Once Broken Faith (8 page)

Arden had thoughtfully reserved a wheelchair accessible seat for Dianda in the front row. One more helpful consequence of having a queen who'd been socialized in the human world: she understood the need for proper disability access, rather than trusting in magic to work it all out.

The herald continued. “Representing the Oversky Kingdom of Frozen Winds, His Grace, by right of conquest, Duke Islay of Staggered Clouds.”

Duke Islay was a thin man with shadows in his eyes and hair like a storm cloud. He floated down the aisle, his feet pointed down at the carpet, and settled in an open seat with no immediate neighbors. I couldn't blame him for that. If he'd settled next to me, I would probably have moved. The Sluagh Sidhe are as much a part of Faerie as anyone else, but they're damn creepy, and I've always been glad that they belonged to the Oversky.

“They should be just about done,” murmured Quentin. “I can't think of anyone else they would have invited.”

“Invited, maybe not, but showing up, definitely,” I whispered back, just as the herald began to speak again.

“His Majesty, by right of conquest, King Tybalt of the Court of Dreaming Cats.”

The room went quiet. People twisted in their seats to watch as Tybalt walked down the aisle toward the front row. Raj followed him. So did several cat-form Cait Sidhe, their tails up and their whiskers forward, trotting at his heels like this was the most normal thing in the world.

There was always something regal about Tybalt: he'd been a King longer than I'd been alive, and graceful arrogance comes easily to the feline. I'd seen him in his element before, among the cats who were his subjects, but I had never seen him in a place like this. He was dressed in brown, with dark leather trousers, boots a few shades darker, and a tan silk shirt. His vest was the same color as his boots. The stripes in his hair and the points
of his teeth as he smiled at the gathered nobility marked him clearly as one of the Cait Sidhe, and hence “lesser” in the eyes of many members of the Divided Courts.

Raj was wearing blue jeans and a Delta Rae T-shirt. He looked exactly as disrespectful as everyone around him expected him to be. I had to suppress a smile at that. They were playing to the expectations of their audience. It was glorious.

It was frightening. By allowing Tybalt to be announced as a King—and hence equal to every other monarch at this conclave—Arden had shown how much respect she had for the Court of Cats. That was good. That was the right thing to do. And it just might have made things infinitely more complex, where my relationship was concerned.

“Their Majesties, by right of blood and ascension, High King Aethlin Sollys and High Queen Maida Sollys, of the Westlands.”

Everyone stood, even Tybalt, who had barely had time to sit. Dianda was the only one who remained where she was, although she placed her hands upon her shoulders, fingers pointing toward the back wall, as a sign of respect. It showed that she was neither armed nor making a fist. Among the Undersea, there wasn't much more of an honor.

Maida and Aethlin came gliding down the center aisle, their steps so smooth and measured that they might as well have been floating. I wondered how much time they'd spent practicing entrances like this one, smoothing away their rough edges and rendering them brief but potent expressions of effortless grace. I decided to stop thinking about it, and just be grateful that there was no circumstance, however unlikely, that could put me in their place.

They joined Arden on the stage. She remained standing until both of them were seated. Then, after bowing deeply to each of them in turn, she settled in her throne.

“Welcome,” she began. “This conclave—”

The doors at the back of the room slammed open. Everyone turned, eyes wide, to stare at the figure standing there.

She wasn't tall, or thin, or gloriously beautiful. She didn't need to be any of those things to catch our eyes and hold them, silencing the room. Her skin held the ghosts of old acne scars. Her hair was thick, black, and curly, falling loose down her back. Her dress cascaded down her body and broke into white foam at the hem, a slice of the tide captured eternally in the process of flowing out. It was clear as water, but showed nothing of the skin beneath it. Her eyes were green as driftglass, filled with the deep and silent shadows of the sea. They betrayed nothing. They revealed nothing.

The Luidaeg stepped over the threshold into the room, and said, “As eldest of Maeve's children, I claim the right to witness. To observe. And to speak, should the need come upon me. Would any deny me this right?”

No one said a word.

“Good.” She took another step forward, moving off to the side as she was followed into the room by another figure. A teenage girl with bone-white hair, looking profoundly uncertain and uncomfortable in her gown of white spider-silk. I gasped. I couldn't stop myself.

It was Karen.

“T
HIS IS KAREN BROWN, and she is under my protection,” said the Luidaeg. She sounded strained, like the words she was using weren't the ones she would have chosen. That worried me, almost as much as the sight of Karen standing there, small and scared and alone. “Any who would harm her will need to first pass through me.”

All right. Maybe not totally alone.

The Luidaeg put a hand on Karen's shoulder. “It's all right, honey,” she said, and while the charms amplifying the room carried her words clean and clear to the rest of us, her voice was gentler than it had been before. “Just tell everyone why you're here, and then we can sit down until it's time for us to talk.”

“Are . . . are you sure?” asked Karen. Her voice was barely a whisper. It was the loudest thing I'd ever heard.

“I promise.”

Karen bit her lip. Then she turned to face the gallery full of nobles and monarchs, and said, “I'm an oneiromancer. I walk in dreams. I can speak to the sleeping. I'm here because I've been commanded to come by Eira Rosynhwyr, Firstborn daughter of Titania, who created elf-shot, and wishes to have a voice in its fate. I'm . . . I'm
really sorry. I know I'm not supposed to be here, but I couldn't tell her no. She said I'd never sleep peacefully again.”

“I'm going to kill her,” I said. I wasn't sure how loudly I was speaking. I didn't actually care. “I'm going to get Acacia to open a Rose Road, and I'm going to go back to where we left Evening sleeping, and I'm going to kill her.”

The Luidaeg looked amused. She shouldn't have been able to hear me, but she had. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. “Always the hero,” she said. “Come along, Karen.” She took my niece's hand and walked the length of the silent gallery with her, until they came to the row where I was seated. Karen moved to sit on Quentin's other side. He took her hand and squeezed. It was a brotherly gesture, comforting. Her eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her head to his shoulder. The Luidaeg met my eyes and nodded once as she settled next to Karen. She wasn't happy about this either. But then, when was she happy about anything involving her sister?

The silence in the gallery was profound. I turned back to the stage. All four of the seated monarchs were staring at us. Siwan looked confused. The High King and Queen looked stunned. Arden looked more resigned. This was the sort of thing she'd been dealing with since the start of her reign. She might not be the most accomplished Queen in the Westlands, but she was well on her way to becoming the most unflappable.

I grimaced, spreading my hands and mouthing, “Sorry.” Arden shook herself, snapping out of her surprise, and turned to the rest of the room.

“As you can see, this conclave is of great importance, and will shape the future of our people in a way that cannot be overstated. Everyone will be heard, although the final decision lies with the High King and High Queen of our fair land. For those of you who've come because you were summoned, but do not fully
understand what is to be discussed, I ask you to be patient, and listen. Master Davies?” Arden beckoned Walther. “Please come, and explain.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Walther rose, knees only knocking a little, and stepped onto the stage. There was a small “X” on the far right corner, marking the place where guest speakers should go for their presentations. He took his position, took a deep breath, and began telling the room how he'd been able to alchemically create a cure for elf-shot.

I knew this story—I'd been there when it was unfolding—and so I took the opportunity to look around the gallery, trying to size up the participants in this little production. Some of them were familiar to me, Sylvester and Li Qin and Dianda and the rest. Most were strangers, which made it hard for me to judge how opinions were going to go. Sylvester and Luna would want the cure distributed freely: they'd be thinking of their daughter, asleep on her bier of roses, who could wake up so much sooner than a century from now if she had the opportunity. Li Qin would probably also support the cure. She had no one under elf-shot—the people who'd served under her wife, January O'Leary, had been murdered, not put to sleep—but she knew what it was like to lose someone she cared about. Dianda, I didn't know which way she'd go. The rest of our guests from the Divided Courts . . . I didn't know which way they'd go, either.

Golden Shore was a mostly changeling Kingdom. Theron and Chrysanthe would probably be in favor. Highmountain was a very traditional Kingdom. Verona and Kabos could go either way, but would most likely support whatever gave the purebloods the most power. And so it went, the math of control, down through all the gathered monarchs, nobles, and silent observers.

The door at the back of the room opened and someone slipped through, taking a seat at the back. Elizabeth
Ryan, the head of our local Selkie colony. She sat straight and uncomfortable, holding her purse in her lap like she was afraid it would be stolen. It wasn't that odd to see her here. If anything, it was odd that she hadn't arrived earlier. Elf-shot was fatal to Selkies, because of the human bodies under their fae-touched skins. If anyone would want the stuff gone, it was her.

Walther finished explaining the alchemical processes and principles behind his cure. Reaching up to remove his glasses, he tucked them into his pocket, and asked, “Are there any questions?”

King Antonio of Angels stood before anyone else could react, his Merry Dancers spinning a pirouette in the air around his head. “How are we to trust that this cure works, and is not simply a bid by the alliance of Mists and Silences to poison our people?” He asked the question mildly enough that it didn't sound like an accusation, which was a neat trick. He must have spent a lot of time practicing.

“We know it works because it's been used, while we were trying to retake my family's throne and didn't have time to request permission from the High King.” Walther frowned. “I was worried about that, but he forgave us for our indiscretion, once we explained the situation, and he realized that there'd been some major injustices perpetrated against our people.”

High Queen Maida cleared her throat. “Please, Master Davies, stay on the path of alchemy, and not the path of politics. Your aunt's claim to the throne of Silences is not under debate here, and does not need to be defended.”

“My apologies,” said Walther. He paused for a moment, clearly buying time, before returning his attention to King Antonio. “We know it works because those who've used it have been moving amongst us for months now, with no ill-effects.”

“You say this, counting the Queen and King of
Silences among their number, but—and forgive me for my indelicacy—it is well understood that the Tylwyth Teg are sensitive to alchemical workings. What works for one of that bloodline will not necessarily work for another, and you do not produce another,” said King Antonio. “Are you hiding something?”

“This is making my head hurt,” I muttered.

Walther kept his temper remarkably well. “Your Highness, I am an alchemist in a room filled with royalty,” he said. “It would not be in my best interests to hide anything right now. Not if I want to be allowed to leave here a free man.”

On the stage, Arden glanced at me. That was all: just a glance, a flicker of her eyes. I knew what it meant. It took everything I had to suppress my sigh as I stood, turned to the High King, and asked, “May I have permission to join Master Davies?”

“Of course you may,” said High King Aethlin.

All eyes were on me as I climbed the steps. Some were sympathetic, understanding, even concerned. More were confused verging into hostile. Why was I, a changeling, allowed to speak, much less stand upon a stage that contained the great powers of our region?

Tybalt's eyes were cool and unreadable, as they'd been in the days and years before the first time he told me that he loved me. I tried not to let myself be hurt by that as I took up my position next to Walther.

“My name is October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, sworn in service to Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, hero of the realm. I'm also a changeling,” I said. My voice didn't shake. I was pretty proud of that. “While in Silences, I was elf-shot, and fell into an enchanted sleep. Because elf-shot is fatal to those of us with mortal blood, my body began to die. The alchemical tincture Walther Davies created was able to both wake me and cleanse the elf-shot from my system sufficiently that I did not, in fact, pass away.”

King Antonio switched his attention to me. I read no malice in his expression. Then again, he was a King. That meant he was probably a pretty good liar, even for one of the fae. “Why should we believe this claim?”

Sylvester moved like he was going to stand. I made a quick motion with my hand, hoping he'd understand that I was waving him off. Luna gave me a hard look as he settled back in his seat. I did my best to ignore them both, focusing instead on the greater threat: King Antonio, who didn't know me and had no reason to trust me. I had too many allies who didn't let my human blood call my words into question. I needed to remember that it didn't work that way for everyone in Faerie.

“The High King is Daoine Sidhe,” I said. “I'm willing to let him ride my blood, if that will reassure you.”

“Better plan: I can do it,” said the Luidaeg. She rose. King Antonio shrank back. I might be used to people trusting me, but I was also used to dealing with the Firstborn. That, too, was not common in Faerie.

Smirking, the Luidaeg climbed the stairs and came to stand beside me on the stage. Walther—who, like most people, viewed avoiding the Firstborn as a good, reliable life choice that was unlikely to get him brutally murdered—shifted to the side, cheeks coloring red even as the rest of his face got paler. Poor guy really hadn't signed up for this when he'd agreed to help me out.

“Does anyone here question my ability to read the blood of a changeling, or the integrity of my word?” the Luidaeg asked, in a voice as mild as milk and laced with sugary sweetness. She was at her most dangerous when she was talking like that, if only because there was the potential that someone might
forget
. Forget that she was the oldest of us, the most dangerous of us; the one who could slaughter everyone around her without any real effort.

No one spoke.

“That's good. Especially since I can only tell the truth,
so anyone who calls me a liar is out to lose a head.” She turned to High King Aethlin. “I grant you no power over me, child of a child thrice-removed of my father, but I grant that you have power over this gathering. If I sample her blood and tell you its secrets, will that be acceptable to you, and hence, to your vassals?”

Sometimes pureblood protocol makes me want to scream and tear my hair out. I forced myself to remain silent and still, waiting for the High King's verdict.

“It will, but only if Sir Daye consents,” said the High King. “I will not command any among my subjects to tithe their blood or body to the sea witch without their understanding what it means for them.”

“Oh, Toby's given me her blood before, haven't you, Toby?” The Luidaeg smiled at me. Her teeth, which had seemed so blunt and human only a few moments before, were sharp as knives. That sort of swift, mercurial change was almost reassuring, coming from her. If she was changing, she was still herself. No masks. No lies. Just the ever-shifting, ever-faithless sea given demihuman form and a siren's subtle grace.

“Not normally for something like this,” I said. I looked past her to the High King and nodded. “I consent. There's no point in having this meeting if we can't all agree that the cure works.”

“We could always shoot someone and see if they can be awakened,” said Antonio. There was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. Apparently, he didn't like being interrupted by a changeling and one of the Firstborn—someone below him and someone so far above him that he might as well have been mortal himself. I could see where that might be jarring, but I didn't feel too bad for him. This was all part of the business of being King.

Tybalt still wasn't saying or doing anything. That stung. Every other time I'd been questioned in his presence, he'd been there to rise and take my side. Even
before we'd been officially together, he'd been willing to stand up for me before the pretender Queen. Now he was silent, not speaking, not raising a hand to challenge a man who'd challenged my honor. I'd always known he was a King, and that sometimes he'd need to do things that put his people ahead of me. But this . . . this sort of silence stung, even if it was necessary. I'd never realized how much silence could
hurt
.

“No, we can't,” I said flatly, focusing on Antonio and trying not to let my frustration with Tybalt color my tone. “Elf-shot is a poison. Maybe it's one we can counter now, if this conclave finds in favor of distributing the cure, but it's still poisonous, and it still hurts. No one needs to suffer that when we have another way.”