Once Broken Faith (12 page)

“And what am I to do?” asked Tybalt.

I turned to look at him. He was still wearing a mask of cool unconcern, but that was exactly what it was—a mask. I could see the worry in his eyes. He was shaken
by all of this, the dead body, the thinly veiled accusations from people we normally regarded as our allies. No matter how much time we spent together, parts of my world would always be as alien to him as parts of his were to me. That was oddly comforting, and gave me the strength I needed to do what had to be done.

“You?” I rose from my crouch, glancing down to be sure that I wasn't about to crush any more fragments of Merry Dancer as I moved to put my hands on his shoulders. “You're going to go back to the conclave. You're going to do what you came here for, and remind those petty, squabbling jerks that you're a King. Oberon himself said you were their equal. When they try to ignore that, they're going against the father of us all. So you don't let them ignore it.”

His mask slipped, revealing relief and confusion behind it. “Don't you need me here?”

“Need? No. I have Quentin. I have Karen, at least until the Luidaeg comes. I can handle anything this dead body can throw at me. Want? Always. But as you've reminded me already, we can't always put desires above duty.”

Tybalt's mouth twisted. “I can't help feeling as though this is a punishment for neglecting you over these last few days. I wasn't there when you needed me to be, and so now I am to be sent away, like a second son who can never inherit the estate.”

“I'm not an estate. Even if I were, you would already have inherited me and oh, oak and ash, I'm sure that sort of thing sounds super-romantic in your weird pureblood brain but right now, you need to go. You need to go be a King.” I leaned up and kissed him, just a quick peck. “I'm in the Queen's knowe. I have my squire, and I'm about to have the supervision and wisdom of the most terrifying woman I've ever met. I promise you, I'll be fine without you for a short period of time. Besides, it'll give you time to miss me more, so that you'll remember never to pull this crap again.”

“Beware of women, children,” said Tybalt, turning on Quentin and Karen with the poise and exaggerated dignity of a professor offering wisdom to the young. “This is how they will treat with your tender hearts.”

“I'm too young to date,” said Karen.

“I'm sort of seeing someone, and I'm pretty sure Toby's about to punch you,” said Quentin.

I punched Tybalt in the arm. He was laughing as he slipped into the shadows and was gone.

Lowri and the other guards were surprisingly silent through all of this. I turned to look at them. They were all staring at the door, wary as mice watching the approach of a cat. Ah. I turned further, to the object of their attentions, and offered a taut smile.

“Luidaeg,” I said. “Good. Now we can get started.”

“I suppose that's true,” she agreed. She was still wearing her gown of crashing seawater and the tide, but the blackness had bled out of her eyes, leaving them green as driftglass, devoid of shadows. She turned those green, green eyes on Lowri and the others, quirked an eyebrow upward, and asked, “Well? Are you going to stand there staring at me like a bunch of old owls, or are you going to go do your jobs? I should warn you that if you elect for the ‘owls' option, I can have you in feathers like
that
.” She snapped her fingers. Lowri flinched.

“Call if you need us,” she said, and all but ran for the door, with her people following close behind her.

The Luidaeg waited until they were gone before she turned to me. “What happened?” she asked.

“The same thing that always happens,” I said. “We were having a perfectly nice evening until it got ruined by a corpse.”

Her smile was full of teeth. “Oh, good,” she said. “I was worried that it was something serious.”

K
ING ROBINSON'S MAGIC SMELLED of walnut shells and Spanish moss. Its ghost lingered in his blood, like spices dusted over the coppery brightness of the blood itself. I sat on the floor next to his body, knowing the Luidaeg was there to pull me back into myself if I sank too far into the blood memory. More importantly, I knew that Quentin and Karen were watching, and would see it if I lost control. Karen will never be a blood-worker. Her heritage, tangled and strange as it is, doesn't include any of Oberon's lines. But Quentin would need to do these things when he became High King, and I refused to be the reason he was afraid of his own magic.

I raised my fingers to my mouth. I tasted the blood. The memory closed around me like a glove, and the world went away.

How dare they act as though this is a simple vote, something to be decided in an afternoon. How dare they pretend this is “diplomacy,” when it's clear where the High King's loyalties lie. He's meant to be so far above us as to serve as an objective party, a judge, jury, and when need be, executioner. How does this stripling queen have such a strong grip upon his ear, when no one knew she
existed before she was crowned? Something is wrong. Something is out of true. And I am, by Oberon, going to find out what it is, and put a stop to it before this madness goes any further.

His thoughts were cold but not cruel. From his perspective, something had gone horribly wrong in the Mists, something symbolized by the way the High King dealt with Arden. I didn't get the impression that he'd been an evil man. Set in his ways, maybe, and more interested in the good of his Kingdom than anything else—but really, what monarch
wasn't
going to put the needs of their own people ahead of the rest of the world? That was practically the job description. I swallowed hard, forcing more of his blood into my system, letting the memories pull me down.

I have stepped away from the noise and nonsense of the dining room to be alone with my thoughts. There are no lights in this part of the knowe. I do not need them. Candela have better night vision than most, and my Merry Dancers spin around me, comforting companions. They pulse with their understanding of my unhappiness. They would soothe me, if they could. How lonely other fae must be, in their strange, singular lives!

A noise behind me, like metal being torn. I stop and turn, suddenly dizzy, as if I am out of breath, even though I am breathing normally. Perhaps the meal is ending; perhaps we are about to return to the pointless pretense of diplomacy. I walk back to the dining room.

It is empty. Where has everyone gone? The curtains are drawn.

That tearing-metal sound repeats. I turn, and there is pain, pain like I have never felt. I am falling. I am falling, I am
dying
, and even death holds no mercy, for I am still alive when the first of my Merry Dancers hits the ground, and I feel it when she
shatters
—

Gasping, I ripped myself free of his memories before they could drag me down to the actual moment of his
death. I hadn't been weak enough to kill that easily in a while; riding someone else's blood to the end was still dangerous. Some rules were never intended to be broken. Not by me. Maybe by my mother, but she's Firstborn, and I'm not. I'll never be as strong as she is.

Then the Luidaeg was there, placing a hand between my shoulder blades and holding me up, keeping me from falling over. “What did you see?”

“Nothing.” I closed my eyes. My own body felt strange, too small, too female, and too alone. There should have been Merry Dancers swirling around me, their lives connected to my own on a level too deep to explain with words. The feeling would pass. That didn't mean I enjoyed it. This wasn't the first time I'd felt out of synch with myself after riding the blood, but it had never been this strong. “He didn't see the person who killed him, or detect their magic. He heard a weird sound, followed it back to the dining room, and someone he didn't get a decent look at stabbed him.”

“So it didn't work?” Quentin sounded disappointed. He also sounded scared. He'd been with me for long enough to understand that sometimes, when the first, safest method of getting information failed, we had to keep going. We had to find another way.

He was right to be concerned. There was always another way, and it was rarely a good idea. “It worked,” I said, opening my eyes and turning toward the sound of his voice. He and Karen had been busy; the table next to them was covered in shining shards of Merry Dancer. Seeing them that way hurt my heart. That, too, would fade; I wouldn't be mourning for Christmas ornaments forever.

But someone should have been. I gripped the Luidaeg's arm as I levered myself to my feet. The feeling of strangeness was already fading, replaced by the more usual absolute faith in my own body, which was familiar and comfortable and
home
.

“He couldn't tell me anything because he didn't see
anything worth telling,” I continued, wiping the blood off my hand and onto my trousers. Black is forgiving in more ways than one. “At the same time, we're going to have company soon, and maybe he can tell me something I can't intuit from his blood.”

Quentin's eyes went wide. Karen looked confused. And the Luidaeg sighed.

“You
really
want to talk to them again?” she asked. “I'm pretty sure they weren't kidding when they threatened to eat you. They're not big jokesters.”

“I saved May's life. That has to earn me a little tolerance.”

“It's already earned you a little tolerance. They didn't eat you the last time they saw you.”

“No, they didn't, because their leader had something he wanted me to do. I've done it. They'll talk to me.”

The Luidaeg threw up her hands and turned her eyes toward the ceiling. “Dad's bones, you people never learn. Fine. Do you want me to call them? Maybe they'll be less hostile if I'm the one who calls.”

“Um, excuse me?” Karen's voice shook. We all looked at her. She bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth before she asked, “Who are you talking about?”

Oh. “Quentin, maybe you should take Karen back out to the balcony,” I said quietly. “She doesn't need to see this.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” said Karen.

“October still believes children can be sheltered,” said the Luidaeg. There was no blame in her tone: she was stating a fact, something plain and simple and immutable. “She forgets to ask herself whether they
should
. More, she forgets that everyone is a child to someone. Compared to me, you're all infants.”

I sighed. “Okay. Point taken. We're talking about the night-haunts, Karen. They're going to come for King Antonio's body, which means they'll know what he knew, and maybe we can get some answers.”

“I hate it when you summon the night-haunts,” said Quentin.

“But I'm not summoning them,” I said. “I'm just going to be here when they show up. Totally different.”

Quentin did not look like he thought this was totally different. Quentin looked at me like this was the worst idea in a long string of bad ideas, stretching back to “hey, I think I might like to be born.” He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The kid has some of the most expressive eyebrows I've ever seen. I glanced to the Luidaeg, looking for support.

What I found was vague amusement, and a shrug so expansive that her hand hit the side of my arm. “You're the hero of the realm here, Toby. I'm just the sea witch. You're supposed to leave me slumbering in my watery cavern until you need a handy deus ex machina.”

Karen was looking back and forth between us, increasingly agitated. It had only ever been a matter of time before the dam broke. “What's
wrong
with you?” she demanded. “There's a man . . . he's
dead
, Aunt Birdie! He's right there, and he's
dead
, and you're making
jokes
! How can you do that? It's mean, and it's petty, and it's . . . it's not fair.” She sounded petulant as only the young ever could.

I missed being that upset by the cruelty of the world. I just couldn't seem to work up the anger anymore. “You're right, pumpkin: it's not fair,” I said, walking over to put an arm around her shoulder. I kept my still blood-sticky hand behind my back. She knew it was there, but that didn't mean she should be forced to look at it. “Nothing about the world is ever fair. You know that. We joke because we're not happy either. King Robinson was a jerk, but he didn't deserve to die, and we can't bring him back. So we try to make ourselves feel better when we can, because we know the world isn't going to suddenly turn kind. That sort of thing would take more magic than there is in the whole world.”

“He was a pureblood,” said Karen. The quiet puzzlement in her voice broke my heart to hear. She was so young. The Luidaeg was right that I never asked myself whether children should be protected: I knew the answer. They should be protected for as long as they could be, for as long as our shoulders could bear the weight of the world, because innocence was so fragile, and so easily destroyed. Karen had lost most of hers when Blind Michael had taken her captive. As for what remained . . .

There was so much more of it than I'd ever suspected. And it was so very, very fragile.

“I know,” I said. “Purebloods aren't supposed to die. When they do, all we can do is try to make sure that justice is done. We're going to figure out who killed him. I promise.”

It was a foolish promise to make. I'd made worse, and I could hear, distantly, the beating of paper-thin wings against the wind. The night-haunts were coming.

Quentin heard it, too. “Do you want us to go wait somewhere else?” he asked.

Karen was an oneiromancer. She could see the night-haunts any time she wanted to, just by visiting my dreams, or May's. It might be better for her to see them in the flesh, not colored by whatever nightmare they were flying through.

“No,” I said. “Stay.” I turned toward the open balcony door. So did the others.

We waited as the air grew hazy with fragile, half-seen wings, and the night-haunts streamed into the room. The flock moved like smoke, buffeted by an unseen wind. The frailer, more faded night-haunts stuck to the middle, where they could be protected by the bodies of their more solid kindred. The night-haunts around the edges of the flock were doll-sized replicas of Faerie's dead, wearing heartbreakingly familiar faces and forms, turned alien and strange by the tattered wings that grew from their backs, by the emotions hanging frozen in their eyes.

The flock circled the room twice, wings buzzing, searching for danger. None of us said anything. We simply waited to see what the night-haunts would do. Karen shivered against me but didn't pull away. Finally, the night-haunts landed on one of the long banquet tables, the shadowy central figures clustering together while the others shielded them with wing and body. One night-haunt—slightly taller than some of the others, with eyes as purple as wildflowers, and the face of a decadent, black-hearted Peter Pan—stepped forward, eyes fixed on the Luidaeg.

“Auntie,” said the night-haunt, and his voice was the voice of Devin, my old mentor and first lover, and hearing it was like sandpaper on my soul. I had seen this night-haunt every time I'd faced the flock since Devin's death, and it never stopped hurting. “Why do you come between us and our prey? The flock must feed. We've lost two to the wind in the last year.”

“Father did you no favors when he bound you,” said the Luidaeg. “Hello, Egil.”

He bowed, only half mockingly. “It's been a long time.”

“Indeed, it has.”

I still said nothing. It was easy to forget that the night-haunts had lives aside from the ones they stole from Faerie's dead. Sometimes they seemed to forget, too. But they were purebloods, even when they wore changeling faces: their mother had been one of the Luidaeg's sisters, and they had been born predators, intended to devour fae flesh, which would never rot under normal circumstances. Without the night-haunts, we would never have been able to hide our existence from the human world. It was just that at first, they'd preferred the taste of the living. They'd been a scourge upon our kind, eternally hungry, fast and fierce and unstoppable . . . until Oberon changed them, binding them to eat only the dead. Without the lives they took from the blood we left behind,
they had nothing. They would fade, and fade, until they became the only purebloods in Faerie who could die of natural causes.

Fae died rarely. The night-haunts were always there.

The night-haunt with Devin's face—Egil—was joined by another, this one shorter, stockier, and wearing the face of my dead Selkie lover, Connor O'Dell. I didn't know this night-haunt's true name. I wasn't sure it would have helped if I had. He turned to face me, sadness and longing in his eyes. The night-haunts got more than just form from the blood. They got memory, emotion, even personality, to a certain degree. Connor had died to save my daughter. He'd died loving me. And now he was a night-haunt, and I was in love with another man.