One Salt Sea

ONE

THE SWORD SWUNG FAST AND HARD toward my face, leaving me with barely enough time to raise my own sword into position to parry. The force of the blades colliding knocked me back a step and made my wrists ache even more than they already did.

“Oberon’s balls, Sylvester!” I snapped. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

“That’s generally the point of hitting someone with a sword,” he said, almost cheerfully, and swung at me again.

Having Sylvester Torquill—Duke of Shadowed Hills, pureblooded Daoine Sidhe, and most importantly, my chosen liege—swinging a sword at my head wasn’t getting less unnerving, or more fun. Not even the knowledge that our blades were magically blunted could stop my atavistic “oh, hell no” response. I blocked this stroke marginally faster than the last, shoving his sword aside and sliding my own blade under his arm. Theoretically, this should have let me hit him.

Reality wasn’t that forgiving. Sylvester twisted his sword underneath mine and slammed the flat of his blade against my fingers, causing them to open involuntarily. My sword dropped to the ballroom floor, clattering on the polished marble.

The sudden disarmament startled me enough that I forgot to dodge. Sylvester grabbed my arm, spun me around, and slammed my back into his chest, pressing his sword against my throat. “Dead again,” he said conversationally. “Can you tell me what you did wrong?”

I swallowed, trying to ignore the blade pressing against my skin. It wasn’t easy. “I didn’t run away the second you suggested I learn to use a sword?”

“You left an opening.” He let me go, stepping back. “You need to watch that.”

“I’m sticking with my first answer.” I took a moment to wipe the sweat from my forehead before bending to retrieve my weapon. Cold moonlight flowed in through the windows above us, filling the ballroom with shadows. “Are we done yet?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re done. Now, on my word . . . begin.” Sylvester fell into a defensive position. I mimicked it as well as I could. At least he’d managed to teach me that when someone’s about to swing a sword at you, you should be prepared to stop them. Not that I ever seemed to succeed, but hell, I was trying. That was something, right?

We started circling. Sylvester was annoyingly cheerful, as always, making supposedly helpful comments about my form as he watched for the chance to hit me again. I didn’t really care about hitting him. I just wanted to take his damn sword away, since that would make him stop hitting me. It didn’t look like I was going to be getting what I wanted any time soon.

It had been a month since King Sollys—the highest fae authority in North America—pardoned me for my role in the death of Blind Michael. With my so-called crimes forgiven, the Queen of the Mists was forced to let me go, rather than setting me on fire like she really wanted to. Her life is so hard. A month was sufficient time for me to do a lot of laundry, take a few freelance jobs, pay some bills, assume control of the knowe I semi-inherited from Evening Winterrose, and learn more than I ever wanted to know about the proper use of a sword. Sylvester Torquill’s an excellent teacher, blessed with a degree of patience I’ll probably never have. Patience isn’t one of my strong suits.

I was starting to think swordsmanship wasn’t a strong suit either. He’d swing at my head and I’d duck instead of blocking; he’d move in quick and I’d fall over my own feet getting away. I was, in short, hopeless.

Sylvester aimed for my torso. I already had three bruises on my ribs, and I didn’t want another one. Bruises hurt, no matter how fast I heal. Maybe that was the motivation I needed, because I managed to bring my sword around in time to block him. Sylvester beamed. “Good!”

“Right.” I feinted, trying to hit his left leg. He parried and turned the blow aside. “I still don’t see why I need to learn this.”

“You have a talent for getting into trouble.” Sylvester pushed his advantage, keeping me off-balance with a series of quick thrusts. The bastard wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’d like you to continue getting out of it again.”

“And you think giving me a sword is the answer? I could hurt somebody with this thing. Probably myself.” I scrambled to keep my guard up, watching to see where he’d go next. I needed to keep him from pushing me back to the wall. If that happened, it was all over. Goldengreen may be my home ground, but that doesn’t actually give me any advantage I’ve been able to find.

Sylvester just laughed.

The thing was, he was right: I do have a talent for getting into trouble. I’m just not sure giving me a weapon I can barely use is the solution. I guess it’s better than nothing, but I’d still feel safer with something more my speed, like my knife. Or maybe a brick in a burlap sack.

Sylvester feinted for my ankle. I parried, bringing my blade down on the wrist of his off hand before a sharp hit from his pommel forced my hand to open. My sword hit the floor. Again.

I stepped back, breathing heavily. “Jerk,” I said, between gasps.

“You’re getting faster. I would have lost that hand if your blade weren’t blunted.” He picked up my sword and offered it to me, hilt first. “Shall we take a break?”

I glared and snatched the sword from his hand, sheathing it as gracefully as I could before I bowed. He bowed back a heartbeat later, doing his best to conceal a smirk. The session wasn’t over until we exchanged bows, and walking away without observing that little formality would leave me open to an ambush. He’d managed to hit me upside the head three times before I caught on, but now I wouldn’t turn my back on Sylvester without seeing him bow. He was sneaky. He also hadn’t taken a student in a long time, and he was positively glorying in the chance to beat me around the block.

“Fifteen minutes, and then it’s back to work,” said Sylvester, straightening. “Let’s get something to drink. You look terrible.”

I groaned. “Fifteen minutes? You’re killing me.”

“You’re only complaining because you’re used to being lazy.” Sylvester sheathed his sword as he walked. If I tried that, I’d probably stab myself. “This will be easier when you’re in better shape.”

“Says you.”

What Sylvester was carefully not saying is that I’m in better shape now than I’ve been in for years, if ever. I was born a changeling, half-human, half-fae. My heritage made me slightly faster and sturdier than the human norm, but it was still nothing to write home about. I got tired. I got broken. I nearly died—several times. A little fae blood doesn’t make you immortal. All it does is make you slightly harder to kill.

All that changed when a paid assassin hit me with elf-shot, a type of enchanted arrow that puts purebloods to sleep for centuries and kills changelings. It should have killed me. Instead, my mother emerged from her private madness and saved my life by changing the balance of my blood, burning out part of my mortality in the process. What Amandine did was impossible . . . for everyone but her.

I grew up knowing my mother was the best blood-worker in Faerie. I also grew up believing she was Daoine Sidhe, which meant that I was, too. That’s just one of the lies my mother told me. It turns out that Mom is Oberon’s daughter, making her just as much Firstborn as the Luidaeg or Blind Michael. The normal rules don’t apply where she’s concerned, and her descendants—namely me—aren’t Daoine Sidhe at all.

Some things started making sense after Amandine’s little parlor trick. My crappy illusions, for one; Daoine Sidhe are supposed to be great illusionists, and mine, frankly, suck. Titania is the Lady of Illusions, and I’m not hers. Everything else just got more confusing.

According to the Luidaeg—Firstborn daughter of Maeve and Oberon, which technically makes her my aunt—I should have always been this way. Amandine didn’t want a changeling daughter, so she tried to turn me human when I was too young to understand. She didn’t succeed, but she did weaken me enough that for years I believed her when she said that I was just a low-powered Daoine Sidhe. All she really did when she changed the balance of my blood was restore me to my original state. Too bad it was entirely new to me.

Some of the changes were immediate, like the blonde streaks in my stick-straight brown hair. Others came with time. I’ve been speeding up and getting stronger as my body adjusts, coming closer to what the purebloods consider “normal.”

It’s scaring the crap out of me.

Sylvester knows me well enough to know that the changes were scaring me, and I suspect that’s why he finally decided to make good on his threat to teach me to use a sword. By his logic, if I learned to work with my body again, it might start feeling less alien. It was worth a try.

At the moment, my instructor was looking at me with amused affection. “Days like this remind me that you were never a proper squire. If you had been, your knight would have worked you the way I’m working you now.”

“Etienne tried.” I was knighted for solving a murder and finding a new knowe for the Queen. I was never trained as a squire, although Sir Etienne did his best to train me after the fact . . . until I got on his last nerve and he begged to be released from his teaching duties, that is. What can I say? I’m gifted in the art of making people crazy.

Sylvester started walking toward the door. “I’m working you like this because I care about you. A knight’s goal is seeing his squires survive.”

“I know.” I followed him, fighting the urge to sigh. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

“You’ll recover, and you’ll tire more slowly next time.” He smiled. “You’re a Countess now, remember? No more weakness for you.”

I did sigh this time. “How could I forget?”

When the Queen of the Mists made me Countess of Goldengreen to clear a perceived debt—long story—the knowe of the same name came with the title: a big, slightly insane hollow hill full of pixies, bogeys, and dry-rot. It’s nowhere near the size of Shadowed Hills, thank Oberon, but it’s bigger than your average shopping mall. That’s been sort of a blessing in disguise, since when Lily, the Lady of the Japanese Tea Gardens, died, she asked me to take care of her subjects. All of them.

Most changelings don’t have the resources to house a fiefdom’s-worth of Faerie’s cast-off odds and ends. Most changelings don’t have access to entire knowes. I put two and two together, and things became almost functional, by certain generous definitions.

The ballroom Sylvester and I used for our lessons was one of the first rooms to be cleaned out and restored. The kitchen across the narrow servants’ hall was another. It was a square room almost the size of my apartment, probably designed to prepare banquets for kings and queens. One side of the room was dominated by a scarred oak table, used both for meals and for food preparation; a tray of sliced bread, cheese, and apples was laid out for us there, next to a clay pitcher of water. I smiled, recognizing Marcia’s handiwork.

Sylvester unbuckled his sword, hanging it from a hook on the wall before sitting. I mirrored the gesture, taking a seat at the other side of the table. Sometimes it amazes me how well I’ve internalized the often erratic etiquette of the purebloods, which mixes the sensible and the insane with surprising ease. Never say “thank you” if you can help it; keep your promises even if it means your death; never bring a weapon too big to double as a dining utensil to the table when dining with friends.

I took the cup of water Sylvester handed me and emptied it in a single gulp, holding it out to be filled again. This time, I forced myself to sip, feeling my heartbeat return to normal. Whether or not I appreciated the archaic nature of swordsmanship, I was grateful for the training. I needed to relearn my limits before I got myself hurt.

We were quiet for a few minutes, most of my attention going to the food. I’ve always been a fast healer, and thanks to Amandine’s tinkering, I’m beginning to approach superhero status. It takes a lot out of me; I’m starting to get “hunger” hard-wired into my pain responses. Sylvester ate more slowly, studying me. I quirked an eyebrow upward, watching him watch me.

Sylvester Torquill is classic Daoine Sidhe, with the pointed ears and striking coloration common among their purebloods. His hair is russet red, and his eyes are a shade of gold that’s shared by every Torquill-by-birth I’ve ever met. He’d been looking tired recently, new lines appearing on his eternally youthful face. I wasn’t all that surprised. It had been one hell of a summer, and it wasn’t over yet.

The silence lasted until half the bread and all the cheese was gone. Then he said, “I wanted to discuss something not related to our lessons, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” I said. “You’re my liege.”

“Only because you still swear to me—you’re a Countess now, and could ask to be released at any time.” He smiled a little. “I am here on your sufferance.”

“My sufferance has nothing to do with it,” I said, grimacing. “You’re here to remind the Queen that you have a standing invitation to visit my lands and she doesn’t, even if she has a clear line of fealty on me. And it was your idea.”

“Even so, I’m asking you as your friend, not your liege, and I’d like you to consider my request the same way. It’s a request, not an order.”

I sat a little straighter. “Sylvester, what’s going on?”

“Nothing bad. Don’t be so paranoid.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” I said, eyeing him. In the past two years, I’ve been shot, stabbed, poisoned, betrayed, and nearly clawed to death, frequently while in Sylvester’s service. This endless excitement has left me with too many scars for polite company, nightmares I try not to think about, and a resident Fetch who teases me about my tendency to spend Sundays in my bathrobe watching TV and spending quality time with the cats. I’ve earned my paranoia.

“I’m sorry! ” He held up his hands in surrender, not quite swallowing his laughter. “I promise not to question your right to be irrationally worried by everything I say. Now will you listen?”

“As long as you don’t say the words ‘simple,’ ‘little,’ or ‘favor,’ we’re fine.”

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

I closed my eyes, counting to ten. It seems like every time I do Sylvester a favor, somebody winds up dead. It’s not his fault, but it’s still enough to make me superstitious. “What is it this time?”

“You were never a squire, but you were knighted.”

That was surprising enough to make me open my eyes. I squinted at him. “Are you yanking my title?”

“Oh, no; far from it. I’m simply requesting you do your duty as a knight and take a squire.” His expression was open and guileless. Never a good sign. “Your methods are unorthodox, but in today’s world, being able to drive a car and survive among the mortals are probably more useful arts for a young knight than riding horses and looking noble. Any holes in your educational methods can be worked around.”

“Even assuming I agree, that’s going to be a hard sell,” I said slowly. Take a squire? Me? I have trouble keeping myself alive. “Where are you going to find somebody who’s willing to have their kid squired to a changeling from an unknown bloodline? Especially one with my track record?”

Sylvester smiled. “I’m responsible for the training of those fostered in my care. That includes selecting their knights when necessary.”

“You . . .” I stared. “Please tell me you’re not about to say what I think you’re about to say.”

“I’d like you to stand as Quentin’s knight.”

I groaned. “That’s what I was afraid of. Sylvester, I can’t. I’m not a good influence on him. I keep getting him shot. I swear too much, I don’t brush my teeth every time I go to bed, and I never remember to eat a balanced breakfast. You want someone with culture. Poise. A lack of gunfire.”

“You’re his friend. You’ve already been responsible for much of his training. You’re the one who convinced Etienne to start giving him fighting lessons—no one else had seen the need to start them until he was older. And—”

I saw my chance, and I seized upon it. “Yes! Etienne! Etienne would be a much better knight for him. Etienne even lives at Shadowed Hills—he’s convenient, he’s a great guy, he’d be perfect for Quentin. He knows how to do proper knightly things, like using a sword and not getting shot.”

“And being hidebound, formal, and unwilling to deal with the modern world when he doesn’t have to,” Sylvester said. “Are these qualities you’d like to inspire in Quentin?”

“I . . .” I stopped, closing my mouth, and glared at him. “That’s low.”

“That’s as may be. Did it work?”

“I still say Etienne would be better for him.”

“Quentin is my foster, not yours, which makes this my decision. I’ve spoken to his parents. They know all about you, and they think you’re the best possible knight for him. He’ll eventually inherit his father’s lands, and they’d like him to be more flexible than most of his generation. He listens to you, considers you a friend, and looks to you as a mentor. Can you really say I’m going to find someone better?”

I wanted to say, “Of course you will, don’t be silly.” I wanted to say, “Absolutely, and I’ll be happy to help.” When I opened my mouth, what came out was, “What would I have to do?”

Sylvester had the grace not to look smug. “You’ll be responsible for his training in blood magic and dealing with the mortal world. We don’t expect you to teach him the courtly arts—we’re handling that at Shadowed Hills—but the practical side of things needs equal attention. Are you still in the apartment?”

“Yeah. Why do you—”

“It would be good if he could live with you at least part-time, but it’s not essential. If it’s a matter of finances, we own a great deal of property all around the Bay Area. We could help you find something.”

“Uh, right.” Sylvester and Luna have been in Shadowed Hills since the eighteen hundreds, and they’ve had a lot of time to shop for land. Fae, especially purebloods, tend to take a long-term view of investments, and land always goes up in value. There are worse ways to build a fortune, if you have the time.

“So you’ll do it?”

I hesitated. Taking a squire isn’t something to be done lightly. Quentin was a good kid, and he deserved to be taught whatever he needed to know in order to stay alive. Was I really the best choice to educate a pureblood? Especially one who’d already been shot thanks to me, and who’d helped to orchestrate the jailbreak to get me out of the Queen’s clutches?

There was only one way to find out.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

Sylvester grinned. “I knew you would. Now come on. It’s been fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, Maeve’s teeth.” I groaned, dropping a half-eaten apple slice and pushing myself back to my feet. “I was too busy thinking to rest. That’s not fair.”

“Neither is combat. Stop whining. You have a squire now, and that means you have to be the mature one.”

“I should have read the fine print.”

Sylvester just laughed.

We buckled on our swords and walked back to the ballroom. I groaned again as we crossed the threshold: we had company. May and Quentin were sitting on a bench against one wall, and they looked like they were planning to stay a while.

Sylvester smiled brightly when he saw them. “Good day, you two!”

“Good day, Your Grace,” Quentin said.

“Hey, Syl,” May said, waving back. Quentin flinched. He’s loosened up a lot, but he still can’t seem to wrap his head around the idea that nobles have personal names, much less diminutives.

“What are you doing in here?” I asked. Sylvester turned and bowed to me. I responded automatically. It’s no good arguing once Sylvester decides practice has started. Refusing to get my sword out would just result in some painful new bruises.

“We came to watch you work,” said May. My former Fetch was dressed like an acid flashback to the mid-80s, combining virulently pink jeans with a silver foil concert T-shirt for a band I didn’t recognize. Rainbow barrettes were clipped in her short magenta-and-green-streaked hair.

May and I used to be functionally identical, before the elf-shot “killed” me. She was supposed to fade out of the world completely that day. That’s what Fetches do. Amandine somehow stopped that from happening, and that broke the connection between us. May gets to live. And since we weren’t connected when Amandine changed the balance of my blood, May still looks like the changeling I used to be, while I barely recognize myself in the mirror some days. I’m still not sure how I feel about that.

“It was May’s idea,” Quentin added.

“I’m sure it was,” I said. Sylvester started circling. I dropped into a defensive position. “I’m not really comfortable with this, May.”

“Cope,” she said.

“Maybe an audience will make you shape up,” Sylvester said, and lunged.

I parried. “Maybe an audience will distract me and get me gutted.”

“Let’s see some carnage!” hollered May, pumping her fist in the air.

“This isn’t professional wrestling!” I snapped, trying to hit Sylvester’s ankle. He blocked, turning my thrust aside and nearly disarming me. “And I swear if you shout ‘take it off,’ I am coming over there.”

“Take what off?” asked Sylvester.

“Nothing, Your Grace,” Quentin and I said in unison.

“Wimps,” May said.

“Shut up.” I parried again. Sylvester pressed his advantage, and I fell back, trying to keep him from hitting me. The distractions faded away as I focused on the rhythm of his attacks. There was a slight pause after each swing. It wasn’t long, but it was there. I knocked his sword aside and lunged for his stomach, slamming the blade of my own sword into his middle just above the navel.

Sylvester stopped immediately. “I believe that was a killing blow,” he said, sounding both slightly winded and ridiculously pleased for someone who’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

I lowered my sword and stepped back. “Does that mean we’re done?”

“My dear, you just killed me for the first time. This calls for celebration.” He bowed, signaling the end of our bout. I bowed back. “How did you catch me?”

“There was a pause between your attacks while you brought your sword back.”

“I wondered how long it would take you to notice. It won’t be there next time.” He winked as he sheathed his sword and handed it to me. “We’re ready to make things hard.”

“Oh, lucky me,” I muttered, walking over and hanging our swords on the wall before heading toward May and Quentin. “Happy now?”

“Don’t touch me.” May wrinkled her nose. “You’re all icky, and I have a date.”

“Jazz meeting you here?” She nodded. “Will you be home tonight?” May and Jazz—her Raven-maid girlfriend—had been getting serious, despite the little issue of May being essentially nocturnal, like most fae, and Jazz being diurnal, like most birds. We’d already had the discussion about whether or not Jazz was allowed to move in.

I said yes, of course. At least when Jazz is around, May occasionally lets me have the remote control.

“We should be,” May said.

Sylvester walked up, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He didn’t look half as beat as I felt. Sometimes the world isn’t fair. “Ah, Quentin. A word with you?” I glanced to him, and he nodded. “It seems appropriate to do it now.”

I swallowed the urge to protest. “You’re the boss.” We’d have to tell Quentin eventually.

Quentin looked between us, frowning. “What’s going on, Your Grace?”

“Quentin, do you remember that I said I was looking for a knight for you?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said.

“If you assigned him to Etienne, I get to hit you,” May added.

I eyed her. “Why?”

“Because ‘boring’ is not a virtue.”

Sylvester smiled. “No, I’m not assigning him to Etienne.” Quentin’s shoulders relaxed: interesting. I hadn’t realized he felt so strongly about the subject. “I can guarantee that the knight I found for him isn’t boring.”

May gave me a speculative look. “Is that so?”

“May—”

“Your Grace, may I speak?”

Sylvester and I both stopped, blinking at Quentin. Sylvester recovered slightly faster than I did, and asked, “Yes, Quentin?”

“I’d like to request I be assigned to Sir Daye.”

All right, I hadn’t been expecting that. “Oak and ash, why?” I demanded, before I could stop myself.

“Because he has taste,” said May.

“Because I think I have a lot to learn from you,” Quentin said, before elbowing May sharply in the side. She yelped. “I like you, and you teach me things no one else does.”

“Like what it feels like to be shot?” I asked.

“Like how to do what needs to be done. Please, Your Grace, I’d like you to consider my request. If she’ll have me.”

I looked to Sylvester. He wasn’t making any effort to hide his smirk. I sighed. “I’ll have you,” I said.

“I already talked her into agreeing,” Sylvester added.

Quentin looked between us, eyes going wide. “Really?”

“Really,” I said.

“Wow. I owe you five bucks,” May said, looking to Sylvester.

“I told you she’d agree.” He clapped me on the shoulder with one hand. “Come on, you three. Marcia promised a celebratory lunch if I could convince Toby to take a squire.”

I gave him a sidelong look. “You were betting on this?”

“Yes, we were,” he said, nodding. “Now come on. We need to work out when his squiring ceremony will be held—and whether you’d like it here or at Shadowed Hills.” Still smiling, he turned and started to walk away. May flashed me a thumbs-up and followed.

Quentin hung back, asking, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Mind? That I’d been talked into taking a squire who obviously wanted to work with me? The vision of Quentin lying shot and dead on some field was receding, replaced by the slow realization that having a squire might not be such a bad deal after all. He already had my back whenever I needed him—hell, he’d helped Tybalt save my life when the Queen threw me in jail for Blind Michael’s murder, and that took guts, since it was technically treason. Maybe he was just a kid, but he knew what he was doing. He’d better: I’d taught him.

I grinned, putting my hand on his shoulder in much the same way Sylvester had put his hand on mine. We were almost the same height. Oak and ash, he was growing up fast. “Actually, Quentin,” I said, “I think this is going to work out just fine.”