When Sorrows Come

by Seanan McGuire

  The High King’s guard fell back as we walked, expanding their formation to surround the three of us as well as the High King himself. It was such a smooth, practiced change that I had to assume it was something they’d rehearsed as part of their training. There was a level of studied formality to their motion that made me feel like certain things were taken a lot more seriously here than they were in Shadowed Hills. As seriously as they eventually would be in Muir Woods, where Lowri was already in the process of whipping Arden’s guard into shape.

  It was another pleasant thought. The idea that the Mists would be stable enough to waste time on things like teaching your guards how to expand a formation. Your relatively untried guards if the scene at Nessa’s room was anything to go by. All the training in the world isn’t a substitution for actual experience. They knew where to stand and when to draw their swords. They didn’t know how to handle actual danger.

  They were going to have to learn sooner or later.

  People passing in the halls either moved aside to let us go by or stopped to stare, depending on how close they were to being in the way. High King Aethlin nodded to them as we passed, but didn’t stop, didn’t acknowledge them beyond that initial bob of his head. It was like they were ghosts passing through the scene, or maybe we were, a long chain of haunting being whisked through an endless hall.

  And then it ended, giving way to a flight of stairs spiraling downward into the brightly-lit depths of the knowe. No darkness here; the amethyst spires that lined the walls made it impossible, lighting up from within with a strangely white light, ignoring the purple they should logically have been projecting. The smell of maple syrup grew even deeper as we descended, until I couldn’t decide whether I wanted a plate of pancakes or to never eat sugar again. It was disconcerting, and my stomach grumbled, reminding me of my missed dinner and the cookies I had eaten too fast to fully appreciate them.

  “Kerry said to tell you she can get us plates from the kitchen, as soon as you remembered that it’s past dinnertime and you decided it was better to get stabbed then it was to eat,” said Cassie, voice low. One of the guards still shot her a sour look for opening her mouth in the presence of the High King.

  “Good,” I said. “I could really use a sandwich.”

  “She remembers that blood must be replaced with actual food and cannot be generated out of the fabric of the cosmos itself,” said Tybalt, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling in exaggerated delight. “A miracle is upon us this day.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic,” I said, elbowing him lightly in the side. “I know it’s your primary means of communication, but that doesn’t make it appropriate right now.”

  The stairs ended at a short hall, the way forward blocked after only about eight feet by a rowan door. Rowan is standard for royal and noble dungeons: it makes it safer to keep certain tools in the knowe without hurting anyone who hasn’t already been imprisoned. It was still jarring, after all that maple, to see something made from any other wood. It was carved with a pattern of maple leaves and common loons in flight, maintaining the “yay for Canada, Canada’s cool” theme of the rest of the knowe. That helped a little.

  Not enough. The feeling of not enough grew stronger as one of the guards produced a key from his pocket. It was rowan wood, like the door, but the lock wasn’t: the lock was made of pure iron, radiating quiet malice as we grew closer.

  High King Aethlin looked over his shoulder at me, apparently anticipating my discomfort. “The prisoners are not bound with iron, or sealed in iron cells,” he said. “We keep only as much around as we need to dampen the magics that might allow them to escape.”

  That didn’t help the way he clearly meant for it to. “Um, cool,” I said.

  The guard unlocked the door. The air that rushed out was cold and stale, smelling the way all dungeons did: like wet stone and rotting wood and the slow, inexorable decay of iron. The nicest dungeon in the world will still have that smell because iron degrades magic. Knowes are living magic, so if they must contain iron in order to maintain a stable dungeon, well . . . It’s a little pocket of infection in the body of the knowe. I can’t imagine it feels very good for the knowe, which has to keep doing everything else that’s expected of it, all with this horrible sucking wound deep in its body.

  When we got home, I needed to talk to Arden about her own dungeon situation. As far as I knew, there was no iron in Muir Woods, but that didn’t mean the situation hadn’t changed. Situations change all the time.

  “This way,” said the High King, gesturing for us to follow him through the door.

  One of the guards stepped in front of him. The High King stopped, blinking. The rest of us did the same. “Sire, I must object,” said the guard. “The dungeon is no place for a seated monarch. The iron here could do you harm, and if someone were to take advantage of the moment—” He glanced at me as he spoke, and I managed not to snarl at him. Instead, I bared my teeth in something that could only be interpreted as a smile under the most charitable of umbrellas, shifting position slightly to lean against Tybalt. He put a hand on my shoulder, and he did snarl at the guard, who quailed but held his ground.

  “If someone were to take advantage of the moment with both the Crown Prince and Princess absent, it could be dire for the future of the High Kingdom,” continued the guard, refusing to be intimidated.

  “I understand the risks,” said Aethlin. “We need to speak to the Doppelganger. You won’t be disciplined for standing up for what you feel is right, but you need to stand aside now.”

  The guard grimaced but stepped out of the way, and we continued forward, into the dimmer light on the other side of the door.

  Maybe it was because the knowe was lit entirely by its own power, glowing crystals and radiance from the walls, instead of torches or witch-lights or the less-fashionable than it used to be and extremely inhumane shoving of pixies into jars and letting them starve while they light up the room around them, but the light here was definitely less intense than it had been outside. The iron was impacting the knowe’s ability to remain stable.

  It hung heavy in the air, and I flinched as the door closed behind us. Maybe it’s because I used to be human enough to handle the stuff with relative impunity, and maybe it’s because I’ve had severe iron poisoning twice, but I can’t stand to be near it in any real concentration, even if the purebloods around me are fine.

  Tybalt looked almost as shaken, shifting his stride so that he was walking closed beside me, slipping one arm around my waist. Cassandra on the other hand was looking around, completely unperturbed.

  The High King was equally unshaken, as were his guards. They must have been down here often enough to be comfortable with the danger, but not often enough to have side effects to deal with. That was nice for them.

  The hall widened, becoming more of a long room than a hallway, and doors appeared along the walls, spaced like the rooms in a luxury hotel. They would have seemed almost pleasant, if not for the fact that every one of them was made of rowan and covered in a thin lattice of iron bars, bent and twined into something elegant that couldn’t fully conceal the poisonous reality behind it.

  The High King paused at the first of the doors, waving to the guard. “Let us in,” he said.

  “Sire,” began the guard.

  “No,” said Aethlin. “I’m tired of people arguing about whether or not I’m allowed to do my job.” He cast a commiserating look at Tybalt. “Do your subjects argue with you like this?”

  “If they try, I slam them into the nearest wall,” said Tybalt stiffly. “The Court of Cats is managed in a much more direct manner than the majority of the Divided Courts.”

  “I see,” said Aethlin. “The door, please.”

  The guard moved to unlock the door, casting unhappy glances back at both the High King and the rest of us. He didn’t want to be doing this.

  Well, that was cool. Neither did I. />
  The guard unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a dimly-lit room. Two guards were already there, standing to either side of a man about the size of an eight-year-old human child. He was clearly an adult, with the face to match, and a short brown beard a few shades darker than the hair atop his head. His eyes were the smooth yellow of a lizard’s, no white or distinct iris, and his ears were pointed.

  Like almost everyone else we’d seen since arriving in Canada, he was dressed in the royal livery, tailored for his smaller than average frame. Unlike almost everyone else, he was also handcuffed. The cuffs were silver, not iron, delicate things that held his wrists about a foot apart. I blinked.

  “Um, hello,” I said.

  “Fiac,” said the High King, with obvious relief. “I appreciate you taking the time from your duties to assist us with this interrogation.”

  “I prefer not to disrupt my schedule when I don’t have to, but for you, my liege, anything,” said the Adhene, with prim, studious precision. He reminded me oddly of Etienne. I suppressed the urge to smile.

  In addition to having a near-pathological addiction to the truth above all else, Adhene are very fond of their own dignity. Embarrassing them can have fatal consequences. His nature explained the cuffs; if someone bumped him in the hall and lied casually about what they’d been doing or where they’d been going, he could have done serious harm.

  Most Adhene choose to live as far away from the rest of Faerie as possible, due to not wanting to break the Law over someone saying they look nice in an ugly blouse or something equally pointless. I offered Fiac a deep nod, trying to wordlessly project how much I respected the fact that he was here at all. He responded by raising an eyebrow and snorting.

  “You’re that October girl, aren’t you?” he asked. “Amandine’s daughter? You know what the Firstborn call your mama? Amandine the Liar. You a liar, girl?”

  “Not on purpose,” I said. “And while she’s still biologically my mother, I’m not her daughter anymore.”

  “Ah,” said Fiac. “That husband of hers finally got the sense to ask for a divorce? And you chose his line, even though he’s not really yours. I’ve known some who would take you carrying the name ‘Torquill’ as a falsehood, but I’ll take it for the slap in your mother’s face it truly is and applaud you for finding a way to split yourself from her.”

  “Okay,” I said. No one who knows Mom seems to be her biggest fan. I used to think Simon was, but he gave up that title when he left her. And good for him. He deserved a chance at something better.

  Not sure I’d personally call a three-way relationship with a notoriously violent mermaid “better,” but hey. Everyone has their own idea of what makes a happy ending.

  “Gentlemen.” Aethlin nodded to the guards before starting deeper into the room. The rest of us followed him.

  It was a reasonably spacious room. The luxury hotel comparison I’d come up with in the hall wasn’t entirely inaccurate; the main space was the largest, but from there, it opened up into a bathroom—indoor plumbing had caught on even in a knowe this old—and a small kitchenette. The lighting was dim throughout. The Doppelganger was in the kitchenette area, not tied to a chair like it should have been. I shot the High King a quick glare, which he ignored. The Doppelganger was in its natural form, all leprous gray skin mottled with unnatural green, long limbs and sharp teeth. It turned at the sound of our footsteps, perfectly round eyes widening before it shimmered, shrank down, and resolved itself into a perfect mirror image of me, even down to the dress I was wearing.

  “Much better,” it said, voice as stolen as the rest of it. Hearing myself from the outside had stopped being strange within the first six months of May living with me, but that didn’t make this any more pleasant. Tybalt set his hand back on my shoulder, squeezing just tightly enough to make it clear he was going to keep track of the real me even if he had to do it by holding on the entire time we were here. Cassandra hung back, being unobtrusive, as the Doppelganger continued: “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “You stabbed me,” I said.

  “You interrupted me,” it replied, with a casual shrug, as if stabbing me had been no more important than anything else that had happened today.

  I scowled and kept scowling as Cassandra moved to stand next to me, eyes very wide. “Whoa,” she said. “It looks just like you, Aunt Birdie. How is it doing that?”

  “Doppelgangers can mimic anything in Faerie, even if it means changing size, within a certain limit,” I said. “It probably couldn’t emulate Danny, but it can copy any one of us.”

  “What happens if we get confused about which one is which?”

  “We will not,” snarled Tybalt.

  “In the event that Tybalt lets go of me for long enough for the Doppelganger to replace me, just stab us both,” I said, eyes on my double. “The one that recovers immediately is me. Hey, Fiac, how is it you’re not scratching this lady’s eyes out? Her whole body is a lie right now.”

  “If we reacted to silent lies, we would have to assault everyone who wears mascara,” said Fiac, sounding amused. “As long as she keeps a civil tongue in her head, she remains safe from me.”

  “Got it, cool.” I frowned, turning my attention back to the Doppelganger. “There a reason you’re impersonating me? Did you just want to see how badly you can piss my fiancé off before you go too far and he causes a diplomatic incident?”

  “Your form is the most useful one currently in this room,” said the Doppelganger. “I’d prefer the one I wore earlier. She was a pleasure to be.”

  “Okay, cool,” I said. “Nice to know you have aesthetic preferences, and I can’t deny that she’s objectively hotter than me.” Tybalt made an annoyed noise. I shrugged. “What? It’s true. She’s Gwragedd Annwn. Being hot is literally her superpower. Mine is more useful.” I smiled at the Doppelganger, making a point of showing every single one of my teeth. Sensibly, the thing flinched away, stopping when its hip hit the counter.

  It wasn’t restrained in any way, no rope or cuffs, which was a little disconcerting, given the cuffs on Fiac, and made it more concerning that the High King was with us. Did these people have no concept of basic security protocols? I took a step forward, still smiling.

  “Do you know what my superpower is?” I asked.

  “Being terrible and serving the oppressive, illegitimate government of the Westlands?” asked the Doppelganger.

  Tybalt glanced to Aethlin. “I knew your rule could be considered oppressive. Every effective rule can be, by the people it constrains from running rampant. But how, pray tell, have you rendered yourself illegitimate?”

  “I have no idea.” Aethlin shook his head. “I inherited from my parents, and I was their only born child. If someone’s staged a coup, no one’s bothered to tell me.”

  Cassandra made a smothered sound of amusement.

  I fought to keep my attention on the Doppelganger. It was hard, with the lot of them at my back, but if I asked them to stop, it would break whatever air of menace I had managed to construct.

  “No,” I said. “Healing. No matter what’s done to me, I’ll recover before they pull the blade out of my body. Can you say the same?”

  The Doppelganger wavered, and then it wasn’t me anymore. It was the High King instead, an uncharacteristic look of fear on his handsome face. I backed off, before the guards could decide that even menacing a representation of their liege was grounds for a stabbing.

  “Why is this thing not restrained?” I asked, gesturing to the Doppelganger. “I don’t think free-range prisoners are the best plan.”

  “We tried,” said one of the guards. “It simply . . . stopped having hands.”

  The Doppelganger looked smug.

  “I guess that took cuffs out of the equation, but did you consider tying it up?” I asked. “Most living creatures need a torso, if only so they’ll have s
omeplace to keep their lungs, and iron chains would probably make it harder for the thing to shapeshift.”

  The Doppelganger’s smugness melted into displeasure.

  “Iron chains?” it asked. “It’s true, then, what they say of the Mists. You spent too many years under the hand of a monster, and you’ve all become monsters yourselves, unable to tell the difference between right and wrong . . .”

  The High King touched my arm. I turned to look at him. He shook his head. “We do not use iron for disciplinary purposes, Sir Daye,” he said. “It concerns me that you would.”

  I blinked, several times. “I’m sorry, sire,” I said, and bowed my head. “I was trained and spent most of my life under the false queen’s rule, and she was less discerning with her subjects. I intended no offense.”

  “Truth,” said Fiac, sounding almost bored. “Can we get back to the interrogation?”

  I guess when you’re a living lie detector with a legendarily vicious temper, you don’t have to show deference. I flashed Fiac a quick smile, then returned my attention to the Doppelganger.

  “We won’t use iron on you, but you have to see that you can’t escape,” I said. “This room is secured and sealed, everyone here is prepared to commit violence to protect the High King, and you have nowhere left to go. Tell us why you’re here.”

  “To kill a tyrant,” said the Doppelganger. It opened a cupboard and took out a plastic tumbler, which it proceeded to fill from the tap. “I don’t see why that’s so difficult for you to understand. The word on the street is you’ve taken out a few of those yourself.”

  “We knew they were tyrants when we went up against them,” I said. “We know no such thing about High King Sollys.”