“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.”
SIX
THE SILENCE FOLLOWING the Queen’s announcement was broken only by the sound of skirts rustling and shoes scuffing against the floor. Then the whispering started. It was soft at first, but it swelled rapidly to a fever pitch as the Queen’s final words sank in. I kept my eyes on the Queen. She watched me in return, a quiet challenge in her expression. The next move—whatever it was—was going to be mine.
Fine. I turned to consider the room. Maybe a quarter of the original guests remained; the rest had poured out like the tide rushing out to sea, either vanishing deeper into the knowe or fleeing to the mortal world. Connor was still standing next to me, but there were no other Undersea fae in evidence. There wasn’t a Selkie or a Nixie to be seen.
Sylvester and Luna were only a few feet away, standing at the edge of one of the few groups remaining. Seeing them made me realize what my next step was. The Torquill family has always had . . . let’s call them “unusual talents.” Well, before she became Countess of Tamed Lightning, April O’Leary—Sylvester’s adopted niece—had served as the County intercom, combining the Dryad talent for short-range teleportation with a total disregard for spatial relativity.
I cleared my throat. “April, could you come here, please?”
The air in front of me shimmered. There was a brief flare of ozone, and then April was simply standing there, looking annoyed. “Do you know what is going on?” she demanded. “Everyone appears to have gone insane. I have been forced to order my escort to remain with my server. He was prepared to run away and leave me.” She sounded both wounded and amazed, like she had never previously considered that someone could do such a thing.
The faster I got the explanation out of the way, the faster we could get down to business. “An archer took a shot at one of the visiting nobles. They’ve stormed out in a huff, and now we’re going to war.” I held up the arrow, gesturing at the Queen with my free hand. “Her guards aren’t stopping the exodus. Can you do a quick check for people who aren’t on the guest list?”
April looked at me blankly. “I could, if I had a copy of the guest list.” We both turned to the Queen.
An expression of dawning anger was spreading across her face. “It would be entirely inappropriate for me to share that information outside my Court,” she snapped. “Nor will any of my Court disclose it.”
Damn. Well, it was worth a shot. I looked back to April. “Can you check for people who look out of place and come back here if you see anything that looks suspicious?” It wasn’t a good compromise. It was the one I had.
“Certainly.” She vanished in a spray of sparks.
A hand gripped my shoulder. I turned to find myself facing the Queen. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, moon-mad eyes narrowing with fury.
“I’m asking the Countess of Tamed Lightning to do a perimeter check, since otherwise we have no idea who’s here and who isn’t.” I stepped out from under her hand. The Luidaeg’s shell was so cold it hurt, but I didn’t dare pull it out until I was away from the Queen. “Unless you ordered an attack on Patrick Lorden, I can’t understand why you’re letting people leave. It doesn’t make sense.”
“This isn’t a mere crime,” said the Queen. Each word was precisely shaped, and pronounced as though it were being hurled at a disobedient child. “It was an act of war. Finding a single archer won’t change that.”
I stared. “Are you telling me some asshole can attempt an assassination and commit an entire Kingdom to suicide? That’s stupid.”
“Welcome to politics,” said Luna.
“If you want to stop the war, find the Lorden children,” said Sylvester. “Lives will be saved, possibly including theirs. People who steal children aren’t always careful with them.”
I winced. The subject of stolen children is very personal for Sylvester. His daughter, Rayseline, grew up in a magical prison. It drove her insane. His wife is the child of possibly the greatest kidnapper and destroyer of childre
n Faerie has ever known. Calling them a family with issues is putting it mildly.
The Queen glared for a long moment before reluctantly saying, “Finding the children might stop the war, especially as someone is claiming my Court was responsible for their loss.”
“Was it?” I asked.
Her eyes widened. “What did you just say to me?”
“Was your Court in any way responsible for the disappearance of the Lorden children?” I shook my head. “I can’t do anything about it if you did, Your Highness, but if you stole them and you’re about to send me looking for them, it’d be nice to know before I follow the trail right back to you.”
“What in the world makes you think I would send you?” The Queen’s anger was fading into disdain. “Your failures outweigh your successes by too large a margin.”
Sylvester started to step forward. I gestured for him to stop. The Queen was still speaking in a reasonable tone, rather than using her Banshee gifts against me, and I was trying to take that as a good sign.
“Highness, despite my failures, I’m one of the few people in this Kingdom who actually knows anything about handling a kidnapping case,” I said. “Unless you want this war, you need me.”
The Queen looked from me to Sylvester and Luna, and then to Connor, who still stood silently beside me. Her expression calmed. “Never speak to me like this again,” she said, turning back to me. “If you do, no number of powerful ‘friends’ will save you. I will have you stripped of lands and titles and cast you as far from my shores as I can. I will send you into exile, and I will be glad. Do you understand?”
I swallowed. “Yes, Highness.”
“Very well.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You’re welcome to try. It’s not as if even you could make things any worse.”
“How long do I have?”
“Three days,” said Sylvester. We all turned to look at him. He shrugged. “That’s the traditional length of time between the declaration of war and the start of hostilities. The Lordens have to send official notice to all the local fiefdoms, and that slows things down.”
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