Summerfall (6 page)

8

I
T WAS AS THOUGH
a fuse had been lit, and set everything ablaze.

The king came to her that night. He came to her every night he could. They even met during the day, between appointments, when they were feeling especially daring.

Sometimes they would be more careful—snatched bits of conversation in seldom-traveled corridors, ciphered messages delivered in progressively elaborate ways. But sometimes they would have no patience for such delays. Sometimes, when Alban would find Rinka on her way from the kitchens to the stables, or as she came in from the city with Leska’s favorite pastries, he would come up behind her, slide his arms around her until she began to laugh, tug her gently into the nearest empty room, and lock the door behind them.

On these occasions, Rinka could never find the will to scold him, or think too hard on the risk they were taking. She was too caught up in this—in him, in
them.
The intoxicating boldness of it—overseeing meetings between faeries and humans who lived near each other on the border, designing shared villages that would accommodate both human and faery lifestyles . . . and then, later, secretly, finding each other, sliding into each other’s arms as if they’d been doing it for ages.

A king, as it turns out, has no problem obtaining the keys to even the most unused, forgotten rooms in his castle. Like the old art gallery on the third floor, which had become a repository for unwanted things—sculptures needing restoration, paintings by artists who were no longer in vogue.

It was into this art gallery that Rinka and the king stumbled one afternoon.

“It’s eerie in here,” said Rinka, not really protesting, for Alban had half-fallen onto a huge wooden chest and was pulling her onto his lap.

Alban kissed his way up from Rinka’s neckline to her lips. “I thought you would like it.”

“Why, because it’s dusty and full of old things?”

“Because it’s full of secret things,” Alban countered, and pulled back a nearby covering to reveal a painting rich with color and texture, a portrait of blessed Ebba, the sacred figure of faery legend. It was too ostentatious a style for the current fashion, but so full of feeling that Rinka felt something inside her stir in response. When she turned back to Alban, she saw how his eyes shone.

“Is it considered tactless for me to say that even her beauty pales in comparison to yours?” he said.

Rinka laughed. “Not tactless, no. A little overdone, maybe.”

He frowned, and she caught his face in her hands, and kissed him.

Then there was silence in this room thick with age and neglect, as Rinka held Alban to her and let him touch her. He untied the ribbons of her sleeves and slid them down her arms, revealing her white shoulders. He cupped her head, tracing his thumbs along the curving points of her ears with a wonder that had yet to diminish since that first day in the forest. They began to move in a way that had become familiar to them these past weeks.

“Rinka,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I do love you. It isn’t just about this. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” she whispered, and began to show him her own love, warming him slowly in the cold, forgotten gallery. It was easy to feel, in that moment, as though they were the only two in the entire world.

*    *    *

But soon there came a day when, during a meeting in the Great Room, Rinka was reminded in no uncertain terms that they were in fact not the only two in the entire world.

That their world was full of people, and almost as many problems.

That their increasing lack of discretion could not be ignored forever.

Alban exploded into the Great Room, a leather packet in his hands. When he reached the table, he flung the packet down before the queen.

Liane regarded him coolly. “Darling husband, why are you making such a racket?”

“Henning,” said the king, low and dangerous. “Explain this to me.”

Commander Henning blinked in astonishment. “Pardon me, my king, but I’m not sure what you mean.”

“This. This report from your men, who have brought it from the west.” Alban gestured angrily at the packet. “Open it, and read it aloud.”

As Henning reached for the packet, Rinka saw the queen’s eyes move to Rohlmeyer, to two of the other mages, and back to her husband.

Rohlmeyer, gray-eyed, perpetually expressionless, raised one eyebrow.

Rinka felt a sudden thrill of fear.

“It says here,” began Commander Henning, but then he trailed off, his eyes wide.

“Out loud, Henning,” said the king. Rinka looked to him for comfort and found none; his eyes were blazing, his mouth tight.

“It says here,” began Commander Henning once more, “that a group of soldiers in Lord Drachstelle’s employ has separated from the other conscripted forces and declared themselves the Restoration. They are currently traveling south, into the faery lands, burning villages as they go. They claim . . .” Commander Henning paused. His gaze flickered to the faery delegates, uncomfortable.

“Yes?” Alban insisted.

“They claim to be on a mission to purify Cane of the ‘unclean creatures of the south.’ They claim only they can save the country from the faeries’ wicked influence.”

An uproar. Garen leapt to his feet, the other faeries joining him in protest. The mages soon followed, ordering them silent, demanding more information from Henning—except Rohlmeyer, who remained seated, his hands folded on the table.

“Enough,” snapped the king, and silence fell. “Henning, this is unacceptable. As commander of my army, you approved the appointment of the Drachstelle captains, did you not?”

“Yes, my king.”

“And yet these captains are apparently unfit to discipline their soldiers and keep them from running amok like crazed savages?”

“Sometimes not even exceptional captains, darling,” said Liane evenly, “are enough to keep dedicated soldiers from doing what they think is right by their own people.”

Rinka knew she should keep quiet, and yet she could not. “You think this is some sort of retribution for what happened at the school?”

“I think,” said the queen, her eyes fixed on Alban, “that there are many in this country who remain unsatisfied with the prisoners’ sentences and crave a more fitting form of punishment. I think we should expect more, similar violence if we do not appease those citizens who feel they have been betrayed by their king.” The queen paused, her mouth curving into a small smile. “You might have noticed this discontent, my dearest love, only you have been rather preoccupied as of late.”

A tense silence fell; outside, a bird dipped past the window, casting a tiny, darting shadow across the sun-drenched table. Rinka refused to acknowledge the icy fall of dread down her back.

Is this
, she wondered, alarmed,
because of us?

Because of me?

She dismissed the thought at once. This was a natural—if regrettable—consequence of the tension present throughout the country. It had nothing to do with her any more than it had anything to do with Garen.

“Henning, I want these rogues stopped,” Alban said at last. His hard gaze did not leave the queen. “Find them, apprehend them, and bring them here. They will answer to me. And do it quickly. Liane, you will write to Lord and Lady Drachstelle and invite them here. I wish to speak with your cousins, and a letter will not do.”

The queen’s eyes flickered with something Rinka could not read. “Of course, my king.”

“Rohlmeyer,” continued Alban, tearing his eyes away from his wife to glare at the impassive mage, “I want you to oversee an investigation into the unlawful abduction of and experimentation on faery citizens, perpetrated by the physicians and mages residing in Erstadt.” He paused, looked at each of the Seven mages in turn. “Each of you will assist Rohlmeyer in this.”

That was enough to send Rohlmeyer’s eyebrows shooting up. Rinka held her breath. Alban had sent out his own spies to begin investigating this very thing, the day after he promised Rinka he would. They had both decided it would be best to hide the investigation from the Seven mages for as long as possible, in case any of them were involved. That Alban would have as good as accused Rohlmeyer of these crimes, in front of everyone, meant he must have been even angrier than Rinka thought.

“I beg your pardon, my king?” said Rohlmeyer.

“You heard me,” Alban said. “Bring me whatever you can find—any correspondence, any physical evidence. Search the dungeons, search the city, search the Kingsmarch.” Then he paused, and Rinka shivered to feel a pulse of something in the air—a ripple that passed between Alban and Rohlmeyer, between Alban and the other mages, and back again. Each of them winced.

“And of course I will know, Lord Rohlmeyer,” said Alban significantly, “if any of you disobey me or lie to me. Remember that.”

Rinka had no love for Rohlmeyer, and still she felt faintly ill to think of the bond between the mage and his king—the magical bond each of the Seven mages allowed to be forged in return for their influential positions at court. The custom had never sat well with Rinka. The other faery delegates shifted restlessly.

To be compelled by your own blood to do another’s bidding . . . She tried to imagine it, being forced from the inside out to do something she perhaps didn’t want to do, in exchange for political connections. Her father had feared that very thing—that the faery delegates were being summoned to court so the king could use them for his own purposes, to force peace—or create terror—through coercion.

But Alban would never do such a thing. Maybe before, but not now.

Are you sure?

Rinka ignored that twinge of doubt and found herself hoping desperately that Rohlmeyer’s binding was a strong one. Anything to keep those unreadable gray eyes from turning mutinous. Anything to keep Alban safe—and a dependable ally.

Rohlmeyer inclined his head. “Of course, my king. We will begin this work immediately.”

*    *    *

At midnight, Rinka met Alban in the art gallery. It had become their haven, and yet tonight Rinka could not find peace even here.

She found the door unlocked, stepped inside, and locked it behind her. Alban stood at the window, a troubled silhouette against a canvas of stars. Rinka stood uncertainly at the door, watching him, unsure if he had even heard her enter the room.

“I know what you’ve come to say,” he said quietly.

“Alban.” Rinka leaned back against the door. If she went to him, she would lose her resolve. “I cannot stop thinking of faery children being torn from their beds.”

Alban nodded, lit a candle on the table beside him. Its flickering light turned the room into a wash of gold. “Henning has already gone, accompanied by a dozen of his best men. He will find these rogues, Rinka, before any more damage is done.”

“I hope you’re right.” She paused, collecting herself. “But that doesn’t change anything, not for us.”

“Rinka,” he said, his face full of shadows, “please don’t do this.”

“I will, and I must, and you know it. Look at what’s happened. Think of what
could
happen if Henning can’t apprehend the Restoration quickly enough, if any faeries decide to avenge their fallen. If anyone finds out about us during all of that . . . it’ll make things even worse. I love you, but—”

“But it isn’t worth it.” Alban said it tonelessly, as if he didn’t really believe it.

“I wasn’t going to say it quite like that.”

Suddenly he was there, tipping up her chin. In the candlelight, his eyes were darker than ever, and terribly sad. “There are bound to be incidents like this, from time to time and on either side of this conflict, but that will not always be the case. Most people simply want to live peacefully. They don’t want war.”

Rinka thought of the queen, of Rohlmeyer, of the Drachstelle soldiers gone rogue. “Some do.”

“And they will become fewer and fewer. We are educating them, Rinka, we are doing good work. The schools we’re designing, the shared villages . . .”

“But is it enough?” Rinka turned away, worrying the pendant at her neck. “I never thought it would be like this. I thought . . .”

“You thought you would come to the capital and find everything as you did in your dreams.”

I thought all humans would be as beautiful and good as I imagined.

I was a foolish girl. Unforgivably naïve.

She swallowed hard against the sourness in her throat. “I have betrayed everyone, by loving you.”

“Rinka—”

“You know I’m right. We have to stop.” She turned, her face firm, looked him unflinchingly in the eye. Her heart was breaking; she could hardly breathe. “Too much is happening, too much is unpredictable. I can’t concentrate on my work if I’m forever worrying that someone will find us together, or that the very thing I’m working to correct could be made worse by my own selfishness.”

“Is it so selfish,” Alban said, his voice hollow, “to love someone?”

“It is when it comes at the expense of others.”

“And I thought faeries didn’t care about such things.”

Rinka smiled sadly. “This is different.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering tenderly on the pointed curve and its array of silver earrings.

Rinka found herself wanting to say too many painful things. “Do you think Rohlmeyer will obey you?” she asked, moving away from him. “Do you think they’ll find any evidence? I hope they do, and hope they don’t.”

“I’ve never heard of a bound mage able to disobey his king. And even if he did risk it for a time, I’d imagine the pain would be unbearable.”

“I hope you’re right,” Rinka said. “I don’t trust him.”

For a long time, they were silent. Rinka watched the night sky outside, and Alban stood a horrible distance away. Rinka thought she might soon begin to cry. She began searching for the right way to leave him.

“Rinka,” he said at last. There was a question in his voice.

“You won’t change my mind.”

“It isn’t fair.”

It was a childish thing to say, and yet Rinka found herself agreeing with him. “Not many things are.”