One Salt Sea

FIVE

CARS I VAGUELY RECOGNIZED filled about half the spots in the parking lot closest to the Queen’s knowe. Other spots were apparently empty, but radiated an aura of “You don’t want to park here” that betrayed the presence of vehicles hidden by don’t-look-here charms that I still wasn’t strong enough to see through.

Connor glanced my way, doubtless reading the tension in the set of my mouth and the way I was practically strangling the steering wheel. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“I pretty much have to be.” I parked the car between two that I couldn’t see, taking a weird sort of pleasure in leaving it visible. “Maeve’s tits, I hate this place.”

“You, too? I always feel like I’m being measured for the killing jar.” Connor undid his seat belt and got out of the car.

“At least the Queen doesn’t hate you,” I offered, following him. My shoes provided a surprising amount of traction on both the sandy pavement of the parking lot and the loose sand of the beach beyond. Let’s hear it for high-quality heels.

“Hey, think big—she probably hates me by now. I’m dating you, and she’s already condemned you to death once.”

“Sad for her that I’m hard to kill.” I eyed the rocks between us and the cave leading to the Queen’s knowe. “I’m going to fall in.”

“That’s not going to be a problem.” Connor smiled as he took my hand. The scent of kelp rose around us, briefly overwhelming the smell of the sea. He tugged me forward. “Come on, it’ll be fine.”

I eyed him dubiously, but let him lead me around the rocks I would normally have walked across, down the last strip of sand, and into the shallow water. At least, it looked like he was leading me into the water. I could see it lapping around my calves, but I couldn’t feel a thing.

“Nice trick,” I said.

His smile became a grin. “There are side benefits to dating a Selkie.”

“You mean I’m getting something out of this besides the sex? Awesome.”

Connor laughed.

Intangible waves eddied around us as we waded through them to the shallow, stagnant water that pooled on the floor of the cave. For possibly the first time ever, I was going to be visiting the Queen’s knowe completely dry.

It was a lot lighter in the cave than I was used to, but that was due to the changes in me, not due to any change in the Queen’s décor. My night vision has improved with the rest of me. I gave Connor one last sidelong glance, wishing we could skip out and go to a movie or something instead, and pulled him through the cave’s rear wall.

The stone faded into cool mist, turning the world gray and sending electric tingles through my skin. We kept walking. The mist thinned and finally disappeared completely, leaving us standing in the Queen’s knowe . . . but not the part of it I was expecting. Connor dropped my hand.

“Whoa,” he said.

I silently shared the sentiment.

Normally, the beachside entrance to the Queen’s knowe leads to a vast, cavernous ballroom that seems to extend for the better part of forever. Not this time. Instead, we were standing in a large antechamber, clearly intended to control the flow of arrivals. It might have seemed imposing if I hadn’t been expecting the ballroom. Since I was, it just seemed ostentatious, like it was trying way too hard.

The walls were blue-white marble and pink coral, and the floor was pink-veined white marble. It was like we were standing inside a giant wedding cake. The room ended in set of ornately carved oak doors at least fifteen feet tall, flanked by a pair of Daoine Sidhe wearing the Queen’s colors. One had dark blue hair; the other’s hair was almost exactly the color of cotton candy.

“Can you even dye my eyes to match my gown? Jolly old town,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Ignore me.” I released my human disguise, leaving the smell of copper and fresh-cut grass hanging in the air. “So are you ready now?”

Connor’s disguise dissolved into the scent of kelp and seawater. “Still no.”

“Good answer. Come on.”

The blue-haired flunky stared straight ahead as we approached, his nose wrinkled slightly, like he smelled something bad. I grimaced as we got close enough for me to recognize him. Dugan Harrow, everybody’s favorite landless asshole.

“Who comes?” he demanded, once we were too close to be ignored without violating the rules of propriety.

Even I knew better than to be flippant with a member of the Queen’s retinue at a time like this. I straightened and said, “Countess October Christine Daye of Goldengreen, Knight of Lost Words, sworn to Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills.”

“Connor O’Dell of Saltmist, current Undersea diplomatic emissary from Saltmist to Shadowed Hills,” said Connor.

Dugan scowled. “You may pass,” he said, not bothering to conceal his resentment. We—a changeling and a skinshifter—were invited guests, while he, a pureblood Daoine Sidhe, was stuck on door duty. He kept scowling as he turned in practiced tandem with the other footman to open the vast oak doors, revealing a long, dimly-lit hall that matched the entrance chamber’s design. I walked past them with my head held high, not making eye contact.

Connor walked beside me, waiting until the doors were closed behind us to grin and say, “You always say you hate your name. Why don’t you go by Christine?”

“Be quiet.”

“We could call you Chrissie.”

“Shut up.”

Connor snorted and stopped talking. He didn’t stop looking amused.

A series of diaphanous curtains the color of new-fallen snow billowed from the ceiling at the end of the hall, turning the ballroom beyond into a watercolor abstraction. Connor’s hand sought mine, gripping tightly. I shot him what I hoped was a reassuring look, and we stepped together through the layers of hanging fabric.

The curtains parted around us like a slightly more solid version of the wall we’d walked through to enter the knowe—and just like the wall, when the last of them fell away, it was to reveal a world transformed.

The main hall had been decorated for the occasion, elevating it from “grand” to “practically unreal.” Gray silk ribbons were wrapped around the filigreed ivory pillars studding the room, and layers of white covered the walls, making it impossible to pinpoint the entrances. The royal crest of the Kingdom of the Mists hung from each of the four balconies; no matter where you looked, you’d know whose territory you were in.

More ribbons hung from the heavy chandeliers overhead, eddying with the movement of the crowd below until they drifted dangerously close to the candles around them. The candlelight itself was bright and diffuse at the same time, turning everything faintly unreal. I shuddered, squeezing Connor’s hand. I hate candlelight.

And then there were the people.

There are dozens of fiefdoms in the Kingdom of the Mists. Most of them have at least one noble family, and for an event this size—an event meant to prevent a war— everyone had come out of the woodwork to prove their willingness to make an effort. Everyone. I didn’t recognize half the people. They were all dressed to the nines, mingling and chatting while they ignored the servants weaving among them with trays of drinks and canapés. Only the faint air of unease disturbed the illusion of glamorous society; this might be the last peaceful night in the Kingdom for quite some time.

My feet were suddenly numb, refusing to let me move. “I don’t think I can do this,” I said.

“Just smile.”

“I don’t think I can do that either.”

“Try.”

I took a deep breath and scanned the room, looking for something safe to concentrate on. I found it in a woman standing at the nearest banquet table, picking disinterestedly at a roast Wyvern. She had marigold-colored hair, and was the only person in the room wearing jeans. I pointed at her. “Is that who I think it is?”

Connor followed my finger. Then he nodded. “Yup.”

“Oh, thank Oberon. I was afraid we’d be the only sane ones here.” I began to wade determinedly through the crowd, hauling Connor with me.

The woman looked up as though she could sense our approach, the light glinting off the lenses of her glasses, as she turned our way, smiled, and disappeared. The people she’d been standing next to stopped and stared. Very few people are as casual about teleportation as April O’Leary, even in Faerie. April makes her own rules. Being the only cyber-Dryad Countess in existence means she gets to do that.

Connor and I stepped to the side, moving into the shelter of one of the room’s massive pillars. “At least now we know they’re not letting anybody off the hook,” I said. Moving April out of her County must have taken some pretty complicated hardware. It also left Tamed Lightning practically undefended, since she was both their Countess and their early warning system.

“We already knew that,” said Connor. “They invited you.”

The air in front of us shimmered before I could come up with a retort. When the shimmer cleared, April was simply standing there, green sparks dancing off the rims of her glasses. I was almost disappointed to see that she’d traded her jeans for a proper ball gown, all crushed green velvet and black satin ribbons. Being made entirely of light has its advantages.

“October. Connor.” She accompanied her greetings with small bobs of her head. “It is pleasant to see you again.”

“Same,” said Connor.

“Hey, April.” I waved. “I see they got to you, too.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I did not wish to attend, but Elliot said I must preserve the illusion that we pay attention to events on the Kingdom level.”

That sounded like something Elliot would say. “Is he here with you?”

“No. He won the coin toss and elected to remain at the office. I am accompanied by one of the junior programmers. I believe he is trysting in the food preparation area with one of the resident Brownies. As long as my server is not compromised, it is none of my concern.” April shrugged, indicating how little she minded being abandoned. “It is interesting to see so many new faces. I still do not get out much. This was a valuable opportunity to test my new mobile server array.”

“We should fix that—the not getting out much, I mean.” I snagged two glasses of sparkling wine from a nearby servant, passing one of them to Connor. I’ve been poisoned that way in the past, but if someone wanted to go to that much trouble to assassinate me in the Queen’s own Court, they wouldn’t stop with a couple of poisoned drinks.

The wine was light and tartly sweet, with a faint aftertaste of apple blossoms.

“I am not sure I want to get out more.” April glanced around before adding, with some frustration, “These people are difficult to communicate with. They mostly just stare.”

I had to laugh. “They’re not used to you yet. You have to give them some time.” As far as I know, April is the only Dryad ever to hold a noble title. She’s definitely the only Dryad ever to have been transplanted into a piece of computer hardware. Say what you like about her adoptive mother, the late January O’Leary, but the woman had a style all her own.

“I encounter this reaction frequently.” April brushed slightly pixelated hair out of her eyes. “I really am not sure what is expected of me if this comes to conflict. I doubt the Undersea has DSL lines for me to disconnect, and my range of movement is limited by my hardware.”

“To be honest, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, either.” The Luidaeg’s shell chilled briefly, reminding me that one way or another, I was going to be doing something.

April tilted her head, looking between us, and asked, “When did you get married?”

Connor choked on his wine. I coughed into my hand, getting my breath back before asking, “Uh, what?”

“Is that incorrect? I am sorry.” April looked annoyed. “I assumed your mutual attendance signified something, given the disappearance of my cousin Rayseline. I really am terrible with this ‘interpersonal relationships’ thing. Elliot says I must find a man and attempt to have children if I wish to validate my rule.”

“Does he, now?” I asked, barely following her apparent change of subjects. Connor was still struggling to breathe. It was almost amusing, in a sadistic sort of way.

“It seems both silly and biologically improbable to me, but . . .” April shrugged, encompassing in a gesture how silly she found most social traditions. “If you will excuse me, I believe I see my Uncle Sylvester. I must say hello.” Her dress shimmered back into blue jeans and a sweater before she vanished, leaving the air to rush into the place where she’d been standing.

I gave Connor a sidelong look. “Normally this is where we’d go bother Sylvester, but for the moment, I think she can have him.”

A voice from my other side asked, “Is she like that all the time?”

“Mostly,” I answered automatically. “Other days she’s a little weird.” Then I paused, realizing the voice didn’t belong to anyone I knew. Wincing, I turned. “I’m sorry. We haven’t been properly introduced.”

The man beside me laughed with what sounded like sincere amusement. I didn’t know him. I would have remembered. He was Daoine Sidhe, but sturdier than the average, built more like a sailor than a nobleman. A light patina of verdigris covered his bronze hair, and his eyes were dark blue. His features were pleasant without being spectacular. That alone was unusual: the Daoine Sidhe seem to make a habit out of unnaturally refined beauty.

He also looked exhausted. Thin worry lines were etched into the skin around his mouth, and he had the haggard complexion of a man who hadn’t been eating or sleeping properly for days, if not weeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s nice to hear a little honesty around here. I don’t think we’ve met, although you do look familiar.”

“This is my first major diplomatic event.” Connor had recovered from his coughing fit and was tugging on my elbow, trying to get my attention. I couldn’t think of a way to stop the introduction without being rude, so I barreled on, saying, “That was Countess April O’Leary of Tamed Lightning. I’m Countess October Daye, from Goldengreen. You can call me Toby. This is my escort—”

“Connor O’Dell,” said the stranger. Connor let go of my elbow. “We’ve met. But you . . . you’re Amandine’s daughter, aren’t you? The one who killed Blind Michael.”

Sometimes I think I’ll never live either of those things down. “That’s me.”

The stranger nodded. “They say you’re a hero.”

“They say a lot of things.” I looked at him blandly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Patrick.” He smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I shot Connor an apologetic glance. Well, that explained why he’d been trying to get my attention. “Patrick Lorden?”

“The very same.”

“You’re married to the Duchess of Saltmist, aren’t you?” Leave it to me to strike up an informal conversation with one of the people we were gathered to pacify.

“That would be me.” Patrick didn’t sound offended. That was something. “Dianda’s yelling at the Queen, and I’m staying as far away as I can. My wife can be . . . forceful . . . when she gets going. Hello, Connor. Cute date.”

“Your Grace,” said Connor. He sounded mortified. I guess this wasn’t how he’d pictured introducing his girlfriend to his liege.

“Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace, but you seem more relaxed than I expected,” I said carefully. “I’d heard there were some issues.”

“By ‘issues,’ you mean the kidnapping and threatened murder of my sons?” His smile held neither warmth nor humor. “My current calm is a facade, I assure you, but as I can’t do anything to help Dianda negotiate their return, I’m staying out of the way.”

“That’s very reasonable of you,” I said. “If something happened to my daughter, I’d be a lot less capable of being sensible.” And a lot more powerless—but in the end, that wouldn’t matter. If something happened to Gillian, I’d rip the world down to save her, even if she spat in my face when I did. That’s what parenthood means.

Patrick tilted his head. “You’re a parent?”

I used to be, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Yes. Her name is Gillian. She recently turned eighteen.”

Something in my voice must have told him not to push the point. Patrick nodded instead, and said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Silence fell between the three of us, no one quite sure what to say or how to say it. I tried to cover my awkwardness by raising my glass for another drink, and stopped cold.

The candles were throwing hundreds of tiny, flickering shadows across the surface of my wine . . . everywhere but one small section at the rim of the glass, where the reflection of the room was crisp and perfectly clear. Everything but that one spot was distorted, like . . . like . . .

Like the loophole in a personal invisibility spell.

“Patrick?” I said casually, tilting my glass to get a better fix on the reflection. Now that I was really looking, I could make out the outline of a human-sized person on the balcony behind me, raising something that was either a gun or a small crossbow. The loophole wasn’t quite good enough to let me make out any details, like what kind of weapon was being aimed in our direction. If it was a gun, there was no way to guess whether the bullets would be iron. If it was a crossbow, it was probably loaded with elf-shot. Not a call I wanted to make from the other side of a ballroom.

“Yes?”

“I realize we’ve just met, and you’re probably going to think I’m insane, but I need you to do exactly what I say, okay? Don’t look surprised, don’t yell, just nod if you understand.”

I glanced to the side long enough to see Patrick’s nod. His shoulders were suddenly tense. I hoped our shooter wouldn’t notice. I was happier with them trying to line up “the perfect shot” than I was with the idea of an early shot that might get lucky.

“Good. I’m going to hand Connor my glass, and then I’m going to tackle you. Don’t fight me, don’t try to pull away. Connor, when I move, hit the floor. Don’t turn, just dive.”

“Toby, what—”

“Trust me.” I plastered a smile across my face as I turned to press my glass into Connor’s free hand. Then I launched myself into Patrick, knocking us both to the floor.

I heard, rather than saw, Connor following us down. He dropped the wineglasses as he fell, and they shattered when they hit the marble, sending glass shards flying in all directions. There was another, far more ominous sound at the same time: the zing of an arrow passing over my head. Someone screamed, and the ballroom dissolved into chaos.

People scattered, putting distance between themselves and us as quickly as they could. I ignored them, holding Patrick down and counting to ten. When no further shots were fired, I pushed myself back to my feet, letting Patrick and Connor get up on their own while I turned back to the balcony.

It was empty.

“Root and branch,” I snarled.

“Toby?”

“Alert the guards. That was an assassination attempt.” I stalked over to the arrow, crouching next to it.

It was only a few feet from where we’d been standing, the arrowhead buried in the marble floor at a depth many mortal bullets couldn’t have managed. Fae munitions may be old-fashioned, but they’re frighteningly effective. The shaft was polished, black-stained mistletoe—the generic option for elf-shot. The stain might been a clue if it had been any other color, since most noble houses keep a limited range of wood dyes on hand, but black is an assassin’s color, and there’s no noble house that doesn’t occasionally feel the need for one of those. It wasn’t going to do me any good at all.

I reached for the arrow, and stopped as the Luidaeg’s shell suddenly burned cold, telling me that touching the wood with my bare hands wasn’t the best idea. “Anybody got a shirt I can borrow?”

“Here,” said Patrick, shrugging out of his leather vest and offering it to me. I nodded the thanks that Faerie etiquette wouldn’t let me offer aloud before leaning over and carefully wrapping the vest around the arrow’s shaft.

“You may want to step back,” I said. “This thing could be rigged to explode.” On that cheery note, I gripped the arrow with both hands, and pulled.

The arrow came loose immediately—not what I’d been expecting from something that traveled with enough force to bury itself in solid stone. I staggered backward, barely managing to keep from toppling over. Once I was sure I was stable, I raised the arrow to my nose and sniffed, looking for any lingering traces of magic. The wood smelled acrid; it was a bottled spell, and, unfortunately, it was a familiar one.

“Elf-shot,” I said, disgusted.

Connor was suddenly behind me, the air crackling with the salty scent of his magic as it gathered in response to the potential threat. “Are you all right?”

I stood, giving him a reassuring nod before turning to Patrick. I shifted the position of the vest so as to expose as much of the arrow as possible without actually touching the thing. “This is fletched with owl feathers,” I said. “Does it match any design you recognize?”

“No.” He was pale but standing, and he looked like he was staying reasonably calm; that was good. The last thing I needed was a hysterical Ducal consort. “It’s nothing I’ve seen before.”

The crowd was continuing to shrink. Many of them were already gone, pouring out the doors in a panic. I just hoped the Queen’s guard would be smart enough not to let them leave the knowe.

Speaking of the Queen’s guard . . . “Where the hell are the guards?” I asked. “They should be here by now.”

“Better question: who the hell are you?” The questioner shoved herself between us, expression challenging me to give her something to get pissed off about. I didn’t have to know who she was to know that wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s not a good idea to bait anyone who looks that ready to take your head off.

She was black-haired and dark-eyed, with skin the color of clean sand and delicately pointed ears that weren’t shaped quite right for her to be Daoine Sidhe. Narrow slits that I recognized as closed gills ran along the sides of her neck. Her dress was deep blue velvet over white samite, trimmed with pearls and bits of polished shell, and she wasn’t wearing shoes. That, as much as the way she reached for Patrick’s hand, told me who she had to be.

“Duchess Lorden.” I bowed, holding it just long enough to be polite. The Merrow are one of the few purely Undersea races that can take a bipedal form, even if it’s difficult for them to maintain it for long. It made sense that she’d want to meet the Queen on equal footing, so to speak. “I’m Toby Daye.”

“What she’s failing to mention is that she’s the new Countess of Goldengreen, and that I’d be sleeping for a hundred years if not for her,” said Patrick, letting Dianda take his hand. “Please keep that in mind, Di.”

“I thought you’d prefer him unventilated,” I said. Perhaps ill-advisedly, but I’ve never been good at keeping my mouth shut.

Dianda’s eyes narrowed. “How did you become Countess of Goldengreen? I thought that knowe was sealed upon the Winterrose’s death.”

So the Undersea didn’t share the aversion to admitting death existed? That was a nice change. If it weren’t for the water part, I might have been tempted to start attending their ice cream socials. Or whatever it was they did down there.

“It was a royal appointment. I killed Blind Michael, and they couldn’t give me a medal for murder, so they slapped me with a County instead.” I started to fold my arms, and stopped, remembering the arrow.

Dianda kept glowering as she looked from my face to the arrow in my hand and back again. “How did you know?”

“The reflections in my wine were wrong.” She looked at me blankly. I explained, “Personal invisibility spells can be tailored to work on specific surfaces, but that won’t stop them from throwing reflections on things the spellcaster didn’t think to block, like liquid. I noticed something out of place, and I’m a little paranoid about that sort of thing. Connor, you okay over there?”

“I think so.” He bowed to Dianda. “Your Grace.”

“Connor,” she said frostily.

I cleared my throat. “Your Grace, I’m sorry I had to tackle your husband, but I’m glad to have been of service. I was . . . hoping to . . .” My voice trailed off. The Queen of the Mists was storming up behind Dianda, moonstruckmad eyes bright with fury. She had the skirt of her white silk gown clenched firmly in her hands, creating a sea-foam froth of fabric around her feet. I swallowed and tried my statement again, hoping to finish it before the Queen reached us. “Your Grace, not everyone here is against you.”

Dianda never had a chance to answer. The Queen stepped between us, turning her back on Dianda and Patrick. “Countess Daye, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded, ignoring the Undersea nobles.

I’ve never been one of the Queen’s favorite people, but I try not to piss her off. True anger lends her voice a dulcet shriek that can’t help reminding me of her part-Banshee heritage—or of the damage she could do if she ever got really mad.

“There was an archer under a personal invisibility spell, Your Highness,” I said, holding up the arrow. “I saw him—or her—reflected in my wine and acted to protect your guests.”

“An archer, you say,” she sniffed. “How can I be sure it wasn’t you?”

“Because, Highness, the day I can shoot an arrow from behind myself and embed it in solid stone is the day I stop needing to shoot arrows at anyone.” She glared. I sighed. “Ask anyone you like; it wasn’t me. I strongly recommend you have the place searched before there’s another attack.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Dianda’s voice could have stopped a heat wave in its tracks. “It’s clear that there’s nothing to be settled here, and we’ll be going now.”

The Queen of the Mists gave her a look filled with the kind of loathing she normally reserved for me. “If you must.”

“We must. The land has made it perfectly clear what it wants, and we’ll see you on the field of battle,” said Dianda, and turned to stalk into the crowd. Patrick shot me a pleading look, and followed.

“Toby! What’s going on?” Sylvester and Luna came rushing up from the other side. The Queen glared daggers at them both. He ignored her, focusing his attention on me. “What just happened?”

“Someone tried to shoot the Duke of Saltmist. That’s bad. And this place is emptying like a sieve. That’s also bad. But I still have the arrow.” I was clinging to whatever hope I could find. It wasn’t much.

“It’s worse than that,” said the Queen.

I turned back to her, blinking. She smiled. It was a thin, bitter smile, and there was no joy in it.

There was no joy in her voice, either, as she raised it to address the room. I could feel her Banshee heritage at work, carrying her words through the knowe. “Lords and Ladies of the Court—those of you that remain—it is my duty as reigning monarch of the Kingdom of the Mists to inform you that as of this moment, we are at war.”

Her smile twisted, warping until it was practically a grimace. “May Oberon see fit to guard us,” she said, “for we’ll have little power left with which to guard ourselves.”