Summerfall by Claire Legrand Page A

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