Free Summerfall by Claire Legrand

is no greater coward than one who has the capacity to change and yet refuses to. I have wanted understanding, but I don’t know how to achieve it, so I let others act on my behalf, even when I don’t agree with them.” His voice was bleak. “My father would have known what to do.”
    Rinka had turned to watch him as he spoke. They were pretty words, perhaps engineered to elicit her pity, but the feeling on his face was genuine.
    She moved toward him.
    “It isn’t too late, my king,” she said slowly. “We have been doing good work, the faeries and myself.” She hesitated. “The queen. And we will continue to. We can blame today’s incident on an overzealous member of the Shadow Guard, a disturbed inquisitor. No one need know about Rohlmeyer’s part in this, or yours. If they did . . . the other faeries, they would not stand for it. That information would disrupt everything we have been working toward, and I will not allow it. We must all continue our work, which is more important now than ever after recent events. We will work, and nothing is stopping you from joining us.” She paused. “It would be good for morale to see your face at more of our meetings. It would send a message.”
    Alban was quiet for a long time. “And it would be dangerous as well. Every time I see your face, it is dangerous. I have never felt . . .”
    Silence, taut and cracking.
    Rinka blew out a frustrated breath. “In faery culture,” she began, hating herself for saying it, “it is common for a man to take many spouses and lovers. And for a woman to do the same. We do not believe in obstructing passion when we are lucky enough to find it.”
    They were close now, in a dark stretch of corridor between torches. Rinka’s back was to the wall, and the cold seeped through the fabric of her gown, chilling her. She shivered—from the cold, from the heat of the king—and let her eyes fall closed when Alban cupped her face.
    “Why are you telling me this?” he whispered.
    Rinka leaned into his touch, opened her eyes. Realized his nearness, and ripped herself away.
    “I don’t know,” she snapped, emotion clouding her vision, her voice, her thoughts. “I never know what to say around you. I find your world confusing and contradictory and exhausting. You feel the same passions we do, but you hide them and dance around them. I thought it would be easy here. I thought I would come to the capital and know I was in the right place. I thought I would find friends, not . . . you .”
    “Rinka—”
    “And you’re a human. ” She had to say it; it was the most basic, the most important reason why she should walk away from him before it was too late. “I am a faery,” she said, “and you’re a human. It isn’t done. You know we cannot—If anyone were to ever find out . . .” She closed her eyes. “The taboo, my king, they say it exists for a reason. They say that if a human and one of the magic folk were to—”
    “The old stories are hardly more than children’s tales,” Alban said. “And anyway, I’ve had a thought just now.”
    “Oh?” She was seething—at him, at herself. She needed his touch. She needed to walk away, now. “And what is that?”
    “If it is a matter of reaching understanding,” he said, “of education and forming friendships between our peoples, what better way to do that than with a human and a faery who love each other? Who are united not just politically but also through love?”
    She stared at him, astonished. “Your logic is flawed, my king. For one, the mere sight of us together would inspire not friendship but outrage, even violence. For two, it is wildly presumptuous to assume I love you.”
    “Well,” Alban said simply, “don’t you?”
    “Even if I did, I wouldn’t admit to it.”
    He was quiet, and then said, “I’ve a counterargument. About the sight of us throwing the kingdom into a violent frenzy.”
    It wasn’t a funny thought, and yet his tone was so matter-of-fact that