Late Eclipses

THIRTY-TWO

ONE ROOM BLENDED INTO THE NEXT, the rooms blurring around us until even I was forced to admit that I was lost. “Connor!” I looked back without slowing down. “Where are we?”

“Not a clue,” he wheezed. He was clearly having trouble keeping up, although he was doing his best. Selkies aren’t built to be endurance runners.

Manuel grabbed my elbow and dug his heels into the floor, jerking me to a halt. Connor slammed into us from behind, knocking Manuel and me both forward a step. “Look!” said Manuel, pointing to a heraldic rose carved at the top of the nearest wall. “We’re three halls over from the solarium.”

“You can tell your way around the knowe by the roses?” I said, feeling suddenly stupid. The look on Connor’s face told me he was feeling something similar. The staff always appeared where they were needed, like magic. I should have remembered that sometimes magic is just a convenient excuse for not looking any deeper. It’s no replacement for common sense.

“Well, yeah,” said Manuel, like it was self-evident. “It’s a heraldic rose, so we’re on the northern side of the hall, and it has five petals, so we’re in the eastern part of the north side. The rest is in the notches on the petals and the way the rose is tilted. I’m not as good as the Hobs, but I’m learning.”

Connor leaned against the wall, struggling to get his breath back. I cast him a sympathetic look before asking, “So which way is it to Luna’s room?”

“From here?” Manuel turned in a slow circle. I flexed my hands, resisting the urge to shake him until he answered. I’d already rushed off half-cocked once; I wasn’t going to do it again. He stopped and pointed down a side hall. “That way, right, left, and two more rights. We’ll come out in the library next to the Ducal quarters.”

“Then let’s go.”

We started off again, jogging until Connor was breathing better, and then breaking into a run. The knife I’d taken from Manuel was my only weapon, and if I used it, it would be to kill, not wound; Oleander’s poisons were too well-made for me to assume they’d leave people alive. If I struck out, even to defend myself, I really would be breaking Oberon’s law.

I’d worry about that when the time came … and after I knew that Luna was safe.

We ran for about ten minutes. Manuel took the lead, calling out the turns as we came to them. I wasn’t tired. I should’ve been, just like the hide-and-seek spell should’ve left me reeling from magic-burn. This wasn’t like the Luidaeg’s transformations; this wasn’t going to wear off. Tybalt seemed to think I could undo it myself—but that wouldn’t make me Daoine Sidhe. Whatever I was, it was something I was going to have to learn to live with. Of course, that was assuming I survived to live with anything at all.

“Here.” Manuel waved us to a stop.

I reached for the door he indicated. “If this is a trick …”

“I never wanted Luna to die.” He looked from me to Connor. Streaks of pixie-sweat were drying on his cheeks and forehead, making him look as young as Dare was when she died. “I just wanted to avenge my sister.”

“I believe you. Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay,” I said, and opened the door.

Light flooded the hall, filling my vision with bright spots. I blinked them away and saw that we were exactly where Manuel said we’d be: the library next to the Ducal quarters. Connor followed me, and Manuel brought up the rear, tapping the door behind himself. It slid closed, becoming a simple decorative panel.

Manuel offered the ghost of a smile when he caught my expression. “A lot of the servants’ entrances are hidden. It’s so we won’t disturb people.”

“Right,” I said. Kerry showed me the servants’ halls when we were kids, but I forgot about them once I grew up. Oleander wouldn’t have been that careless, and if she knew about the secret doors, she could have come and gone with ease. Shadowed Hills mostly employs Hobs; the knights and pages aren’t technically “servants.” All she had to do was pay attention and she could avoid them all.

Manuel kept smiling, almost desperately. He still wanted me to approve of him. Hell, after everything he’d been through, he probably didn’t care who approved of him, as long as someone did. Dare had been his only living relative, and Devin never taught his kids how to grow up. No wonder Oleander and Raysel were able to convince him to go along with their plan. They just had to give him their attention.

“It’s cool,” I said. His smile brightened, losing its anxious quality. “Now come on. We have to get to the Duchess.” I took Connor’s hand, pulling him along at a fast trot as we followed Manuel out of the library and down the hall to the filigreed silver gate leading to the Ducal quarters.

Manuel stopped, looking dismayed. “It’s closed. We can’t get in.”

“Let me,” said Connor. He released my hand and reached for the door handle, turning it—or trying to, anyway. It remained firmly shut. Connor scowled. “That’s weird. It’s supposed to open for family.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Connor, with everything that’s happened … do you really think Raysel would leave the locks open?”

“I guess not.”

“Let me try.” I stepped forward, ignoring Manuel’s startled stare as I rested my forehead against the door. “Me again,” I murmured. “Sorry, but I need another favor.”

Manuel snorted. “Quiet,” I said, sharply, before turning my attention back to the knowe. “Sorry about the interruption. Your Duchess is in danger. I know I’ve been asking a lot lately. But please, let us in.” I stepped back.

“Was that a spell?” asked Manuel. “I didn’t feel any magic—”

“Hush,” I said. Then I repeated: “Please.”

The door swung open, revealing the garden on the other side.

I cast a smile at the ceiling before grabbing Connor’s hand and running through the open door. Manuel followed us, demanding, “How did you—”

“Just run!” I said, passing the fountain. There were two smaller, freestanding gates on the other side. One would take us to Luna’s room, and the other would take us somewhere else in the Ducal quarters. I just didn’t know which was which. “Connor?”

“This way.” He pulled me forward, taking the lead as we passed through the gateway on the left and into a small, round room filled with lights.

The vast bed where Luna slept still dominated the room, but the rose goblins covering every surface were new. They were on the bed, the floor, even twining their way between the lamps and candles. Spike was curled in the middle of Luna’s chest. It raised its head as we entered, chirping a greeting.

I smiled. “Hey, guy. Good to see you.”

Manuel stopped next to me, and frowned. “Toby, where’s Luna?”

“She’s right here.” I stepped closer to the bed, a strange mixture of love and regret catching in my throat. I could see her breathe when I stood this close. She wasn’t dead yet.

“No, it’s not,” objected Manuel.

“Yes. It is.” I leaned down to touch her cheek. She wasn’t burning up anymore, but she was still warmer than she should have been. I understood Manuel’s confusion, because the woman in the bed looked nothing like the Duchess of Shadowed Hills. She looked like Luna, Blodynbryd daughter of Acacia and Blind Michael.

She was taller than the Duchess we knew, thinner, and more fragile-looking. Her skin was the alien white of new marble, and her hair was a long tangle of pink and red. The fox ears and tails she’d worn so proudly were gone, her second, stolen heritage burned away by the resurgence of her first. We might save her life, but we couldn’t save the skin she’d worn.

“I don’t understand,” said Manuel.

“You don’t need to,” said Connor. “Where’s Rayseline?”

“I don’t know. She said she was coming here.”

I straightened, turning to face him. “What did she say, exactly?”

“That she was going to see her parents. To get to the root of things.”

“The root of things?” I stared. Connor had gone milk-pale. “Oh, oak and ash. Come on!” I ran back out the door, almost stumbling as my feet hit the cobblestone path, and charged straight through the other gate. Connor was close at my heels, and Manuel wasn’t far behind.

Every child in Faerie learns the sacred symbols of our world. It’s the fae equivalent of Sunday school, packed with useless knowledge and bits of history that humans take for fairy tales. We’re taught to swear by the sacred woods, by Titania’s rose, and Maeve’s tree, and by the root and the branch—Oberon and his children. Oberon is the root of Faerie. By that same archaic, undeniable interpretation, Sylvester is the root of Shadowed Hills.

The gate led to a terraced hall, laid out like the walkway of a Spanish villa. Arches branched off to the left and right, but I kept running, following the curve of the main hall. Connor was gasping. He was close to the end of his endurance, but we couldn’t afford the risk of slowing down.

Manuel shouted, “Wait! Where are you going?”

“To Sylvester!” We were chasing blind again, but there was no other option. These were the Duke’s private apartments; Connor and Manuel didn’t know them any better than I did. Quieter, I muttered, “Come on, come on. We need the Duke.” If Shadowed Hills had ever been my friend—if a hollow hill could have friends …

A door opened to the left. I spun and dove through it, moving so fast I nearly fell before I’d finished taking in the scene in front of me.

The walls were adobe with deep insets every five feet filled with plumed gray-and-purple ferns, turning the room into an indoor garden. Wicker chairs irregularly placed around the floor created an effective barrier to swift movement; trying to run through them would mean tripping over them. Sylvester sat in one of those chairs, hands tucked between his knees, talking earnestly to Raysel. Raysel reclined in her own chair, nodding in time with his words, looking every inch the dutiful daughter.

Raysel wasn’t the real problem. That honor was reserved for the woman standing between them, honeygold hair falling over her shoulders in careful disarray, holding a tray out toward Sylvester. He smiled, murmuring something, and reached for a cup.

“No!” I shouted, and charged forward, shoving chairs out of the way.

“Toby?” Sylvester’s head lifted. “What are you doing here?” He sounded surprised and delighted at the same time, joy clearing the exhaustion from his voice. Raysel snarled soundlessly, the action going unseen behind his back. I didn’t miss it. I was never turning my back on her again.

Nerium’s expression was more frightening than Raysel’s. The amiable servitude slid out of her eyes like a knife sliding out of a sheath, leaving her expressionless and cold. Standing her ground, she flung the tray toward me. It didn’t fly well, but it did fly, spraying liquid in all directions.

“Hey!” I yelped, dodging. I was too slow: a goblet caught me on the shoulder, splashing my jacket and the side of my neck in viscous green. The liquid burned when it touched my skin. Behind me, I heard Connor bark in pained surprise. I didn’t stop. There wasn’t time.

“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Sylvester. I looked up. He was facing Raysel, his back toward the door, and Oleander was between them with a knife in her hand. The blade glistened in the light. She still wore a Hob’s face, but she wasn’t making any attempt to look like anyone but herself. The masks were coming off.

“Sylvester, get back!” Manuel flashed past me, still running. “Manuel!”

He heard me. I know he heard me, and I know he knew his former compatriots well enough to know what would happen if he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. He just kept running.

I was ten feet away and gaining speed when Manuel shoved Sylvester aside; his expression was frighteningly like the one his sister wore when she threw herself at death to save my life. Oleander lunged forward, burying her knife between Manuel’s ribs. He fell, taking the knife with him, and she found herself staring down the blade of Sylvester’s sword.

“Explain yourself,” he snarled.

She turned and ran.

Sylvester looked toward his daughter. She stared back at him, golden eyes wide and frightened. Rayseline was no innocent, but she’d been used, just like Manuel. The only difference was that she’d known what she was getting into.

“Raysel—” I began.

She whirled and ran after Oleander, moving with desperate speed. Sylvester watched her go, sword still naked in his hand. “Rayseline?” he repeated, like he’d never heard the name before.

I pushed past Sylvester and dropped to my knees, trying to roll Manuel onto his back. He was heavier than he looked—most teenage boys are—but I managed to hook my hands under his shoulders and flip him over. “Manuel?”

His eyes were open and glazed; he wasn’t looking at me. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?” It was a stupid question: the answer was sticking out of his chest. There wasn’t much blood. The knife formed an almost perfect seal against his skin, keeping his life locked inside. My own skin was burning from the liquid that splashed me, but I ignored the pain. Manuel’s danger was a lot more immediate.

“I’m fine.” He smiled. His eyes were getting more and more distant. “I’m really, really good.”

“Toby, is he—” began Sylvester.

“Get help!” I snapped, resting Manuel’s head on my knee. “Don’t talk. We’re going to get Jin, and it’s going to be okay. Just breathe until she gets here.” Connor came puffing up behind Sylvester, one hand clapped over his left shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was wet there; he’d clearly taken the brunt of Oleander’s attack.

Manuel closed his eyes. “Was that the Duke?” he asked.

Sylvester was still standing there, seemingly rooted in the spot. “Yeah,” I said.

“Is he hurt?” Manuel’s voice was fading.

“He’s fine. You saved him.” I looked back down, biting my lip as I saw how pale he’d become. “We’re gonna get you some help. You’ll be fine.”

“Liar,” he said, and smiled again.

“Just hold on. Sylvester, why are you still here? Why aren’t you getting Jin?” I sniffled. “Please, hurry …”

Sylvester knelt beside me. “Look at him, Toby.”

I glanced at the knife again and winced. Thick, nearblack blood was starting to leak out around the blade. Blood isn’t supposed to be that color. “What’s happening?”

“Was that Oleander?” Biting my lip, I nodded. Sylvester sighed deeply, putting his hand on Manuel’s shoulder. “Manuel, can you hear me?”

“Of course, my liege.” Manuel opened his eyes, forcing another frail smile. “Can I be of service?” His voice was fading in and out, becoming weaker.

“No, son, you’re fine; rest,” said Sylvester. “I have something for you.”

“We need to help him.”

Sylvester raised his eyes, looking at me. “There’s no help for him now, October. You know that.”

“There must be something!” Connor put his hand on my shoulder. I fumbled to take it, clinging.

“Oleander does her work too well. Let go.” Sylvester looked at Connor’s hand and said nothing, turning back to Manuel. “You’re going to die, Manuel. I’m sorry.”

Manuel licked his lips, whispering, “I betrayed you.”

“I know,” said Sylvester. “I knew as soon as I saw Raysel’s face.”

“She betrayed you, too.”

“I know. Hush, now.” He closed his eyes. “By the root and the branch, the rose and the tree, by oak, ash, yarrow, and thorn, I say you’ve served me well; by the moon and stars, by ice and fire, by willow, rowan, elm, and pine, I name you a knight of my service, bound to Shadowed Hills until Faerie is no more. What say you of this?”

For a moment, I thought Manuel had already slipped past answering. Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, he asked, “Really, Your Grace?”

“Yes, Manuel. What do you say?”

“Of course. Thank you, Your … ” He closed his eyes, sighing. I waited for him to take another breath and finish the sentence.

He never did.