A Red-Rose Chain

by Seanan McGuire

  “That way,” I said. “He went that way.” The smell of blood hung in the air, faintly tinged with wine vinegar and meadowsweet. That could have been the residue of his magic: if he’d teleported here, the smell would naturally have lingered.

  This time, I took the lead, crossing the room and heading down the narrow hall with Tybalt so close at my heels that if I stopped, we were going to have a collision. I didn’t let it slow me down. The smell of blood and magic might be lingering now, but it wouldn’t last forever; it never did. If we were going to find Rhys, we needed to do it soon.

  My hand went to my belt, instinctively reaching for the knife that wasn’t there, and I realized that I was unarmed. Of course I was unarmed: who takes someone hostage and conveniently gives them weapons? Rhys was a bastard and a butcher, but he wasn’t stupid. He never had been, except possibly in who he loved. If he hadn’t been so fond of the false Queen, he would never have declared war on the Mists—but then, he would never have been King, either. Maybe he thought it had all been worth it. I’d have to ask him, before I let Tybalt voice his displeasure with the hospitality we’d received.

  The hall was long and dimly lit by sconces set near the top of the wall. Their pale, steady glow was enough to keep me from tripping or walking into anything, but only just; my night vision isn’t as good as a pureblood’s. I forced myself to keep walking confidently forward, following the blood trail. Rhys was going to ground. He wasn’t going to be slamming into walls while he did it.

  The trail ended at another blank wall. “Let me through,” said Marlis. Tybalt and I stepped to the side, and she repeated her earlier trick, spreading her fingers against the wood and pushing inward until there was a click and the wall swung open. The smell of wine vinegar and meadowsweet was stronger on the other side. Marlis shook her head. “He’s been doing this for years. He teleports around the knowe like we would have built it without doors, and he never asks himself why a place that wasn’t meant for him would come so perfectly tailored to his abilities.”

  “Sounds like a King to me,” I said, and stepped through the newly opened door before Tybalt could push in front of me.

  The smell of blood was basically gone now, only providing the faintest of undercurrents to the much stronger scent of Rhys’ magic. It trailed after him like a string, and I followed it without hesitation, seeking the minotaur at the center of my own private labyrinth. I could feel the weakness in my knees and the lightness in my thoughts; if I didn’t finish this soon, my friends and allies were going to be finishing it without me. Even I have my limits. My body was cooperating for now, but that was more a matter of stubbornness and shock than anything else.

  “This way,” I said, beckoning the others on. I was so focused on the trail I knew, the blood and magic and the promise of a conclusion, that I didn’t check my surroundings the way I should have. Tybalt would normally have caught the scent, but he didn’t have my skill at distinguishing blood from blood: I was covered in the stuff, and that was hiding Rhys’ scent from him. I stepped forward.

  Rhys lunged out of an alcove to my left and grabbed me, his arm locking around my neck, pulling me backward into his chest. I gasped as the air was knocked out of me. Then I tensed, bracing for an impact that didn’t come. Tybalt was still standing exactly where he had been before, not making any move toward me or the man who held me. It didn’t make sense.

  “Move, and I break her skin,” snarled Rhys. I tensed more, my eyes tracing the line of his arm until they reached his hand, and the arrow he was holding just above my shoulder.

  Oh. That made sense after all.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I said. “I’m a diplomat. Any act of aggression toward me is an act of aggression toward the Mists.”

  “And I am a King,” spat Rhys. “You disgusting little bitch. You could have cleansed your own blood long ago, but instead you choose to remain mortal, and for what? So you can come here and taunt me with your filth, even as you plot my downfall? Stay back!” I felt him stiffen behind me.

  Tybalt, who had been inching forward, stopped. “Let her go,” he said softly. “If you let her go, I will not pursue you when you run.”

  “And if I don’t?” demanded Rhys. “You’re an animal. What can you do to me?”

  “Follow you to the ends of the earth. For a hundred years, if I must, because I will have no better way to spend my time. When she wakes, I will press your heart into her hand, and tell her I am sorry I was not a better man.” Tybalt’s smile was slow, and terrible, and had nothing to do with joy. “I have tried to be a better man, you see. For her. But I could be a better monster, for you.”

  The arrow was barely an inch above the skin of my shoulder. If I moved at all, or if Rhys did, it was all going to be over. I would either die as the potion fought against my humanity, or I would sleep for a hundred years when my magic automatically pushed me all the way toward Faerie. Tybalt would break the Law, and High King Sollys would have no choice but to put him to death.

  But if Tybalt let Rhys go to save me from elf-shot, then it would all have been for nothing. Silences would remain frozen in the rule of a man who allowed changelings to be treated like chattel, who sliced up his enemies for parts—and who had, thus far, managed to serve the letter of Oberon’s Law, never going too far, never crossing the line. The war might happen or it might not. It wouldn’t really matter. For the people of Silences, the last War still hadn’t ended. Either way, we would lose. We would all lose.

  Or I could put my faith in Walther and in my magic, and I could end it now.

  I moved my chin just enough to let me meet Tybalt’s eyes. His smile died, replaced by horrified understanding. Then, before he could react, I slammed myself hard to the side, taking advantage of Rhys’ rigidity. The change in our positions put the arrow above the flesh over my collarbone. As I had expected, Rhys brought it down, piercing my skin. I fell forward, hooking his ankle with mine. He wasn’t prepared, and my weight drove the arrow deeper as we both tumbled to the floor, passing through the muscle of my shoulder and into the flesh of his chest.

  “I win,” I said, and closed my eyes. The pain began a moment later, electric and all-consuming. I welcomed it. The pain meant my body was fighting the elf-shot, and the elf-shot was fighting my body, and as long as I was at war with myself, I was alive.

  It was only when the pain began to ebb that I realized I might be losing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I AWOKE WITH A GASP, one hand flying up to check the curvature of my ear while my eyes were still struggling to find their focus. It was familiar, no sharper or softer than it had been before I went and stabbed myself in the shoulder with an arrow. Either I was dreaming, or I hadn’t changed the balance of my blood at all.

  Hands clamped down on my shoulders, and then a mouth was pressed over mine, kissing me with such fierce intensity that I didn’t need to be able to see to know that it belonged to Tybalt. I looped my arms around his shoulders and kissed him back, not really caring who else was in the room. I wasn’t dreaming. I dreamed about Tybalt kissing me sometimes—I dreamed about it a lot—but it was never like this, never shaking and scared and holding me so tightly that it felt like air couldn’t slide between us. I was awake.

  My eyes had finished focusing by the time he pulled back and let me go. I blinked, several times. His cheeks had seemed rough when he was kissing me, and now I could see why; they were peppered with stubble, which grew in bands of alternating black and brown, like his hair.

  “Even your face is striped,” I said, half-laughing. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That was when the fear began. “Oh, oak and ash. How long . . . how long have I been asleep?”

  “Now you begin to worry,” he whispered. “Can’t you learn to worry sooner? For my sake, if no one else’s?”

  “A week,” said a voice from my left. I turned. Walther was standing there, looking exhausted but pleased with him
self. He raised one hand in a small wave. “Hi. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  “You did it?” I raked my hair out of my face with one hand, staring at him. “You actually did it?”

  “You mean did I, Walther Davies, find the solution for elf-shot? Yeah. I did.”

  “Wow.” I couldn’t think of what to say after that. I settled for looking down at myself and confirming that yes, once again, my clothes had been changed while I was unconscious: my tank top and jeans were gone, replaced by a long white chemise that probably wouldn’t stay white for long, if my recent adventures were anything to judge by. I recognized the bed as the one I had been given when we arrived in Silences. I looked up. “We’re still here? Where are May and Quentin? Did we ever find Tia? Is she still on the loose?”

  “May is awake and helping Marlis get an accurate count of the household staff. Rhys didn’t really have any records, and even as his supposed seneschal, she had very little idea of who all the changelings were, how old they were, or what kind of health they were in.” Walther made no effort to hide his expression of disapproval. “He thought it was improper for purebloods to spend time belowstairs like that. Some of them are so terrified of us that they can’t even speak in our presence.”

  “They’ll come around.” Changelings inherited one major trait from our human ancestors: we were flexible, capable of adjusting to incredible changes in our situations. They would come to realize that not all purebloods were their enemies. “Some of them . . . Rhys was really casual about his goblin fruit usage. Some of them are addicted.”

  “And you want to help?” asked Walther.

  I nodded. “Once I can stand unassisted.”

  “I would expect no less, from a hero.” There was a new formality in Walther’s tone. I didn’t like it.

  “As for Tia, we found her attempting to flee the Kingdom,” said Tybalt. “I was . . . not gentle in apprehending her, I am afraid.”

  “You were gentler than you had any reason to be.” For once, it was Walther whose voice was as cold as death. “She’s being held for trial. She’s confessed to betraying my family during the War. The Cu Sidhe led the forces of the Mists straight to us, and we never knew.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she thought that we treated them like pets, and not like allies.” Walther’s mouth turned down at the edges. “I don’t know whether we did or not. I always thought that we were friends.”

  “I don’t think Tia believes it’s possible for the Cu Sidhe to be friends with their regents,” I said, and tried to push the blankets off. Tybalt moved them back into place. I realized for the first time that he was kneeling on the edge of the bed, not sitting; he was ready to move.

  “No,” he said. “Stay where you are.”

  I frowned at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You’ve been asleep for a week,” said Walther.

  “I knew that.”

  “I’ve been trying to wake you up for six days,” he shot back. I stopped. “You had seizures. You shifted your own blood back and forth so fast that I could see your features changing. You kept returning to the point you’re at right now, but it took longer every time, and we were afraid that if it didn’t stop, you were going to tear yourself apart. So you’ll forgive us for being sort of nervous about you passing out again. You were trying to do what your mother did, and shift the elf-shot out of your blood. It was going to kill you before you succeeded.”

  “You woke once before,” said Tybalt. “You said my name. And then you went back to sleep.”

  “That was then,” I said. I felt bad about essentially brushing off their genuine concerns, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. “Let me up. I have to call Arden. I have to tell her—”

  “She’s here,” said Walther.

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Queen Windermere is here,” said Walther. “The Queen of Silences contacted the Queen in the Mists this morning to rescind the declaration of war, and ask for help in rebuilding this Kingdom. Queen Windermere arrived an hour ago.”

  I kept staring at him. “What?”

  He smiled, looking a little frayed around the edges. “I didn’t wake you up first, remember? I started with my mother, and then moved on to the rest. You actually took longer, because every time you pulled yourself toward mortal, I had to back off. Aunt Siwan is back on her throne, with Uncle Holger beside her. It’s going to be a while before they’re comfortable. They’ll have time.”

  “And . . . and Quentin?”

  “Your young squire has been getting to know the younger people of Silences, and reporting back on what he learns,” said Tybalt. “He has been invaluable to the cause of knowing who might yet turn against the throne, and who is simply relieved to see Rhys the bastard gone at last.”

  This time, when I swept the blankets aside, Tybalt let me. He rose as I did, offering me his arm. I took it. My whole body felt too light, like the center had been pulled out of things. “Is there a robe or something I could borrow? I think I need to eat before I get dressed.”

  “You didn’t have to get out of bed for that,” said Walther.

  “No, but I have to get out of bed to see Rhys and the false Queen.” He frowned at me. I shook my head. “I need to see them. I need to know that they’re asleep.” I needed to know that Tybalt hadn’t responded to my loss of consciousness by killing them both.

  Tybalt clearly understood the reasons for my insistence. He folded his hand over mine and said nothing, only joined me in looking at Walther, who sighed.

  “You’re not content unless you’re running yourself to death, are you?” he asked. “All right. Follow me.”

  The difference in the knowe was apparent the moment we left my rooms. There were people, for one thing, moving here and there with quick purpose. Some of them were stripping tapestries off the walls; others were installing golden filigree in holes and corners that had clearly been designed to hold those specific ornaments. Everything smelled of yarrow and roses, a perfume that was explained by the vases of fresh flowers that had appeared on every flat surface that wasn’t the floor.

  A few curious glances were cast at me and Tybalt, but people were polite enough not to stare. Walther, on the other hand, got blatant pointing, and even a brief round of applause. His cheeks reddened. He kept walking.

  “I’ve told everyone that this is on you as much as it’s on me,” he said, voice pitched low. “You took out Rhys; you confirmed the roses I needed; you gave yourself up to buy me time. But they keep insisting that I’m their savior.”

  “I don’t mind if someone else is the hero for a change,” I said. “I’m just glad I’m not going to be asleep for the next hundred years.”

  “You are not alone in that,” said Tybalt.

  I squeezed his hand, and kept walking.

  We were descending a flight of stairs when a voice from behind me shouted “Toby!” I turned in time to see Quentin racing toward us, and braced for impact. Tybalt even let go of my hand, moving to position himself just below me. My squire slammed into me, knocking me back a half-step; Tybalt caught us both, saving me from needing to do anything but return Quentin’s embrace. I held him tight. He held me tighter. That was our relationship, in a nutshell.

  When he finally pushed me away, it was to look me critically up and down, and proclaim, “You’ve lost weight.”

  “I’m going to eat something after I see them.” I didn’t need to explain who I meant, or why I wanted to see them with my own eyes: Quentin nodded in clear understanding, taking his hands off my arms. I turned to retake Tybalt’s hand, and asked, “Coming with us?”

  “Never leaving again,” said Quentin. Now four, we walked the rest of the way down the stairs. At the bottom, we found a hallway; at the end of the hall, there was a door. It wasn’t locked.

  The room on the other side was small an
d austere, furnished only with two plain stone biers. Rhys lay atop one; the false Queen of the Mists, whose name we might never know, was on the other.

  “They’ll sleep out their enchantments before they stand trial,” said Walther, watching me as I looked at them. “A hundred years isn’t much, but it’s a start.”

  And they would wake into a world where fair, considerate stewardship had wiped away any legacy of their hatred. Arden in the Mists, and the Yates family here in Silences. In a way, the torture of knowing that they had failed to remake Faerie in their own image would be worse for our sleepers than anything else could have been.

  “Toby?” Arden’s voice was soft and familiar, and most of all, expected. I still tensed before I turned to see her standing in the doorway. There was a woman next to her, golden-haired and blue-eyed, with a circlet resting atop her head. One of her hands was missing several fingers.

  “You know, the bastard,” I gestured toward Rhys, “swiped some of my laundry after I bled all over it. I heal pretty fast. A good alchemist might be able to make something from my blood that would help you grow those back.”

  The woman smiled. She looked tired. “Not the greeting one usually offers to a queen, but given what I know of you, I’ll take it as given. Hello, Sir October Daye, Knight of Lost Words, sworn in service to Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, Hero in the Mists. My name is Siwan Yates, Queen of Silences, and my family owes you a debt we will never be able to repay.”

  “But we’ll still take the laundry,” said Walther quickly. Siwan shot him a sharp look. He smiled guilelessly. “Hey, if Toby wants to help us grow back all the parts Rhys stole, I say we let her. She’s got more blood.”