Once Broken Faith (30 page)

He gave me a dubious look. Breathing was clearly getting harder for him.

“Please.”

He drank.

He drank all the milk, and when I took the plate, he managed to force down a few mouthfuls of fatty salmon, chewing thoroughly before he swallowed. Finally, he sagged against me.

“As last meals go, I could have been offered worse, but I beg you, no more,” he whispered. “Something is broken. Toby . . .”

“You need time to heal. We need access to better magic. We need to find Jin and get her to put you back together.” I looked up at Arden, the plate of salmon still clutched in my hand. It should have seemed comic, but under the circumstances, it was just sad. “Arden. He needs time.”

She blinked at me, clearly not understanding. Tybalt took a sharp breath. He clearly did.

“Please,” I said. “He needs
time
.”

“He needs time that won't kill him,” said the Luidaeg, and pushed past Arden to kneel at Tybalt's other side.
She moved her hand in the air in a quick but complicated movement. When she was done, an arrow rested in her palm. It was short, no more than five inches in length, with a shaft of black wood too warped and riddled with thorns to have ever flown. The fletching was owl feather and dried leaves, and the tip was obsidian black, gleaming with oily rainbows.

Looking at Tybalt solemnly, the Luidaeg said, “I promise this is of my own making, and that it carries nothing more than the sleeping spell it was intended to spread. No poison, no tricks, no lies. You'll wake when your time is done, and we'll have had the time to heal you.”

“What if they find against the cure?” asked Tybalt, his eyes darting to me.

In that instant, I knew why he was worried. I forced myself to smile. “I'll be here,” I said. “I'll burn the mortality out of myself if I have to, and I'll be immortal, and I'll be here. For you, forever. Just don't leave me now.”

“You know I've never wanted—”

“
Don't tell me what to do,
” I hissed, my smile dying. “Stay with me. Whatever it costs, stay with me.”

Tybalt nodded fractionally. “Then yes. Let it be done; let me rest.”

I leaned down to kiss him. He kissed me back, and I could have stayed that way forever, threats of violence and the taste of blood be damned. He wasn't going to leave me. I was home.

The tension went out of him, his lips going dead beneath mine. I gasped and pulled back. His eyes were closed; he was limp and motionless, and the Luidaeg's arrow protruded from his shoulder, the tip buried just deep enough to break the skin. I turned to look at her. She looked solemnly back.

“You would have fucked around and kept on promising to wait for him and all that bullshit, and you wouldn't
have been able to get anything done,” she said. There was no accusation or blame in her tone. Everyone around us was silent, too stunned to speak. She shook her head. “I need you moving. There was an attack. Find out who. Find out why. Stop this.”

Stop this: yes. It needed to be stopped. I paused to kiss Tybalt one last time—his forehead, and not his distressingly slack lips—before standing. The knife I'd used to cut my palm was gone, lost somewhere in the blood slick covering most of the floor. I turned to Arden.

“I need a sword. Mine's in the trunk of my car, and I can't go outside like this.” Even if I hadn't been covered in blood, I couldn't afford to waste the time.

“Take mine.” The voice was Sylvester's. I turned. He had unstrapped the scabbard from around his waist, and was offering it to me. I raised my eyebrows, and he said, “You couldn't come armed because the nobility might take offense. The outside nobles couldn't come armed because it would have been a declaration of war. I live here. This is my home. I'll die here. No one, not even my queen, can tell me not to carry my father's sword.”

“Fine,” I said, and reached out to snatch the scabbard from him. It was difficult to get the belt to fasten around my waist. Not only was I substantially thinner than he was, but my hands were so thick with blood that my fingers kept slipping and sticking as I fumbled with the buckle. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except finding the person who'd hurt Tybalt, and making them understand that they'd made a mistake. A huge mistake. Maybe the last mistake they would ever make.

I looked to Arden. Aethlin and Maida flanked her, one on either side, like they could catch their newest vassal if she fell. Maida's cheeks were flushed, and Aethlin kept stealing glances at the blood covering the floor. They looked like alcoholics trying to choose between an AA meeting and a bender. I was willing to bet I could
find the same look on every Daoine Sidhe in the room. Blood held power, and secrets, and the blood of a King of Cats was a rare treat.

“Don't let anyone touch his blood,” I said, voice cold and angry. “He has a right to his privacy.” I'd seen too much, and I was probably closer to him than anyone else in the world. No, not probably: I'd seen his ghosts. I was the last one he loved enough to share them with.

“I won't,” said Aethlin. “He'll be looked after.”

“Good.” I let my eyes shift to Tybalt. They would move him soon, clean him up, and consign him to that quiet attic room where the sleepers lay, waiting for their wakeup calls to come. A day or a hundred years, it wouldn't matter; he'd sleep through them all the same, not dying, but not getting any better, either, not without outside help. Jin would know what to do, how to put him back together. She would make sure that he lived, and when he woke up, I would be here waiting for him. Whether that wait was at the expense of my thinning humanity would be determined by what the gathered kings and queens of North America decided about the cure. If they decided not to use it . . .

Raj was going to be very surprised to learn that he was King now.

This stake wasn't quite like the one that had hit me: it was more like a thick spear, designed for throwing. It had hit Tybalt in the chest while he was seated, and it had gone in squarely, not at an angle. That implied a hard throw from nearby. I moved to stand behind his seat, crouching and narrowing my eyes. There was no table behind us; it was a clear walkway, intended to leave room for the servants who were working the dinner. I straightened and walked around the table, stopping when I was on the opposite side from Tybalt's place. I looked back once, aligning myself, before beginning slowly forward, my eyes trained firmly on the ground.

Here was where the Luidaeg had walked to her own
seat. Here was where the servants had passed. And here . . . I crouched down.

There wasn't much to see. If not for the perfectly polished wood of the floor, there wouldn't have been anything. But Arden's staff had cleaned this place so well that I could have eaten off any surface that struck my fancy, and that made the thin streaks where someone had drawn a circle of marshwater and mold all too visible. Those marks would have been scuffed away by feet or washed away by a charmaid if everything had gone as planned, leaving the spell unremarked.

I dropped to my knees, getting my nose as close to the floor as I could and breathing in deep. There was nothing there for me to latch onto, no trace of magic to follow back to its source. Despair flooded over me. I was never going to find the attacker. Tybalt was asleep, and we were all still in danger, and there was nothing I could do about it.

“Oak and ash, October,
think
,” I muttered, still staring at the streaks on the floor. This wasn't a time for self-pity. This was a time for solutions. How did I usually solve something that seemed impossible?

With blood, or by asking for help. Well, blood had already done everything it could. That meant it was time to try another way. I sat up straighter, looking over my shoulder to the crowd. “Quentin, find Madden,” I said. “I need him.”

Quentin nodded and disappeared into the crowd. I turned back to the circle on the floor, trying to tease what information I could out of it. The streaky lines were thin, and the circle itself was no more than a foot and a half in diameter; it couldn't have held someone much larger than I was, and I wasn't sure it could have held
me
comfortably. We were looking for someone small but strong, capable of slinging a rosewood spear hard enough to pierce bone. There were races in Faerie who had that sort of intrinsic strength. They were dangerous as all hell.
That eliminated about half the conclave, though. The centaur King of Copper couldn't have fit inside the circle. The Candela from Angels who remained couldn't have thrown the spear. There were answers to be found, if I took the time, and looked for them.

Trolls were that strong. Trolls, and Goblins, and Huldra, and Barrow Wights. Barrow Wights . . .

The sound of footsteps demanded my attention. I raised my head to find Madden and Quentin next to me, carefully out of arm's reach. I straightened, pointing to the circle.

“Madden, I need you to find the person who drew this. Please.” I was starting to have suspicions. I needed them confirmed.

The burly Cu Sidhe looked surprised for only a second. Then he nodded and folded in on himself, the air shimmering for an instant before the man was gone, replaced by a white-furred, red-eared dog. Madden pressed his nose against the floor, sniffing. His ears pricked forward. He barked once, sharply, raising his head and looking to me.

“Good,” I said softly. “Fetch.”

Madden took off running. I followed close behind.

M
ADDEN AND I WERE out of the dining room and running down the hall before I realized that Quentin was running next to me. I couldn't glare at him without stopping or losing my step, so I contented myself with shooting him a sharp sidelong look.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Being a good squire,” he said. There was a stubborn note in his voice that seemed first incongruous, and then so familiar that I could have laughed, if it wouldn't have made me start crying. He sounded like me. He sounded exactly like me.

“Just don't get yourself killed,” I said, and kept running, following Madden's lead.

The halls weren't empty. Members of Arden's staff were moving here and there, carrying linens or trays from one room to another. Maintenance was always a challenge in a knowe this size, and having this many people in residence, however temporarily, made the job harder. Some of these people probably hadn't slept in days, and wouldn't until the conclave ended. They moved aside when they saw Madden coming, and stayed pressed against the walls as we passed. Madden paid them no
real mind, and so I didn't either. We were trusting in his nose right now, and if I started to question it, we would have nothing. Better to follow this lead than to harass some poor, confused kitchen staffer who just wanted to get the dishes put away.

We ran until we reached a closed door. Madden stopped there, barking. I stepped past him and tugged on the handle, revealing the stairs on the other side. Madden took off immediately, rushing past me, onward and upward. I followed him, and Quentin followed me, and there was nothing in the world but running. It was almost nice. While we were in pursuit, I didn't have to think about the past or the future, what had happened or what was to come. I only needed to think about where I was going, about making sure my feet hit the steps and not the empty air. If I fell, I'd get back up again, but we would lose time, and time was something we didn't have to spare.

The stairs ended in another door. Here, Madden stopped, but didn't bark; instead, he pawed at the landing, blunt claws making a faint scraping noise. He followed the motion with an expectant look from me to the door and back again. I didn't have to be a genius to know what he wanted. I turned to Quentin, making a wholly unnecessary shushing motion, and reached for the door handle.

It wasn't locked. I pushed the door gently open, revealing a guest parlor. It looked similar to the main room of Patrick and Dianda's suite, save for the absence of a pond in the middle of the floor. Which made sense: a pond was the sort of feature most people would find more inconvenient and perplexing than anything else. The furniture was all redwood and purple velvet, and the open windows looked out on the high forest. There were no people in evidence.

Madden drew back his lips, showing his teeth, while his throat vibrated in an almost silent snarl. I placed a
hand on his head, letting him know I understood, before drawing Sylvester's sword and starting into the room. If anyone came at me, I would be prepared. More importantly, I would be between them and Quentin.

Would it be murder if I killed the people who'd hurt Tybalt, who'd killed King Antonio? Or would it be punishment for their own violations of the Law? I'd been forgiven by the High King once before, when I'd killed Blind Michael. He could forgive me again if it came to that, and in the end, it didn't matter. If I killed them, it would be because they needed to die. Because they'd done too much damage. Because they'd come into a situation that could have been bloodless, even peaceful, and turned it into something terrible. Would Duke Michel have attacked Dianda if there hadn't already been a murder, giving him a convenient scapegoat for the crime? We had never needed to fight this way.

And that was all just pretty words. If I killed them, it was going to be because they'd hurt Tybalt. They had tried to take him away from me. They might even have succeeded, at least for a century. A century! I was a changeling. No one had the right to make me wait that long for anything. I wanted them to hurt.

We crept across the parlor, Madden in the lead, until we reached a half-closed door in an ornate frame that looked like pile upon pile of evergreen branches. We stopped there, Quentin behind me, Madden still slightly ahead, although he was crouching until his belly brushed the carpet. Someone on the other side of the door was weeping.

“Stop your caterwauling and lay out my dress,” snapped a voice. “The cat's dead by now. There's no way he survived a shaft to the lung. The High King will call the conclave back to order at any moment, and we need to be in our seats looking properly contrite when the lecturing begins. As if that foolish populist knows the first thing about ruling, or how it's meant to be done.”

The crying continued. Another voice, this one male, said, “Be glad we haven't punished you for missing the first time. You should have killed him before, not wounded the other one. She would have been off the scent if you'd killed the cat. Everyone knows the little Torquill bitch is besotted with the cat-king. She'll never be able to serve with him gone.”

It was nice to have some of my suspicions confirmed. I tensed, motioning for Quentin to stay behind me, and stepped forward. It was a simple matter to kick the door open, slamming it against the wall and revealing the dressing room on the other side. The King and Queen of Highmountain turned to gape at me. Their silent, shivering handmaiden was standing between them, her hands pressed over her face. She was pale, seeming to have less substance than she should have, even though she took up space like anyone else. I breathed in almost unconsciously, looking for the scent of her magic. I couldn't find it, but I didn't need to.

The Barrow Wight had been the attacker, at the orders of her lieges. Her heritage explained the strength behind the attacks. Barrow Wights are surprisingly strong for their size, probably because they need to be able to move heavy stones in order to access the burial mounds where they traditionally make their homes.

“You can't
be
here,” snapped Verona.

“Is that blood? Is it yours?” asked Kabos, sounding fascinated and horrified at the same time. He was Daoine Sidhe; of course he wanted to know whose blood I carried with me, whose secrets could be teased from the stains on my clothing and skin.

I moved Sylvester's sword between us, aiming the point at his chest. In that moment, I wished for a gun, a bow and arrow, for anything that would have allowed me to end his pitiful existence without having to depend on my paltry skills with a blade. Sylvester had done his best to teach me, but my lessons had been more than a year
ago, and I wasn't sure what I was going to do if they fought back.

“In the name of High King Aethlin and High Queen Maida Sollys of the Westlands, you are under arrest for the death of King Antonio Robertson of Angels,” I said, voice tight and angry in my throat. There was nothing I could do to keep my fury from showing, so I didn't even try.

Verona looked momentarily surprised. Then, slowly, she smiled. “One death,” she said. “You're accusing us of one death. Is your beast-man lover still breathing, then? That's a pity. It would have been nice if the world could have been that much cleaner. Whoever hurt him was trying to do you a favor, darling. Imagine the children.”

I snarled and started to step forward. A hand on my arm stopped me. I glanced to the side. Quentin had hold of me and was shaking his head, expression grim.

“Don't,” he said. “She's not worth it.”

“I am a Queen, child,” snapped Verona. “You're what, a squire? The second son of some noble too minor to keep their spare offspring from being given into a changeling's care? You have no right to judge my worth.”

I'd been there when people said similar things to Quentin, but that had been before I knew his true identity. This time, I could see the struggle in his eyes. He outranked this woman, even as a Prince; it would have been well within his parents' power to strip the regents of Highmountain of their thrones and give them to whomever Quentin chose. And instead, for the sake of his blind fosterage, Quentin had to let them say whatever they wanted to him, and just take it. He'd been living with this ever since he'd arrived in the Bay Area, and it was a miracle he'd borne it as well as he had.

“I suppose I don't,” he said. “But I'm not a murderer, so there's that.”

“But neither are we,” said Kabos, sounding offended, like he couldn't understand why we were still talking
about this when it was so clearly unnecessary. “I never hurt anyone. Neither did my dear Verona. We can't be held responsible for the actions of our servants.”

The handmaiden was still covering her face with her hands, narrow shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping herself together. I gaped at the rulers of Highmountain, the extent of what they'd done—if not why—finally beginning to make itself clear.

Oberon's Law was simple, to prevent misinterpretation. Killing a pureblood outside of a formally declared war was a crime punishable by death. Forgiveness for breaking the Law was possible only under the most extremely extenuating circumstances, such as when I had killed Blind Michael—and even then, there would always be people who thought the punishments laid down by Oberon should have trumped any forgiveness the world chose to offer. Nowhere in the Law did it say “but it's okay if someone else made you do it.” Nowhere did it say “if the people who control your life order you to take someone else's, we will find a way to forgive you.”

“Arrest her,” said Verona, flapping a hand in the direction of her handmaid. “Take her away. She was never a very good servant, anyway. Always wrinkled my gowns and pulled my hair. Her little sister will be a much better ladies' maid, I'm sure, now that she understands what the job entails.”

The handmaid's shoulders stopped shaking. It was a small change, but a palpable one. Before, we'd been in the company of a living, if terrified, person. Now we were standing next to a statue.

“We did nothing,” said Kabos. “The High King can ride our blood, and all he'll find is the truth: that we never laid a hand on anyone. We are innocent.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” I spat.

“No?” Verona raised an eyebrow. “We can't be held responsible for our thoughts, surely. That would be
unjust and wrong. You, of all people, who has fought so hard for the rights of the deposed, must want us to be judged on what we've done, and not what we may have thought of doing.”

The handmaid lowered her hands from her face. She was pretty, if pale, in the way of Barrow Wights; most of them stayed in their mounds, avoiding the company of the living, who moved too fast and wanted too much. Stacy's ancestors, whoever they may have been, would have been considered strange by their pureblood kin for loving another of the fae, even if it had only been for a night. Barrow Wights kept to themselves.

“Don't touch my sister,” she said, in a voice like wind through a graveyard, thin and cold and filled with ghosts. “She isn't yours. That wasn't what you promised me.”

“We never promised you anything,” said Verona.

“I'm the one with the sword here, so maybe you could stop arguing and just agree that I'm arresting you all, okay?” I straightened the arm holding Sylvester's sword, trying to look like I wasn't confused and covered in blood.
Tybalt's
blood. The thought made it easier to lock my shoulders and glare. “The High King can sort this out.” I could ask him to be merciful, if he found that the Barrow Wight girl really hadn't been given a choice in what she'd done.

I didn't want him to be merciful. I wanted her to burn. I wanted them all to burn. But that was why it was so important that someone else be involved in this. She'd hurt Tybalt. Whether she'd done it because someone else had forced her to or not, she had hurt him. That didn't mean the people who'd turned her into a weapon and aimed her at their targets deserved to get off without punishment. If anything, it meant exactly the opposite. They needed to be punished. They needed to
understand
that what they had done was wrong. And under the Law, they just might get away with it.

“You said that if I did as you ordered, you would leave my family alone,” said the Barrow Wight doggedly. “You
promised
.”

“Promises don't count when they're made to the lower classes,” said Kabos.

Madden crouched suddenly, snarling in the back of his throat. I glanced down at him, taking my eyes off the scene for a moment.

It was long enough.

There was a cracking sound, followed by Verona, screaming. I whipped around. The King of Highmountain was sprawled on the floor, eyes open, neck bent at an unnatural angle. The Barrow Wight handmaid was next to him, breathing heavily, her features distorted into something more gargoyle than human, her mouth bristling with teeth. I stared. I'd heard stories of the Barrow Wights and their true faces, but Stacy's Barrow heritage was distant enough that she had no second face to hide—only the one she wore on the outside. This was what they were, down in the dark, where passing for human had never been a concern.