen . . .” He rubbed his hand over his face, his expression conflicted. “I may not want this, Rinka, but I have no choice.”

“You’ve spoken to Lord Rohlmeyer, haven’t you? This is his doing. It must be. I cannot believe you would let yourself be convinced to violence by the likes of him.”

“He may not be wrong.” Alban looked to her, his eyes pleading. “The Seven mages are irate. With the kingdom’s mood as it has been recently, my advisors demand a show of force. There can be no room left in the country for attacks such as this—taking hostages, assaulting innocent children. The idea of mercy is a grand one, but I must think of the reality of the situation. Am I to do nothing, take no action, and appear weak?”