Once Broken Faith

TEN

WHEN THE NIGHT-HAUNTS TAKE a body from the mortal world, they leave a mannequin behind, one that mimics the mortal disguise of the deceased. Those mannequins rot, bloat, and decay, just like a human corpse. There’s no need for that sort of subterfuge in the Summerlands. All the night-haunts had left of King Antonio were a few scraps of clothing and the shattered husks of his Merry Dancers, which were already dissolving into sand.

“What would have happened if Toby hadn’t found the body?” asked Quentin, after a long silence. “Would the night-haunts just have come, and not left anything to let us know that somebody was actually dead?”

“Historically, if there was no one to witness the feeding, they would leave dried leaves and rose petals, love-lies-bleeding and sprigs of marigold,” said the Luidaeg. “It’s a very specific bouquet. Anyone who found it right after someone had gone missing would know what it meant. I’m surprised you don’t.”

“We haven’t reached ‘mysterious deaths’ in my lessons,” said Quentin uncomfortably.

“Also, I didn’t know the answer to that,” I said. “Mom never taught me. Neither did Etienne.”

“Deaths in Faerie are rare enough that they probably thought you’d never need to know.” The Luidaeg snorted. “They never did understand you very well.”

“I guess not.” I turned to Karen. “You okay?”

She was pale, even for her, but she wasn’t shaking, and her eyes were clear. “I didn’t know it was like that,” she said. “How long will that night-haunt look like him?”

“A year for every year he lived,” said the Luidaeg. “Anything more would be unfair; anything less would kill them all, and we’d be right back where we started. You’ll have two lives, when your time comes. The one you lead among the living, and the one you lead among the dead.”

“Wow,” I said. “If that’s meant to be reassuring, you need to redefine how you think about the word. Any ideas on that whole ‘I heard tearing metal and then the shadows moved’ thing?”

“Not yet,” said the Luidaeg. She put a hand on Karen’s shoulder. “You ready to go back to the conclave, kiddo?”

Karen looked startled. “What? Why would we go back? Isn’t it over now?”

“If you think a murder is enough to disrupt a collection of kings and queens, it’s a good thing you’ll never be asked to be a part of the monarchy,” said the Luidaeg. “If anything, this is going to make them more determined to come to a consensus. Their honor has been threatened. How dare the world intrude?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “How dare it.”

We left the dissolving fragments of Merry Dancer where they were. I didn’t have anything to carry them in, and I didn’t know what the protocols were for handling something that was, in its way, evidence of the existence of Faerie. Maybe once they’d finished dissolving, the sand would be returned to Antonio’s widow, or maybe it would just be scattered to the wind. Either way, that was something to worry about later. Now, I had bigger problems.

I saw the Luidaeg palm one of the larger shards, slipping it into the endlessly cascading waves of her gown. I didn’t say anything. If the sea witch had a use for a piece of Merry Dancer, I didn’t want to know what it was, and I’ve learned to trust her over the years. I’ve also learned that sometimes, I have to be able to put my life in her hands—and that’s usually easier for me when I have no idea what she’s planning to do.

The hall outside the dining room seemed almost obscenely bright after spending so much time in darkness. Arden’s staff had been through, lowering the lights and hanging wreaths of black roses and blood-orange poppies below the windows as a gesture of respect for the departed. The air smelled too sweet, like they were trying frantically to stave off any hints of death.

Quentin walked beside me, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted, and his eyes fixed on the door to the gallery like he was being led to his execution. I understood the feeling. Karen and the Luidaeg trailed behind us, and somehow it seemed less like we were being followed and more like we were their appointed heralds, leading the way and attracting any dangers onto ourselves. Which nicely summed up the relationship between the monarchs of Faerie and its heroes, all things considered.

Lowri and another guard stood to either side of the gallery door. She nodded when she saw us, acknowledging our presence, but she didn’t say anything. She just stepped aside, and the doors swung open, allowing us to enter.

We were at the back of the gallery—naturally—forcing us to walk down the long aisle past the gathered nobles and vassals who’d come to participate. The room went silent as we moved toward our seats. Walther was already there, looking about as uncomfortable as I felt.

No one spoke until Quentin, Karen, and the Luidaeg were settled. I was sinking into my own seat when High King Sollys said, “Sir Daye, if you would come before us.”

Well, crap. “Of course, Your Highness,” I said, and straightened, heading for the stage.

I couldn’t resist glancing at the audience as I climbed the stairs. Tybalt was back in his seat, and while his lips were pressed into a neutral expression, I could read the worry in his eyes. That made me feel better. At least I wasn’t the only one who was miserable and scared. Maybe that was cruel of me. Honestly, it didn’t change anything, and so I didn’t feel the need to care.

“If you would tell the conclave what you have learned, we would be most grateful,” said High King Sollys. His voice was level. If he was upset about the death of one of his vassals, he wasn’t letting it show. I couldn’t decide whether that was impressive or chilling.

And it wasn’t like it mattered. “Of course, Your Highness,” I said. Stopping at my mark, I turned to face the audience. “You have been informed that King Antonio Robertson of Angels has stopped his dancing. I remained behind, along with the Luidaeg, better known to many as the sea witch, to ride his blood and determine what had happened.”

“Why do we trust you?” demanded a voice from the back of the gallery. It was unfamiliar. I squinted in its direction.

“Well, for one thing, you can see my face,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Duke Michel of Starfall,” said the voice. Its owner stood, revealing himself as a slim, green-haired Daoine Sidhe whose tabard appeared to have been made by stitching together hundreds of tiny malachite disks. Pureblood women don’t have a monopoly on clothes made of ridiculous materials.

I swallowed several comments to exactly that effect. Instead, I said, as calmly as I could, “I was under the supervision of the Luidaeg at all times. If you wish to challenge my honor, I’ll be happy to meet with you and discuss whether or not I should be insulted. If you wish to challenge her honor, that’s between the two of you. But I don’t recommend it.”

Duke Michel opened his mouth to answer. Then he stopped, eyes going to a point off to the side, and paled. I had no doubt that the Luidaeg was doing something horrible with her teeth. She was fond of that sort of thing.

“I appreciate the clarification,” he said, and sat. The other nobles from Starfall closed around him, rustling and murmuring behind their hands.

I glanced to Arden. She nodded marginally. I turned back to the gallery.

“I rode King Robinson’s blood, not because I’m a changeling, but because I’m a knight errant and hero of the realm; it’s my duty to investigate such matters. I was unable to identify his killer. He never saw them clearly.” There were other issues—the shadows jumping, that torn metal sound—but I didn’t want to reveal them like this. I would chase them down. I would find my answers. I would do it without a dozen nobles tripping over themselves trying to beat me to the prize, to prove they were better than the changeling who thought she could act like a real girl. “Because his body was still present, we decided to wait for the night-haunts to arrive.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, disbelieving, even angry. No one saw the night-haunts. No one questioned them. That’s what I’d thought, once upon a time, before I realized that sometimes doing what no one does is the right way to get what I needed. My whole career has been based around doing what no one does.

The Luidaeg stood, the hem of her gown splashing against the floor as she turned to glare at the room. The gallery went quiet again.

“Once the night-haunts arrived, I questioned them about King Robinson’s death,” I said. “They couldn’t give me any useful information, although I was able to determine, between the blood and the night-haunts, that King Robinson has an heir who’ll need to be informed of his father’s death, and protected until he can assume the throne.”

“When this conclave is over, I will travel with you to Angels to confirm this,” said High King Sollys.

“Great,” I said, feeling briefly light-headed with relief. “I’ll take the kids to Disneyland. Well. Then. Right now, I’m going to return to the dining hall, and—”

“No,” said High Queen Sollys.

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“We need you here,” she said. “You were present for the creation of this ‘cure,’ and your testimony may be required.”

Yelling at Arden got me in trouble. Yelling at Maida would probably get me arrested. I swallowed my anger, forcing my voice to stay steady as I said, “I’m not asking you to delay or cancel the remainder of this conclave. But a man is dead, and I need to find out who killed him. I can’t do that sitting here.”

“We have faith in you,” said High King Sollys. “You’ll remain with the conclave until we stop for the day.”

Of course I would. Of course the purebloods, angry at the taint of death and consumed by their own pride, would refuse to let me leave. Of course they’d risk more lives to show they weren’t afraid. Of course. Why would I have thought, even for a second, that this would go any differently? Keeping my voice tightly controlled, I asked the only question I had left: “May I sit?”

“You may,” said the High King.

I bowed, angling my body so that the gesture was directed half to the figures on the stage, half to the gallery, and fled to my seat. The Luidaeg’s eyes had gone black from side to side, and it was like looking at the deepest part of an unforgiving sea. Her lips were closed, but they seemed malformed somehow, like she was holding back too many teeth. Then she smiled at me, the color bleeding back into her eyes and the flesh of her mouth smoothing into something that looked almost human, if you didn’t know better.

“Good job not fucking it up too badly,” she whispered.

I didn’t say anything, although I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling to make sure she knew how frustrated I was. We had a dead man. We might be sharing this room with a killer. And now I got to sit and listen as a bunch of nobles argued about whether or not we could counteract a spell that had been designed by a woman who enjoyed watching changelings die. This wasn’t just foolishness. This was willful pigheadedness, and I didn’t want any part of it.

“Who will speak?” asked Arden.

Theron and Chrysanthe, the monarchs of Golden Shores, stood. “We will speak,” they said, in eerie, practiced unison. I struggled not to grimace. A glance to the side showed that Quentin was doing the same. Creepy monarchs doing their best impression of the twins from The Shining weren’t exactly a favorite of either of us.

“Then speak,” said Arden. She managed to make it sound like she was conveying a great and precious favor upon them. I wondered if she knew how much of a queen she was becoming. Maybe more importantly, I wondered if she would forgive me when she realized.

Chrysanthe and Theron exchanged a look, silent but laden with meaning. Chrysanthe was the one who took a quarter-step forward, enough to make it clear that she’d speak for both of them. “I was born daughter of the King and Queen upon the Golden Shore, and I married for love before I was tasked with the throne. When my time to ascend came, I bore my crown as an equal to my husband’s, that we might balance each other in our regency.”

Several other monarchs nodded. This was apparently important. It was uncommon, I knew that much: most demesnes were more like Shadowed Hills, where Sylvester and Luna were both in charge, but Sylvester was generally accepted as more in charge than she was, since he would keep his title if they got divorced. The arrangement Theron and Chrysanthe had meant even if they separated, took new lovers, and remarried, they’d still be King and Queen together, and would have to agree on their heir. It was a complicated way to do things, and it either signaled true love or a genuine desire for balance. Or the sort of delusion that looks like true love.

“Your Highnesses, Golden Shore is a rarity among the Westlands: we are a changeling Kingdom. Those purebloods who choose to remain among our population know well that they are considered no better than their changeling cousins. No worse, either. Equality has long been our goal, and we have, for the most part, achieved it.”

“First among farmers,” said a voice from somewhere in the gallery. Snickering followed.

Color rose in Chrysanthe’s cheeks, tinting them an odd shade of rose-gold. Golden Hinds even bled gilded. “Yes, we are a farming community. The agrarian arts are as important as any other—or have you forgotten who provides your fairy fruits? Your pomegranates full and fine, as the poets say? We grow wine-pears and silver grapes in mortal soil, and make them taste as rich as anything grown in Faerie. Without us, you’d all be shopping at Whole Foods and trying to make sense of the tasteless blobs that humans insist count as ‘tomatoes.’ We feed you. Perhaps ours is a bad hand to bite.”

The snickers subsided. No one looked particularly annoyed. This was the way purebloods did things: with snide comments and little jabs, to make sure no one forgot their place.

“The last kingdom census of Golden Shore showed that fully two-thirds of our subjects were changelings, and that is why we stand before you today, and ask you not to approve the distribution of this so-called ‘cure.’” Chrysanthe bowed. “Your attention is most gratifyingly received.”

“Wait, what?” My voice rang out through the gallery. Chrysanthe froze in the act of sitting, turning to stare at me. She looked less offended than simply surprised.

That wasn’t true of everyone. Some of the nobles who were now looking in my direction seemed frankly offended by the fact that a changeling had opened her mouth. I considered sinking into my seat and trying to disappear, but as no one was commanding me to shut up, I decided to push my luck. I stood.

“Why would having so many changelings in your community make you decide against the cure?” I asked. “Most of us don’t have a hundred years to lose.”

Chrysanthe straightened, standing again, and looked at me with almost sympathetic eyes. “How far back in your family line is your human ancestor?” she asked. There was kindness in her voice. That was surprising. “A grandparent? A great-grandparent? You may not understand the challenges faced by those who are more mortal.”

“My father,” I said, somehow managing not to wince. I was used to living in the Mists, where everyone sort of understood the circumstances of my birth, and had grown accustomed to watching the mortality bleed out of me, one drop at a time. Faerie always demanded payment for the sort of things I did. All too often, what it wanted was my heritage.

“What?” Chrysanthe looked confused. Then her eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it, Queen Windermere, if you’d keep your vassals from making jokes during what should be a serious discussion.”

“She isn’t making a joke, I assure you,” said Arden. “She’s Amandine’s daughter.”

Mom has a reputation for being the best blood-worker in Faerie. Maybe it’s unfair—I bet Eira could have given her a run for her money, if she were, you know, awake—but as she’s one of the only Firstborn still walking around and doing things, it’s not unearned. Mom being Firstborn isn’t common knowledge outside of the Mists. Quickly, I said, “My mother changed the balance of my blood to protect me, and I had access to a hope chest for a short time. I promise you, my father was human. I haven’t given up this much of my mortality out of shame or pride, but for the sake of Faerie, and to protect the ones I care for.”

“I . . . see,” said Chrysanthe, looking faintly bemused. “The choices you have made aren’t available to most of our subjects. Hope chests are rare to the point of becoming legend, and Amandine doesn’t come to visit very often. The blood they are given by their parents is the blood they will carry all the days of their lives.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m confused.”

Chrysanthe blinked slowly. “You really don’t understand, do you? You are aware of what elf-shot does to those with mortal blood?”

“As you were told earlier, I’ve been elf-shot twice,” I said, fighting to keep the chill from my voice. “I nearly died both times. So yeah, I have some idea.” The image of my daughter struggling to breathe flashed unbidden through my mind. Gillian had been too human from the beginning. The elf-shot would have claimed her if I hadn’t changed her blood. To save her, I had been forced to lose her forever. How dare this pureblood queen look at me like I didn’t understand what elf-shot could cost? I knew better than anyone.

Elf-shot could cost the world.

“Right now, with no cure, when purebloods go to war, we have to weigh the chance of putting our people to sleep for a hundred years against the desire to end the conflict quickly and cleanly,” she said. “We have to decide between real arrows and elf-shot, because it is a decision. Oberon’s Law allows for deaths in war, but most of us don’t want to kill each other, even when a conflict must turn violent.”

A general murmur of agreement swept through the room. I didn’t believe it—most of the purebloods I’d known were perfectly happy to kill each other, as long as they felt like they could get away with it—but I didn’t say anything.

“Give the world a cure, and there’s no decision,” said Chrysanthe. “Most purebloods would have the elf-shot notched before they knew whether there was a changeling in the room, because under the Law, changelings don’t count. If they kill a few mongrels in the process of subduing an enemy force, who cares? They can always wake up the people who matter. They can fill the air with arrows, and suffer no losses at all.”

I stared at her, mouth suddenly dry. What she was saying made a terrible, brutal sort of sense. I’d been looking at the cure for elf-shot as if it would somehow remove elf-shot from the equation completely: like the purebloods would willingly set aside one of their greatest weapons because the game had changed. They wouldn’t. They were never going to give it up. They were just going to change the way that they used it.

Faerie was never going to be safe for changelings. The fact that I persisted in believing it someday, somehow could be was just another sort of madness.

Chrysanthe shook her head. “The cure is too dangerous. It would take a weapon used judiciously and turn it into a weapon to be used without hesitation or thought. The Kingdom on the Golden Shore will not support its distribution, and we hope those of you with compassion in your hearts will see as we do.” She remained standing for a few seconds longer, clearly waiting for someone to speak. When no one did, she offered a shallow bow to the stage, and sat.

“We appreciate your candor,” said Maida. There was a thin note of strain in her voice. Like me, she hadn’t considered what the cure might mean for the changelings of the Westlands; she’d seen it as a salve, and not a new form of poison. I wondered whether anyone who didn’t know her origins would hear that unhappiness, or whether it only seemed clear to me because of what I’d already learned. “Who will speak?”

“I will speak,” said Sylvester. I stiffened as my liege stood, standing as straight and proud as he had on the day when he first came through the wall of my room and offered me the Changeling’s Choice. That was the real problem with being surrounded by immortals: my childhood heroes still looked exactly the same. The only one changing was me.

“Then speak,” said Maida.

Sylvester inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment. “I was granted regency over the Duchy of Shadowed Hills as a reward for my service to the Kingdom of the Westlands, and for my service before coming here, when I dwelt in the Kingdom of Londinium. I have been a hero of the realm for centuries, called upon to serve as Faerie required. By any measure, I have paid my dues as a member of our glorious society of the undying, and while I have no aspirations to be a king in my own right, I have as much a place in our world as any who wears the crown.”

His words were smooth, evenly cadenced: he was drawing on some obscure point of pureblood etiquette to make his point, reminding the others of the days when crowns were passed with more regularity. Kingdoms used to be smaller, and more prone to randomly invading each other. The situation with King Rhys and his puppet government in Silences had been unusual for the modern world. There was a time, though, when that was just as common a means of taking a throne as inheritance.

Then again, considering what had happened to King Antonio, maybe things hadn’t changed that much after all.

“We see and acknowledge your place,” said High King Aethlin.

“My wife, Luna, is the daughter of two of the Firstborn,” said Sylvester. “Her father was the monster we called ‘Blind Michael.’ Her mother, Acacia, yet lives, and is known as the Mother of the Trees.”

There was barely time to register the tension in the Luidaeg’s shoulders before she was on her feet, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. “You can’t use your wife’s parentage to support your claims of status and call my brother ‘monster’ in the same breath,” she said. “That right is not yours.”

To his credit—his small, self-destructive credit—Sylvester met her eyes without flinching. “My apologies, sea witch, and believe me when I say I have no desire to incur your wrath, but . . . your brother was a monster.”

“That doesn’t mean you have the right to call him that,” the Luidaeg spat back.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and a few people shifted in their seats, putting themselves a little further from Sylvester and the smiting that was presumably about to happen. I didn’t move. Neither did Quentin. Sylvester was Daoine Sidhe. That made him a child of Titania’s bloodline, and meant the Luidaeg couldn’t raise a hand against him, no matter how much she wanted to. The bindings Evening had placed upon her were too strong. For the first time, I was grateful for that. Sylvester and I might not currently be on the best of terms, but that didn’t mean I wanted him reduced to a fine red mist.

There was a long pause before Sylvester offered her a shallow bow. “I meant neither offense nor to claim status that was not mine by right,” he said. “I merely wish to be sure my situation is known and understood before I make my plea.”

The Luidaeg said nothing. She just stood there and looked at him. I was close enough to see the white lines beginning to thread through her irises like creeping fog. Nothing good ever came of the Luidaeg’s eyes changing. Quickly, before I thought better, I reached over and put a hand on her arm. She glanced at me, eyes going wide, startled, and—thankfully—back to driftglass green as she snapped back into the moment.

“Please,” I said softly, and managed not to scowl when the spells on the stage caught my voice and projected it to the entire room. “Can we just let him finish? Please. For me.”

“Does the changeling run this conclave?” asked a voice—Duke Michel from Starfall again. I should probably have expected him to be on my case after he’d been told to basically sit down and shut up.

What I wasn’t expecting was for Sylvester to whirl before anyone else had a chance to speak, and say, in a low, grating tone, “You have insulted the honor of my household, sir. I will see you on the dueling grounds at dawn.”

Duke Michel stared. I stared. For one shining, bizarre moment, we were united. Then Michel turned to the stage, and the moment was over.

“I’ve insulted no one,” he said. “Duke Torquill insults me by claiming insult when none was offered. I simply asked a question.”

“A question you had already asked, if in a different form, that you posed without permission to a knight sworn into his service,” said High King Sollys. He sounded almost bored, like this sort of disruption was to be expected, but was still beneath his notice. “How was that not an insult? You continually call the honor of a member of his household into question, and now he wants recompense. His claim is supported. The insult is valid.”

Duke Michel looked stunned. Sylvester looked smug. I gave serious thought to how much trouble I’d get in if I started knocking people’s heads together. I couldn’t tell whether Michel was so prejudiced that he didn’t realize what he was doing, or whether this was a calculated means of keeping the attention of the conclave focused on the wrong thing: me. The elf-shot cure was what mattered here, not my honor.

“Sir Daye is a hero of the realm and a valued part of my court,” said Sylvester, tone turning deceptively mild. “Defending her honor is only a fraction of what I, as her liege, owe to her. Bring your second, Michel. Bring your sword. And prepare to learn the error of your ways.”

“Now that this has been settled, please, Duke Torquill, if you would continue in your petition for understanding?” Maida settled deeper into her throne, posture reflecting disinterest that I had absolute faith she didn’t feel. No one could slouch that insouciantly without intent.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” said Sylvester, switching his attention back to the stage and offering the High Queen a quick bow. He was bowing so often that he was starting to look like one of those ballpark bobblehead dolls. “I have given my wife’s pedigree so that you’ll understand what we have faced, what we have endured, and what we have risen above.”

The Luidaeg, who had been standing throughout the discussion, sank back into her seat. Her eyes were clear and green and filled with shadows.

“My sister, September, is dead. My brother, Simon, lies elf-shot and sleeping, and will stand trial for his crimes against me when he wakes—crimes which, once, would have carried the penalty of elf-shot.” Sylvester’s mouth twisted like he was trying not to smile. If he had, it wouldn’t have been a gentle expression. “Who knows what the penalty for kidnapping and treason will be now? My only child and heir, Rayseline, also lies sleeping. They’ll wake within a few years of each other if allowed to slumber out their spans. How is that fair, I ask you? When my brother the criminal and my daughter his victim must sleep through the same number of years, must miss the same portion of their lives? My counterparts from the Golden Shore make a true and valid point—that we endanger the weakest among us if we distribute this cure but do not also ask that the use of elf-shot be reduced. So why not take that additional step? Restrict the use of elf-shot to the field of war and to the punishment of those who must make reparation for what they have done.”

“I would speak,” said Dianda.

Several heads turned in her direction, Sylvester’s included. He looked briefly bemused. Then he bowed again, and said, “I yield the floor.”

“Then speak,” said Arden.

Dianda rose from her wheelchair, fins and scales melting into legs as her gown, previously bundled around her waist, fell to cover her to the ankle. It was a striking, elegant movement, and I wondered how often she’d practiced it before she’d managed to get it right.

“I’m here to represent the Undersea,” she said. Her voice was level, calm; regal. She sounded like the reigning monarch she was, and it was more than a little jarring. Dianda was meant to be punching people and gleefully threatening everyone in range, not standing there giving her credentials. “We do things differently below the waves, as some of you may know. We’ve never stooped to the use of elf-shot. A sleeping prisoner must be housed, kept safe, protected; better to keep them awake and allow them to understand what they’ve done to earn their punishment. I have two questions for you, nobles of the land. First, if the Undersea can do without elf-shot, without a weapon that turns napping into imprisonment, why can’t you? And second . . . are you not regents? Are you not the rulers of your lands? How is it that this cure can’t be used as an opportunity to ban elf-shot entirely? Oberon’s Law allows for death on the battlefield. If you feel a war is so warranted that it can’t be avoided, carry real arrows. Pay for your convictions.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” snarled the King of Highmountain, jumping to his feet without being recognized or granted permission to speak. “The humans and their ilk aren’t banging on your door, stripping away your protections by the hour. We can’t afford to let our people die on the battlefield.”

“Tell that to the coral reefs, to the whales on the brink of extinction,” said Dianda. “Tell that to the dead and dying places in the sea. The humans live alongside you. They shit on us.”

“If you can’t afford the deaths you’d risk, perhaps you can’t afford to go to war,” said Patrick mildly. He didn’t rise. Technically, Dianda was the one with authority to speak here: he was just the consort. Still, no one cut him off as he continued, in that deceptively mild tone, “I was raised in the Westlands; I moved to the Undersea after I was married. It was a bit of a culture shock, going from a world where elf-shot allowed us to cut each other down while pretending our hands remained clean to one where every battle was paid for in blood, but I came to see the sense of it. When the Undersea goes to war, the seas bleed. It’s much less casual.”

“May I speak?”

I stiffened. The voice belonged to Tybalt.

Dianda glanced in his direction, looking only faintly annoyed. She didn’t like many land-dwellers, and as a mermaid, she didn’t think much of cats. But she and Tybalt were reasonably well acquainted, and she liked me; this might have been one of the only times when our association put him in better social shape, not worse. “I yield,” she said.

“Then speak,” said Aethlin.

Tybalt rose, fluid and elegant, as Dianda sat. “The Cait Sidhe have never used elf-shot,” he said. “I’ve heard the Divided Courts refer to us as brutes and barbarians—I’m sure no one in this room would ever speak of the Court of Cats in such terms, of course, but I must speak as truly as you do, and I have heard these things—but to us, the helplessness elf-shot enforces upon its victims has always seemed the more barbarous thing. As the Duchess Lorden says, you must store them, protect them, shield them, and do it all for a century’s time, and for what? So you can say you are not killers? We go to war to kill. Admit that, and let the cure be shared.”

He sat. Arden rose.

“We have much to consider, and the night grows old,” she said. “Your rooms have been prepared. My guards will stand watch alongside your own, to prevent tragedy striking us a second time. If you have any needs, please, relay them to my staff, and they will be met. For now, we are grateful for your presence, and we say good morning to you.”

The members of the audience began to rise and head for the exit. I stayed where I was, watching them go, studying their posture and expressions as well as I could without staring. Some of them looked annoyed; others looked frightened, or pleased, or even amused. No one was so obviously murderous that I felt like I could point a finger and say: “there, that’s the one who did it.”

Duke Michel of Starfall attempted to approach the stage, and was stopped by two of Arden’s guards, who moved smoothly from the wings to stand in front of him. The spells that shared everyone’s words with the room must have been dispelled or put on hold by Arden’s farewell, because I couldn’t hear what he said, only see his frustration as he wasn’t allowed to get any closer to the people in charge. The rest of the delegation from his kingdom was leaving. Finally, frustrated, he turned and went after them.

Of the four people seated on the stage, only Siwan rose and left with the rest. Arden’s guards closed the door after the last of the audience was out. Arden herself held her position for a count of five, shoulders locked, chin up, the picture of a queen. Then she collapsed onto her throne, curling her knees against her chest and putting her hands over her face. “I need a drink,” she said, voice muffled by her hands. “And then I’m going to need a drink for my drink, so the first one doesn’t get lonely. Fuck it, just give me the bottle and walk away.”

“I think you’re doing very well,” said Maida, sounding amused. Her gaze went to me. She sobered, amusement fading. “Sir Daye. Would you come here, please?”

I’d been waiting for this summons. That didn’t mean I was happy to hear it. I stood, brushing off my pants like that could take the smell of blood away, and walked toward the stage. Quentin followed. Technically, he hadn’t been invited, but as my squire, the lack of an explicit “come alone” meant he was allowed to accompany me anywhere I went. He was supposed to be learning by watching what I did. Hard to do that from a distance, no matter how much I might sometimes wish otherwise.

Maida’s gaze flicked to Quentin. She wanted him here less than I did. I could understand that. She didn’t tell him to go. I could understand that, too, and I was grateful. Being his mother gave her no authority over him when he was acting as my squire. Being High Queen gave her plenty of authority—it just wouldn’t have been appropriate for her to exercise it.

“Did you tell the assembly everything you knew of King Robinson’s death?” she asked.

“Mostly,” I said.

Aethlin raised an eyebrow. “It’s amazing how you can find a response other than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a question that shouldn’t be that complicated.”

“Nothing about this is uncomplicated,” I replied. “I told the assembly everything in broad strokes; I left out the details. King Robinson didn’t smell the magic of whoever attacked him, but he heard a sound like tin foil being ripped, and he felt a small amount of disorientation. I’m wondering if we have a teleporter playing silly games.”

“Tuatha de Dannan don’t make a sound when we open portals,” said Arden.

“No, and he didn’t feel cold or shortness of breath, which means he wasn’t pulled through the Shadow Roads,” I said. “That rules out the Cait Sidhe. I’m pretty sure he’d have noticed if it had been another Candela messing with him. How many types of teleporter are there in Faerie? Roughly?”

“No one knows,” said the Luidaeg. I glanced over my shoulder. She was still seated, slumped in her chair like the bored teenager she sometimes resembled. Her apparent age was as fluid as the rest of her. It was jarring how young she could look. “If all the descendant races were still out there, it would be dozens. But some of them have died out. Some have been slaughtered. I haven’t seen an actual Aarnivalkea in centuries. They were never that common to begin with. I think the Lampads are still around. Maybe. It’s hard to say.”

“Did no one ever think to keep track?”

The Luidaeg lifted her head and looked at me. Her face was young, but her eyes . . . those were very, very old. “We kept track of our own children, October. We did the best we could. Look how well that turned out for me.”

There was a momentary, uncomfortable silence. The Luidaeg wasn’t widely associated with a single descendant race, because most of her children and grandchildren were dead, killed by merlins who’d been armed by her sister. The Roane were on the verge of extinction. The Luidaeg, in her grief, had been holding herself apart from them for centuries.

Maybe keeping track wasn’t that easy after all.

I turned back to the waiting monarchs, all three of whom looked concerned, in that “I am in a room with an unhappy Firstborn” way, but none of whom looked like they understood. The Luidaeg’s status as mother of the Roane wasn’t commonly known. For the first time, it occurred to me that Quentin would be carrying an awful lot of secrets when he took the crown. Whether that would make him a better king was yet to be determined.

“So there are options for who could have been messing with him, if that was even what was happening,” I said. “How do you want me to proceed?”

“We have a king-killer among us,” said High King Aethlin gravely. “You’re known as a king-breaker. If we don’t want people to assume that you’ve escalated—which we don’t—you’ll need to find out who did this, and avenge King Robinson.”

“I already got that far on my own,” I said. My own voice was flat. This wasn’t what I’d been hoping would happen. “I can’t look for a killer and attend every minute of this conclave. I need three things from you.”

“You may ask.”

“I need permission to leave this room whenever I need to. I may not even enter it unless the evidence leads me here. I can leave Quentin to observe, if you like; he’s my squire, he’ll tell me everything that happens.” And that would nicely deal with both the issue of making sure the future High King understood what had been decided, and with my discomfort at the idea of stalking a killer through a half-familiar knowe with my teenage squire.

“Um, what?” Quentin gave me a sidelong look. “Backup? You’re supposed to have it, or Tybalt looks at me like I’ve done something really wrong, and I hate that.”

“Don’t look at me,” said the Luidaeg. “Unless another one of my siblings shows up, I’m staying and witnessing this whole shit show.”

“Lowri,” I said. “Or Madden. Either of them has Arden’s trust, which means they can’t be questioned without questioning the queen. Or I can call May and have her come stand between me and whatever’s out there.” Having a completely indestructible roommate was occasionally useful.

“Can’t do that,” said the Luidaeg, almost lazily. “A Fetch shows up now, all these people lose their shit. Never invite a death omen to a murder party.”

May was not going to be happy to learn that she’d just been disinvited by the Luidaeg. I pressed on, saying, “I’ll figure something out. I’ll be careful. But I need your support in this.”

“That was the first thing,” said Aethlin. “You said there were three.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The second is that I need to be able to remove people from the conclave to talk to them, with your authority, so no one can say, ‘No, I don’t talk to changelings.’ There’s a good chance our killer is here for the conclave. Before anyone takes offense, I’m also going to need to talk to the staff, and see whether anyone moved here from Angels, since our other option is that somebody with a grudge saw an opportunity and took it.”

“You don’t think that’s what happened, though, do you?” asked Maida.

I shook my head. “No, because if Arden had anyone on staff who could do what King Robinson described, I think I’d know about it. I could be wrong, which is why I still want to talk to them, but . . . it feels wrong. If I could ask for blood—”

“No.” Aethlin’s voice was hard as he cut me off.

I blinked at him. “But blood can’t lie. We’d know.”

“And I would be the High King who’d betrayed all his subjects by requiring them to bleed for someone who did not hold their oaths. Blood can be used for more than just divination. It can be used to bind, to compel loyalty. I won’t order them to bleed for you.”

I knew all too well how blood could be used to compel loyalty. That was Evening’s entire modus operandi. I still stared at him, fumbling for another way. “What if . . . what if they bled for you? You’re Daoine Sidhe.”

“My blood magic is not as strong as it could be,” Aethlin admitted. “I would exhaust myself while learning nothing useful. No blood. Not until you have cause to demand it.”

Well, this was just swell. “Got it.”

“What was the third thing?” asked Maida.

“I sort of have a bad track record with kings and queens and accusing them of things and them getting pissed at me,” I said. “I need you to tell everyone here that they can’t leave until we find the killer, and make sure they know that I’m doing this because it’s my job, not because I think it’s fun to harass the monarchy.”

“But you do think it’s fun to harass the monarchy,” said Quentin.

I wrinkled my nose at him. “That’s not the point.”

“Sir Daye,” said High King Aethlin, pulling my attention back to him. “Can you find the person who did this?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I can sure as hell try.”

“Then you will have everything you’ve requested, and may the root and the branch grace us with the answers that we need,” he said.

I nodded but didn’t speak. I was going to have to solve another murder.

Goody.