Once Broken Faith

SIXTEEN

OUR GROUP WAS THE only one in the gallery when we arrived. Arden was the last one through. A door opened at the back of the stage as the portal closed behind her. Maida and Aethlin entered, followed by their guards. Maida cheated a glance at Quentin as she walked to her throne. He offered her a thin, heavily shuttered smile that made my heart hurt. What was the value of a throne if this was what it meant for the relationship between parent and child?

Tybalt settled in the third row from the stage. Either they hadn’t offered him a throne, or he’d declined it; both options made sense. He was watching Maida intently, and I wondered whether his thoughts and mine had been following similar paths. Probably not. Children were a concern for later, when he was no longer King and I was no longer getting stabbed on a regular basis. Which probably meant children were a concern for never, no matter how much I might quietly wish otherwise.

Siwan entered from the right side of the stage, moving to settle on her throne. Maida and Aethlin took their seats, looking to Arden. In turn, she looked to the Luidaeg. The Luidaeg nodded.

Arden turned her attention to the front of the gallery. “Open the doors,” she commanded.

Two previously unseen courtiers pulled the doors open, and the gathered nobles, household staffers, and assorted onlookers poured through, looking suspiciously at one another as they settled. There were no introductions or other niceties today. The murder of King Antonio had successfully turned the conclave into a prison, and had removed any convivial atmosphere that might have otherwise arisen.

Patrick walked in alone, head held high, a loop of pearls tied around his upper arm like a lady’s favor. He nodded and met my eyes as he sat. I nodded back. He wasn’t going to be happy about the fact that Dianda was set to stay asleep for a day, much less for the duration of the conclave. He would also, probably, understand. He’d been doing this long enough to know how things worked. That didn’t make the thought of telling him any easier.

The doors closed. The High King and High Queen rose, suddenly regal, suddenly untouchable. “Before we resume the business of this conclave, a new matter has been brought to our attention,” said Aethlin. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The spells were active again, the air crackling with the faint scent of hot oil and ramps. “Will Duke Patrick Lorden of Saltmist please rise and approach?”

Patrick stood. A murmur spread through the crowd as he walked to the stairs and mounted them, slowly moving to the spot on the stage reserved for presenters.

“Please tell this conclave what happened.”

“After yesterday’s session, while I was retrieving refreshments for my wife, an intruder entered our quarters uninvited and struck her down,” said Patrick. His voice never broke; his gaze never wavered from Duke Michel. “She was elf-shot by a coward who knew the Undersea would see this as an act of war, and did not fletch the arrow in the colors of their demesne.”

“How can you be sure she didn’t elf-shoot herself, to influence this conclave’s decision?” The question came from Maida, which may have been the only reason it wasn’t immediately followed by Patrick launching himself at the person who asked it. He’d been living in the Undersea for a long time. As it was, I saw the tension in his shoulders, and the way his fingers struggled not to ball into fists. He wanted to hurt her for even asking. I couldn’t blame him, even as I silently thanked him for his patience.

“Elf-shot is not a weapon of the Undersea, Your Highness,” he said. His voice was calm and clear. “We’re here because we wish to know what is decided, and because our son is a Count sworn to service of this crown, not because the ban will impact our daily lives. Elf-shot is a coward’s weapon. Even were my wife a liar and a manipulator of men, she would never use elf-shot on herself. She wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Maida nodded before looking to me. That was my cue, then. I stood, offering quick bows to the thrones and to Patrick, who wasn’t technically my superior, but who sure needed the support, before walking up the steps to stand beside him.

“The arrow entered Duchess Lorden’s shoulder from the front, passing through several layers of muscle before coming to a stop,” I said. “Even if she’d wanted to stab herself, the shaft of the arrow was too thin. It would have broken. It needed to be fired from a bow, and as there was no bow found with the Duchess’ body, she didn’t do that.”

“Sir Daye,” said Maida. “Do you know who shot the Duchess?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know this?”

“Karen Brown, the oneiromancer, who has been accepted by this conclave and vouched for by the sea witch, led me into Duchess Lorden’s dreams. Duchess Lorden saw the man who shot her.” I watched the crowd as I spoke. Duke Michel had gone very still, and was staring straight ahead, trying to look like none of this was bothering him. Poor thing. He’d been expecting to get away with it.

“Who was that man?” asked Maida.

“Duke Michel of Starfall.”

“I object to this . . . this mockery!” shouted Duke Michel, jumping to his feet. Apparently, he was going on the offensive. Good. That would make him easier to knock down. “You’d take the word of a changeling who claims to have walked in a mermaid’s dreams? What next—we listen to the testimony of pixies?”

“I would, if the pixies had something important to say,” said Maida. “There is an easy solution to the question of whether Sir Daye is telling lies.”

“I am not a liar,” I said. “I would be happy to accept my punishment, if I were.”

“Excellent,” said Aethlin, sitting forward while Maida sat back, her part in this little shadow show complete. “The fastest, most honorable way for us to resolve this is, as always, through the blood. Duke Michel, will you approach the stage?”

Duke Michel went white. He’d always been a pale man, but now he looked like a wax dummy, bloodless and trapped. “I would prefer not to bleed for the amusement of the masses,” he said stiffly.

“And I would prefer not to have a dignitary from the Undersea lying elf-shot in a private room, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned since assuming my throne, it’s that none of us is guaranteed our heart’s desire,” said Aethlin. There was a warning beneath his words, mild as they were: this was the High King. Refusing him could have negative consequences, not only for the unfortunate Duke Michel, but for the entire Kingdom of Starfall.

Duke Michel recognized that, or at least recognized that he didn’t have a way out of this situation. He approached the stage, keeping his eyes on High King Aethlin the whole time. He either didn’t see or didn’t acknowledge Patrick’s narrow-eyed glare, or the way people leaned away from him as he passed, making sure he didn’t taint them by association.

When he reached the stage, he walked up the three shallow steps and knelt in front of the High King’s throne. “This is an insult,” he said, in a tone that was probably meant to sound humble, but came off as snide, like he was too good to be accused by a changeling and a man who’d given up his political aspirations to go and swim with the fishes.

“Perhaps, but since you’ve already offered insult to Duke Torquill, it could be said that we’re merely evening the scales,” said Aethlin. He removed the ring from his left index finger and pressed his thumb against the stone, which clicked and swung open, revealing a compartment on the other side. He shook the ring above his palm. A silver-coated rose thorn fell out. Grasping the thorn between thumb and forefinger, he looked at Duke Michel. “Your hand, Duke.”

“This is an insult and a sham.”

“Again, perhaps,” said Aethlin. “Your hand.”

Duke Michel grudgingly held out his hand, managing not to wince when Aethlin drove the thorn into the meaty pad of his pointer finger. They remained like that for a moment, the king pressing the thorn into the flesh of the duke. Then Aethlin sat back, pulling the thorn free, and moved it deftly to his mouth, allowing the Duke’s blood to trickle onto his tongue.

It was theater. It was smoke and mirrors and unnecessary drama, and it was very important, because the blood wasn’t a truth detector: the blood was the truth, and the truth was a big, messy thing. If Duke Michel had been thinking about what he’d had for breakfast that morning, the High King would have gotten the memory of eggs and bacon and brambleberry jam. If Duke Michel had been thinking about his laundry, the High King would have learned far too much about how bright he wanted his whites. No: the Duke’s thoughts had to be fixed on what he’d done. Public humiliation was the surest way to bring those memories to the surface.

High King Aethlin’s eyes went unfocused for a moment before he looked at Duke Michel, sorrow etched into his features. “Why?” he asked. “I can see you drawing the bow, I can see the arrow fly, but what I can’t see is why.”

“Because the Undersea has no reason to be here; they should have no say in this matter,” said Duke Michel. All signs of humility, false or otherwise, were gone. He’d been caught, and there was no more reason for him to pretend. “You’re acting like this is a conversation, and not some sort of circus intended to blind the rest of us to the fact that you would withhold a shield against our greatest weapon. Are we truly to believe that Silences would refrain from using the tincture that returned their entire royal family to the throne? That the Mists would be willing to leave a tool shaped by one of their own unused? No. This is not a conversation. This is you pretending there’s any chance the rest of us will have access to something that should belong to all or none.”

“You shot my wife to make a point?” Patrick sounded quietly puzzled. I’d known him long enough to know how dangerous that tone was. Fleetingly, I wondered whether he was really the calm one, or whether it was just a matter of Dianda losing her temper faster than her husband did.

“I shot your wife because I knew they would wake her up,” said Duke Michel.

High King Aethlin stood. All the little whispers and rustles that had spread through the gallery stopped. When the High King rose, it was best to be beneath notice.

“This conclave will continue,” he said, in a soft voice. “Should we vote to release the cure, Duchess Dianda Lorden of Saltmist will be the first to awaken. Should we decide the needs of Faerie are better served by keeping the cure under lock and key, she will sleep for a hundred years, in the knowe where she was felled, that we might remember what our failure has meant for an innocent woman and her family. The hospitality of this kingdom will be extended to her husband and youngest son for that entire time, by order of the High Crown—should Queen Windermere step down before century’s end, her successor will be bound to grant the Lordens all the gifts and graces of an honored guest. You have done this, Duke. You have spent the coin of another kingdom as if you had the right, and for that, you must be punished.”

Duke Michel’s eyes widened. There were no rules against the use of elf-shot, which had been invented, after all, as a means of cutting each other down without killing. There were, however, a lot of rules about things like “abusing the hospitality of another kingdom.” With one simple sentence, Aethlin had changed the game.

“Your Highness, I never—” the Duke began. Aethlin silenced him with a glare.

“Whatever your intent, this is what you have done,” he said. “I apologize to Duke Torquill that he will be unable to duel you for a time, but you are needed elsewhere. You will be elf-shot. You will be held here until you wake, whenever that may be. And then, the Duchess Lorden will be asked what penalty the Undersea would lay against one who raised a hand against one of their diplomats. If she wakes soon, that penalty may be slight. If she sleeps a hundred years . . . you had best hope she understands the meaning of ‘mercy.’”

“She doesn’t,” said Patrick.

Duke Michel’s head dropped until his chin was almost level with his chest. It was done; he was beaten. All he could do now was stand silently as the High King’s guards came and led him away.

High King Aethlin remained on his feet. He looked out on the arcade, and asked, “Well? Is there any further business to be conducted before we resume discussion of the matter that has brought us here?”

“Yes, Highness,” I said. He shot me a startled glance. I shrugged, trying to look casual, like I interrupted this sort of thing every day. Which . . . wasn’t too far off, in general, even if the specifics were somewhat unique. “I’ve been granted permission to investigate the matter of Duke Antonio’s murder, remember? I need to be working right now, not sitting here and listening to a conversation that I can’t join or influence. Anything I need to know, someone can bring me up to speed on later.”

“I see,” said Aethlin. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“I was also given permission to remove people from this conclave as I saw fit. I’d like to speak to whomever accompanied King Antonio out of Angels.”

“Very well.” High King Aethlin turned to the audience. “Will the delegation from Angels please rise and follow Sir Daye to wherever she leads? I promise you, there will be no final votes taken in your absence.”

Two Candela and a Glastig rose from where they’d been sitting on the shadowy side of the room. The Candela were unfamiliar. The Glastig . . .

“Hello, Bucer,” I said.

Bucer O’Malley, late of Home, currently of Angels, winced. “Toby,” he said.

I offered a quick bow toward the gathered thrones before hopping down from the stage and heading toward the back door. As I’d hoped, the emissaries from Angels followed me, the two Candela walking almost as silently as one of the Cait Sidhe, Bucer tapping along on sharply pointed hooves that couldn’t be muffled by anything short of being wrapped in pillows. I knew that from experience. He and I had done our share of breaking and entering back when we’d been street rats in Devin’s service, stealing what we were told to steal, shanking who we were told to shank. Since Home had been a changeling domain, there’d been no one to stop us from hurting each other—it didn’t break the Law, and so no one had particularly cared. The last I’d heard of Bucer, he’d been running for Angels, getting the hell out of town before he could be arrested for his part in the kidnapping of the Lorden boys. Looked like he’d managed to fall on his feet.

That was the thing about men like him. They almost always did.

I led my motley little gang down the hall and past the kitchens, stopping at a cold pantry that the household staff had shown me once, proud of how much ground they’d been able to recover from the cobwebs and decay. Opening the door freed a burst of cool air, and the distant, earthy smell of potatoes. “Inside,” I said.

The two Candela, who were used to dust and shadowy spaces, went willingly. Only Bucer hung back, giving me an uncertain look. “Do I have to?” he asked.

“I’m coming in with you,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going to shut the door and lock you in there to die. Even if I did, you’d have two Candela with you.”

“We’re not carrying him through the web,” said one of the Candela, sounding affronted. Her hair was pale gray, the color of volcanic ash, and cut in a shoulder-length bob. The other Candela, male, with darker hair, nodded his agreement.

“You wouldn’t have to,” I said. “You could just pop out of the room and open the door. Now come on, unless you want me asking for your King’s dirty secrets while we’re all standing around in the hall.”

Bucer slowly walked past me into the room, glancing over his shoulder several times. I followed, closing the door behind me before yanking off my gloves and dropping them on the nearest shelf. The glow from the two Candela was more than bright enough to allow me to see their faces. They looked calm. Bucer didn’t. Unfortunately, because of our history, I had no way of knowing whether that was because he’d done something wrong, or because he was waiting for me to kick the crap out of him again.

“Your King is dead,” I said, without preamble. “The person who killed him attacked me earlier today, presumably because they were afraid I was going to learn something they didn’t want me to know. Who would have wanted to kill King Antonio, and why?”

“Half the purebloods in Angels wanted him dead, for refusing to support their claims to this and that,” said one of the Candela. “All the changelings wanted him dead, for refusing to order the purebloods to leave them alone. Angels is where dreams come true, after all.”

A surprising number of film and television stars were changelings. Fae blood made them beautiful and sturdy enough to survive doing their own stunts; human blood made them resistant to the iron in camera rigs and muscle cars. And the nature of the industry was such that if you were careful, you could keep a career going for decades, writing off your apparent inability to age as clean living, drinking lots of water, and keeping a plastic surgeon on speed-dial. “Swell,” I said. “Who didn’t want him dead?”

“We didn’t,” said the male Candela. “He didn’t make a lot of rules. He didn’t interfere with people doing what they wanted to do. That’s harder to find than you’d think.”

“He brought me because I knew the Mists, and because I knew you,” said Bucer. “He wanted to be able to predict what was gonna happen at this stupid thing. Said I’d be forgiven for a few little things if I came.”

“Little things?” I asked.

“He stole the crown jewels,” said the female Candela.

I had to swallow a smile. “Some things never change, I guess,” I said. “Whoever killed him snuck up on him, yes, but they also disoriented him. I thought at first that it was a teleporter. Now, I’m not so sure.”

The male Candela frowned. “Why are you speaking so openly to us?”

“Because you didn’t do it,” I said, very calmly. “When King Antonio was killed, his Merry Dancers shattered. Fragments, all over the floor.”

The four Merry Dancers that shared our space swirled madly around their respective Candela, outward manifestations of their distress. Bucer flinched, but said nothing.

“If either of you had killed him, I’m reasonably sure you would have done it someplace where the Merry Dancers wouldn’t have broken when they fell,” I said. “Also, the magic doesn’t match up. I know what Candela teleportation looks like, and this wasn’t it. As for you, Bucer, you didn’t do it. I know your magic, I know your methods, and I know you’re too much of a coward to have tried to stab me while Tybalt was in the room.”

There was always the chance that whoever stabbed me had been aiming for Tybalt—the stake had hit me in the back, but King Antonio had been stabbed in the chest. If I hadn’t jumped in the way, the stake would have struck Tybalt in the same place. More than anything, that reinforced my conviction that Bucer hadn’t been the one doing the stabbing. He would have been a fool to attack me in front of Tybalt. He would have been a suicidal fool to attack Tybalt in front of me—and if there was one thing Bucer had taken away from our time together at Home, it was a healthy respect for how much damage I could, and would, do if I was pissed off.

“So why are you talking to us if you know we didn’t do it?” asked Bucer warily. “We’re supposed to be in the audience, paying attention to the political bullshit.”

“Why?” I asked. “You don’t have a King anymore. Does any of you have a title?”

“I’m a Viscount,” said the male Candela.

“Which means none of you have enough of a title to make a difference when the vote comes around, unless you expect the High King to go for a show of hands,” I said. “He’s not going to do that. The Court of Cats would carry the day. Even with the wards locked, you can’t keep the Cait Sidhe out, and since they’re cats, it’s not like anyone would be able to prove they hadn’t been here the whole time.” The redwood paths in the high trees could be covered with sunbathing and mouse-hunting cats, and no one would know. It was a charming image. It was a terrifying image. The Divided Courts thought they were powerful, but cats could walk through anything, because Oberon had given them permission.

Bucer and the two Candela—who hadn’t volunteered their names; it didn’t seem important under the circumstances—looked at me, waiting to hear what I’d say next. I sighed.

“Nobody liked King Antonio. Fine. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to kill him?”

“His wife,” said the male Candela.

“Frequently,” added the female, and they both laughed, small, near-silent exhalations of air. Then the female sobered, and said, “He was a poor king, but a poor king was the best thing for Angels. If you’re wondering whether there had been threats against him, dangers we ignored to bring him here, the answer is no. No, there were not. He left his seneschal to run the kingdom in his absence. Not the act of a king who feared for his life. Antonio was a braggart and a bully and a foolish, foolish man. He was also a friend. Capable of great compassion. A person, like any of us, and like any of us, he was uninclined toward pointless risks.”

What she was saying matched up with what Antonio had told me himself, although of course, that would be difficult to explain. The ridiculousness of the situation was starting to get to me. I’d spoken to a dead man, to a sleeping woman . . . all that was left was for me to find a way to have a philosophical debate with the pixies, and I would have covered all my bases. “Before he died, the world stuttered,” I said. “Before I was attacked, the world did the same thing. It wasn’t teleportation—I didn’t move—but the world moved around me. Can you think of anything that would have done that? Anything at all?”

“No,” said the male Candela. His companions shook their heads.

I swallowed the urge to sigh. This was going to be an uphill battle after all.