Night and Silence (October Daye)

by Seanan McGuire

  On some level, I think she’d believed that if they ever got their kingdom back, Walther would come home and stay, the way things had been when they were children. He hadn’t. He was never going to. To her credit, she was sad but not angry. Sometimes we have to let our loved ones make their own way in the world.

  Tylwyth Teg can fly, using bundles of yarrow twigs as their brooms. As a consequence, the knowe was built something like the staid interior echo of a roller coaster, all high arches and winding stairs. Marlis led us patiently along them all, keeping her feet firmly on the ground until we reached the dungeon.

  A single sniff of the air told me what had happened.

  “We need to tell Arden to triple the guard on Dugan’s cell,” I said, walking toward the “Queen” who slept on her cold stone bier. The closer I got to her, the stronger the smell of cinnamon and cardamom became. How had no one seen this but me? It was so obvious. “Until we have him locked behind so many wards that the air goes stiff, we can’t be sure he’s still there.”

  But no. It was obvious to me because I could smell the framework of the spell, pick the traces of it out of the air, where they should have been safely hidden. Dugan had done his weaving with every expectation that it would pass muster for years. He hadn’t been counting on a literal bloodhound.

  She looked perfect. She looked peaceful. She looked exactly the way she had the last time I’d been here. Whoever Queen Siwan had on staff assigned to dusting the sleepers was clearly taking their job seriously. I looked at her impassively for a long moment before pulling the knife from my belt, ramming it into her sternum, and slicing her open to the navel.

  Marlis gasped. Even Quentin made a small, startled sound of dismay. Only Tybalt was silent as the false Queen’s “skin” parted and allowed a cascade of dead leaves and dried flowers to come pouring out. I shoved my hand into the wickerwork of her rib cage, feeling around for her heart. It wasn’t there. My fingers brushed against a smooth, hard rind. I grabbed it, ripping out the small pumpkin that had been nestled where her heart should have been.

  “Dugan made the change in late October,” I said, holding it up for Marlis to see. “Did you have any members of the household staff quit abruptly around Samhain?”

  “A kitchen boy quit right after the holiday,” she said, sounding horrified.

  “He probably spent a month weaving this damn thing, then used blood magic to make it feel like her and flower magic to make it look like her, and we fell for it.” I dropped the pumpkin to the bier and turned toward King Rhys. There was no shroud of magic hanging over him. He felt like a sleeping man under an elf-shot enchantment.

  Still, better safe than sorry. I picked up his hand and poked him in the thumb with the point of my knife, only slightly disappointed when he started to bleed and I didn’t need to do any further testing.

  “He’s real,” I said. “Dugan only freed his Queen.”

  “But why?” asked Marlis.

  “Maybe to curry favor with the woman who originally put her on the throne; maybe because he wanted revenge; maybe she had him under some sort of geas; or maybe it was because he’s just an asshole,” I said. “It’s hard to know for sure. We’ll find out when he goes to trial, assuming he wants to get out of the pit Arden’s going to throw him into.”

  I almost hoped he refused to tell us. I’d like another excuse to lock him up.

  “On behalf of Silences, I wish to extend our genuine regret and horror—” Marlis began.

  I cut her off. “You didn’t do this. We knew he was a threat, and we didn’t verify that he’d been taken care of. All our firebirds are coming home to roost. If you really want to make this up to me, though, while your queen works on making it up to mine, you’ll do me one big favor.”

  Marlis paused. “What?” she asked warily.

  Smart girl. “We have business in Portland,” I said, indicating myself and my two companions. “It shouldn’t take all that long, but it would be a big help if you didn’t go running to tell Siwan that we’ve crossed over into the mortal world. Not just yet.”

  “Are you plotting insurrection?”

  “It’s a fair question, given my hobbies, but no. Quentin needs to pick up some donuts for my Fetch, while Tybalt and I need to go catch up with an old friend. We’d just like a little time to ourselves, that’s all.”

  Marlis considered a moment before she nodded. “I won’t lie to her, but as long as she doesn’t summon me or inquire as to your whereabouts, I can give you what you’d consider ‘a little time.’ Try not to take more than that.”

  “We appreciate it,” I said, and turned to offer my arm to Tybalt. “Shall we?”

  “Indeed,” he said solemnly. He looped his arm through mine. Quentin grabbed the back of my belt. Tybalt stepped forward, into the dark and the cold, and the basement was gone, replaced by the endless stretch of the Shadow Roads.

  Running from a healthy knowe into the nearest open point of its connecting city is a simple thing, even with Quentin hanging onto me for dear life. We’d been in the shadows for what felt like no time at all before we emerged, stepping into the light of a Portland alley, shielded from the street by the slope of the walls around us. We let go of each other in order to draw human disguises over ourselves, Tybalt and I going for the quick and easy versions, while Quentin detailed his as much as he always did.

  “Showoff,” I said fondly, ruffling his hair. I had to reach up to do it. I was never going to get used to that. “Meet us here in an hour?”

  “If the line at Voodoo is moving at all, sure,” he said.

  “Okay. How about if you’re not here in an hour, we’ll come meet you there?”

  Quentin nodded. “That sounds good. Um. Good luck with . . . whatever it is you’re here to talk about.”

  I glanced at Tybalt, then looked back to Quentin and smiled encouragingly. “It’ll be fine. We’ll see you soon.”

  Tybalt slipped his arm back into mine and tugged me from the alley before Quentin could say anything else. The sidewalk was largely empty at this time of day, and the pavement was slippery with the remains of the latest snowfall. I shivered and stepped closer.

  “Remind me never to leave California,” I said. “I don’t think I could handle the weather.”

  “My little fainting flower,” said Tybalt, and pressed a kiss to my temple as we walked around the corner, two people in love and going for a stroll. We stopped halfway down the block, in front of a small shop with pictures of the X-Men and Avengers displayed in the window. Inside, a bored-looking woman stood behind the counter with her chin propped in her hand, ignoring the world around her as she read a graphic novel.

  Tybalt took a deep breath. I squeezed his arm.

  “You can do this,” I said. “You need to do this. Not just for me—I’m not quite that selfish—but for yourself.”

  “I know,” he said. “Knowing makes it no simpler.”

  “I believe in you.”

  His smile was enough to warm up the day. “Knowing that makes everything simpler,” he said, and reached for the door.

  The bell above it jingled when we walked through. The woman at the counter—Susie, if I was remembering correctly—didn’t so much as lift her head. Customers were apparently a complication for someone else to deal with, while she was paid to stand at the counter and keep up on her comics. I had to respect her single-minded dedication to her craft. I’d never seen her doing anything but reading, and it didn’t look like that was going to change today.

  We walked past her, heading for the back of the store, where a half-open door marked the entry to the office. Tybalt started to raise his hand, but paused, looking unsure of the gesture.

  Screw that. We were here to make things better. I refused to let us be scared off now. Before I could think better of it, I raised my own hand and knocked lightly, calling, “Joe? You here?”

  �
�As I live and breathe—October?” The door swung open, revealing a trim, silver-haired man who appeared to be somewhere in his mid- to late-sixties. That was a lie. His hair was really silver, and his eyes were really blue, but everything else about him, from the wrinkles around his eyes to the rounded tops of his ears, was an illusion.

  Well, maybe not everything. The smile was real enough. Joe liked me, with good reason. I was, after all, the reason his daughters were immortal now.

  “Hi, Joe,” I said.

  Tybalt cleared his throat. “You have my sincere apologies for this unplanned visit, but we find ourselves—that is to say, I find myself—in need of aid, and I had hoped you might provide it.”

  Joe’s smile faded, replaced by concern. “Of course,” he said. “Whatever either of you needs, forever. My debt to you will never be repaid.”

  “Can we go someplace where we can speak privately?” I asked.

  Joe nodded. “Absolutely.” He raised his voice, calling, “Susie, please don’t let the store burn down in the next hour.”

  A grunt from the counter was the only response. He smiled, fond and frustrated.

  “Believe it or not, she’s my best employee. She just has a sixth sense about who’s here as a customer and who’s here on personal business. I’m fairly sure she thinks I belong to some sort of naturalist commune. If you don’t mind . . . ?” He pushed the door open wider, indicating that we should step inside.

  I grasped Tybalt’s hand firmly. This time, when Joe shut the door and turned off the light, there was nothing surprising about the transition. I took a deep breath, and then we were falling, moving through the shadows and emerging on the other side in the warmth of what looked like an old carpet warehouse, complete with rolled-up rugs propped against the walls. Cats lounged on every available surface, only a few of them bothering to crack open their eyes and look at us.

  Joe’s human disguise dissolved, scenting the air with the tang of heavy paper and pine. I took a breath and let my own illusions go. Tybalt did the same. It’s not strictly rude to go disguised in the presence of a monarch, but it can be interpreted that way, and we needed him to want to help us.

  Not that there was much chance he wouldn’t. Joe—Jolgeir, King of the Court of Whispering Cats—looked anxiously between us, and said, “We would have prepared a banquet, had we known you were coming. Something befitting the service you have done for us. Please don’t think me rude—”

  “I never would,” I said hurriedly. “How is Libby? How are the girls?”

  This time his smile was all the lovelier for not being hidden behind a false veil of humanity. “Wonderful,” he said. “They’re absolutely . . . they’re wonderful.”

  “And your Ginevra,” said Tybalt. His voice was strained. I wondered whether Joe could hear it as clearly as I could. “Has she shown the strength you hoped for?”

  “Hoped for, feared—they’re so similar, don’t you think?” Joe looked at Tybalt carefully. “My middle daughter is a Princess of Cats, thanks to the efforts of your lady knight. She’ll challenge me when the time comes, when her mother grows old enough that I need to step aside to tend her and keep her comfortable. We’ve already discussed it as a family. You have an heir of your own, don’t you? I know I promised you anything my Kingdom had to offer, but my Gin . . . ”

  I bit my tongue. This was Tybalt’s request to make, not mine.

  “I do not want to take her,” said Tybalt. His voice was surprisingly steady, but his grip on my hand could have shattered bone. “Only to borrow her for a bit. I am . . . I am not well, old friend. I am very far from well. And I wondered if it would be a terrible inconvenience to you if Ginevra were to visit my Court for a time. With her consent, of course, and with the understanding that I am not asking her to follow me to the throne. I have an heir. That he is not ready, now, is no fault of his. I would not have him challenge me before his time. It would be an unkindness to all involved, from both of us down to the very least of my subjects. But I am . . . ”

  He stopped then, releasing his grip on my hand. Letting go of him was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I did it all the same.

  Tybalt raked his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath before he said, “I am not a fit King for my people, for I cannot sleep, and cannot eat, and cannot breathe with the weight of what has been done to me. I am no fit love for my lady, for I cannot bear to be apart from her for fear that we will never come together again, nor can I bear to be with her for fear that what has happened once may come again. My Court suffers. My heart suffers. I desire—no. I need time to salve my wounds, and I cannot do it as I am. So I ask you, as has long been allowed by wiser councils than our own, to send your Ginevra to stand regent over Raj while I recover. She will not take the throne, but she will sit before it and hear my Court as they ask for succor. When I am well, she may stand aside and return my place to me, that I might resume my rule.”

  “Rand . . .” Joe hesitated. “Few are those who appoint a regent and then reclaim what once was theirs. You may no longer be seen a fit King when this is done.”

  “I never asked to be seen a fit King in the first place,” said Tybalt. “I hold my crown in trust for a boy who is not yet ready. He will be, soon enough, and when I retake what is currently mine, it will be only to wipe my fingerprints from the throne and hand it over to one whose heart and house are less divided. It was already my intent to step aside and allow Raj his rule. This merely hastens his ascent. But I say again, he is not ready. Will you allow Ginevra to come to us, to guide him?”

  “She is untrained herself,” said Joe. “Until recently, none expected her to have the power to hold the position of heir.”

  Still, I said nothing. Until recently, Ginevra had been a changeling, as had her two sisters. Of the three of them, she was the only one to display the magical strength necessary to be considered a Princess of Cats.

  Tybalt looked relieved. “That, old friend, is something I can assist with. No one will challenge a sitting regent who has held the position for less than seven years, who has a kitten in their keeping. It isn’t done. Let her hold the throne of Dreaming Cats while Raj continues his education, and let it be her education as well, until I am ready to reclaim my place and boost him toward his birthright. I will send her back to you better prepared to follow you, and perhaps better inclined to listen, after a time spent in my company.”

  Joe hesitated. “It’s her decision,” he said finally. “She gets to be the one who says yes or no. I won’t trade my daughter, even for a little while, without her full consent.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” said Tybalt, and smiled. Openly, honestly, smiled. I felt some of the tightness around my heart give way.

  Ginevra would take Tybalt’s place while he dealt with the business of getting better. Putting a Queen of Cats in charge of holding the throne wouldn’t require him to relocate or the Court to move, not the way putting a new King in that position would, and he would be able to help her without actually being in charge of her. He would be able to recover.

  We still had problems to deal with. Gillian needed to adjust to her new life; Janet and I needed to talk about what it meant for her to be my grandmother, and immortal, and human. Jocelyn’s fury proved that I needed to start finding a way to rebuild Home, or something like it, for the changelings of the Mists. But we were alive. We could have those conversations and make those choices, and that was more than I’d expected at the beginning of all this. We were alive, and we were moving forward. As Tybalt slipped his hand back into mine, that felt less like a good thing and more like everything.

  It felt like a miracle. So I held on tight, and I didn’t let go. You don’t get many miracles in this world. When one comes along, it’s up to us to watch over them. It’s up to us to watch them unfold.

  I stood in the Court of Cats, listening to two Kings discuss how to move forward, and I knew I was witne
ssing a miracle, and I knew that one way or another, we were going to be okay.

  We really were.

  Read on for a brand-new novella by Seanan McGuire:

  SUFFER A SEA-CHANGE

  Nothing of him that doth fade,

  But doth suffer a sea-change,

  Into something rich and strange . . .

  —William Shakespeare, The Tempest

  ONE

  December 22, 2013

  I COULD HEAR, but I couldn’t move, not even enough to open my eyes and see what was happening. Toby—my mother—was screaming, and some terrible beast was roaring, and I was burning up, I was on fire; somehow everything I was and everything I knew how to be had been transformed into living flame, eating me up, eating me alive, and I wanted to be screaming, too, and I couldn’t, because screaming meant motion, and I was never going to move again.

  Someone scooped me into their arms, where I dangled limp and lifeless, a girl made of nothing but the agony of flame. The someone ran, taking great, loping strides that bounced me like a rag doll, ending with a great leap that echoed through my entire body. Then hands were touching my cheeks, my throat, searching for a pulse, and I knew—even with my eyes closed—that they belonged to my mother.

  I’m sorry, I thought, and this is your fault, I thought, and both those things were true.

  “What did you do?” Toby asked, voice low and tight and filled with despair. “What did you do?”

  “Either you’re a liar and you’ll restore your child, proving you can do the same for me, or the human brat will die, as she should have done the moment she rejected our world,” said the woman who’d been holding me here, that terrible, beautiful nightmare of a woman. “I have done nothing wrong.”