“I knew you would.” There was absolute conviction in his tone.
I glanced his way. “You never doubted me?”
“No.” Quentin shrugged. “I know better.”
“We all do,” added Raj.
I couldn’t quite manage a laugh, but I dredged up a small, sad smile. For the moment, that would have to be enough. I walked out of the water, offering my hands to the boys—to my squires, one official, and one not. Together, we walked back to Sylvester and his knights, and settled in to wait.
We didn’t have to wait for long. We were all sitting on the sand, watching Dean and Peter splash around at the edge of the water, when the surface of the water in the distance exploded upward in the strangely-familiar sight of a pod of Cetacea breaching. I recognized Anceline—and the green-tailed, black-haired woman who pushed away from her as they both fell back toward the water. I stood.
Almost everyone else did the same, until only the Luidaeg was seated. I looked at her curiously, and she shrugged. “I can’t intervene directly in the waters, remember? Go tell them it’s okay. Go tell them what comes next. I’ll stay here.”
“I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t. I raked my hands through my wind-tangled hair and went trudging down the beach, with the others close behind me.
We had barely reached the water’s edge when Dianda came running through the surf, a look of pure, electric joy transforming her features into something so beautiful it hurt. “Boys!”
“Mom!” shouted Peter and Dean, and threw themselves into her arms. They were still embracing when Patrick came walking more sedately out of the waves, water streaming from his hair, a corked bottle in one hand—Dean’s breathing potion. Magic was the only way a Daoine Sidhe could survive in the Undersea. That was what Dean had to look forward to: a life of depending on other people’s magic for his survival.
I watched Patrick join his family, the four of them holding onto each other like there was nothing else in the world, and felt the slow tendrils of an idea uncurling in my mind.
Quentin stopped next to me, tilting his head back so he could look in my direction. “I think we did okay,” he said.
“Say that again next week,” I said.
Dianda raised her head, cheeks gleaming wet with more than sea spray, and started wading toward us. Peter came with her, holding onto her arm like he was afraid one of them would wash away. “You found them,” she said, once she was close enough to be heard over the waves.
“I told you I would.”
“But you actually did.” She said the words like they were some sort of miracle. In a way, I guess they were.
“I did.”
Dianda paused, frowning. “Where’s Connor?”
This time, when the tears came, I didn’t fight them. I just let them fall, letting them say all the things I couldn’t bring myself to voice.
“Oh. Oh, I am sorry.” Dianda reached out, putting her hand on my shoulder. “The tides sing a threnody of sorrow for your loss.”
It was a ritual phrase, even if it was one I’d never heard before; it had the cadence and weight of something repeated many times. Somehow, it helped. I sniffled, nodding my thanks, and said, “So maybe this is a bad time to ask, but about that war . . .”
“I’ll send a message to your Queen at once. You have the eternal gratitude of my family, and of my Duchy. You will always be welcome there.”
“Cool. I can bring Quentin for a visit next time I feel like letting the Luidaeg use dangerous enchantments on me.”
Dianda hesitated before asking, “Was she here?”
I didn’t even have to look to know that the Luidaeg was gone. “Yeah. She helped us get into the shallowing where Dean and Peter were being held.”
“It would be nice to see her again,” said Dianda wistfully. “It’s been a long time.”
“About that. Why is she here? If she’s the sea witch, shouldn’t she be in the Undersea, and not drinking all the damn Diet Coke in San Francisco?”
Dianda looked startled. “She abandoned the Undersea centuries ago. I thought she would have . . . she’s welcome in the waters any time she wants to come home. She left us, not the other way around.”
“Why?” asked Quentin.
“The Roane,” said Dianda simply. “They were her descendants. Almost all of them died. And she left.”
I thought back on her behavior around Connor, and asked, “Did the Selkies have something to do with it?”
Dianda nodded. That was all she had to do.
I took a deep breath, preparing to change the subject. “Your Grace, I’d like to talk to you about Dean. I have some ideas, if you’d be willing to hear them. About how we can make relations a little better between the land Courts and the Undersea.” I looked toward Patrick and his sons. The boys were sitting on the sand now, Patrick hovering nearby, like he was afraid they’d all be washed away at any moment.
Dianda followed my gaze. “What do you have in mind?”
“It’s a little complicated, and we’re not actually done yet—Rayseline has been elf-shot. She’ll stand trial when she wakes up, but she wasn’t working alone, and the man I think she was working with is a trusted courtier in the Queen’s Court.” I raised a hand to cut off Dianda’s protest before it could begin. “I really don’t think the Queen was involved, but I need your help to prove it.”
“Help?” She tilted her head, assessing my expression. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, first, we call a man named Walther for a final bit of confirmation. And then we give Dugan a lot of rope, and see whether or not he hangs himself.” I smiled grimly, motioning for Sylvester to come closer. “Once Patrick’s done reassuring himself that your sons are okay, I can tell you what I’m thinking.”
Dianda nodded. “I think I speak for all of us when I say I truly can’t wait to hear.”
“Good,” I said. “I can’t wait either.”
THIRTY-FOUR
I WALKED INTO THE QUEEN’S COURT with an unconscious, emaciated teenage boy hanging limply in my arms. A hush fell, creating a bubble of silence that moved with me across the ballroom floor. Sylvester followed me, and his men followed him, all of them as silent and as solemn as I was. For once, the Queen had done nothing with my clothes, possibly because we’d all come courtesy of the Tuatha de Dannan shuttle service. Etienne would forgive me eventually. I hoped.
The Queen herself stood when she saw me coming, eyes narrowing as she marked our progress across the floor. “What have you brought me today, Countess Daye?” she asked, sinking slowly back into her throne. Her voice sent shivers racing along my spine, but she was holding back, not using it as the weapon that it sometimes was.
“I found the Lorden children,” I said, my eyes searching the crowd for Dugan. He was standing behind the Queen’s throne, just to the left of the dais. “They’re injured, but alive.”
“Did you find the perpetrator of this horrible injustice?” asked the Queen, tone implying that it had been no such thing. Her eyes went to the boy in my arms, watching him hungrily. She probably saw him as a bargaining chip against his parents. That, more than everything else, told me that I’d been right: the Queen wasn’t involved in their disappearance. She’d been just as much a patsy as everyone else.
“I did,” I said calmly. “Rayseline Torquill.”
“You can’t prove it!” shrieked an indignant voice behind me. I forced myself to keep looking straight ahead as everyone else turned. I knew what they’d see. A furious, rumpled Rayseline being held in place by her father’s hand, unable to break his grip enough to get away. We’d run the scene ten times on the beach to make sure we got it right, after my call to Walther confirmed that the sleeping tincture had been brewed by a Daoine Sidhe. “I didn’t do anything!”
Dugan stiffened, a look of pure panic flashing across his face.
That’s what I’d been waiting for. “If not you, then who?” I asked, still not looking behind me.
“Dugan! He s
aid it would work! He said—”
“Dugan?” said the Queen, cutting “Raysel” off. “She’s delusional.”
“Is she?” I kept my eyes on Dugan, watching him, rather than the Queen. “He’s unlanded Daoine Sidhe, Your Highness. Everyone knows they get hungry sometimes. They get . . . anxious . . . to improve their positions. So I looked a little deeper. It turns out Rayseline isn’t the only one ready to point the finger. There’s a Glastig named Bucer O’Malley who’d be happy to testify.” I smiled thinly at Dugan. “The Undersea is going to be very interested in finding out who was behind the kidnapping. They’ll need someone to blame.”
“Perhaps—” began the Queen.
“He said everyone would forgive us because we’d make things so much better!” The sounds of a scuffle came from behind me, “Raysel” trying to break away from her captors. “Tell her, Dugan! Tell her what you promised me! You swore! You said—”
“Shut up!” snarled Dugan. He vaulted himself onto the dais, grabbing the Queen by the hair before she had a chance to react. The crowd gasped. He pulled a knife from inside his tunic, yanking her head back and pressing the blade against her throat. The metal gleamed dully. Even as far back as I was, I could feel the waves of sickness coming off of it.
“Okay, I didn’t consider the possibility of iron knives,” I muttered. “Get down. I need my hands.”
The boy in my arms opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said. The voice was Quentin’s, even if the face was Dean Lorden’s. The illusion held as he let me set him on his feet. When Garm disguises something, it damn well stays disguised.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Dugan,” I said, stepping forward. “Regicide is not a party game.”
“You did this,” he snarled. “Everything would have been perfect without your intervention.”
“Yeah, I know, me and my meddling kids. I’m sorry I don’t have a dog. Now think about what you’re doing, Dugan. You didn’t kill anyone. You’re going to be in trouble, but until you drew an iron knife on the Queen—”
“I will not be made a fool of!” Dugan yanked the Queen’s head back farther. “You little mongrel bitch, prancing about like you belong with the nobility, just because your mother is a legend. You’ve never had to work for anything! I worked for everything, and I still had to make nice with abominations like you. I still had to watch as you wormed your way into the company of your betters.”
“But you didn’t kill anyone,” I repeated. “Maybe you hurt my feelings a little just now, but Oberon’s Law doesn’t concern itself with that sort of thing. No, you let Rayseline do all the killing, didn’t you? A crazy woman who might as well have been a child. Faerie failed her, and then you used her. You’re a real asshole, aren’t you, Dugan?”
“Shut up,” he snarled.
I took another step forward. “Still, you’re not guilty of murder—not unless you mixed the elf-shot Rayseline was using. You had to know it was a murder weapon disguised as a normal tool, right? If you didn’t make it, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about. All the other deaths since this conflict was declared have been in self-defense.”
The look of fury on Dugan’s face confirmed my suspicions. “You’re next, you half-blooded whore. You’re next, and I’m going to—”
We never found out what he was going to do. Etienne appeared beside him on the dais, yanking the arm holding the iron knife away from the Queen’s throat. The Queen ducked away, whirling to face her attacker, who was having issues of his own: Etienne had finally been given a target for his anger, and since Dugan was holding an iron knife, Etienne was no longer bound by the concept of the fair fight.
I winced. “See, Quentin, that’s why you should wear a cup before trying to assassinate someone.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Quentin said.
Dugan was a conniving asshole and a bigot. What he wasn’t was a very good hand-to-hand fighter. It took Etienne only seconds to get the knife from his hand and pin him to the dais. The Queen knelt, hissing something in Dugan’s ear, and he went limp, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. I didn’t know what she’d said. I didn’t want to.
Sylvester and the others walked forward to form a group around me. Garm waved a hand, dispelling the illusion that had cloaked Quentin in the form of Dean Lorden, and Dianda in the form of Rayseline Torquill. I looked toward her.
“Are you content that justice will be done?” I asked.
She nodded. “I am.”
“Good.” I turned back to the dais. Several of the Queen’s guards were there—too little, too late—and were carrying a catatonic Dugan away. Raising my voice, I asked, “Is this a good time to talk about canceling the war?”
The Queen’s attention snapped to our motley lineup, eyes widening as she took in the changes among our group. Patrick moved to stand beside his wife, no longer disguised as one of Sylvester’s knights. “I suppose it should be, shouldn’t it?” she asked, tone somewhere between amusement and bitterness.
“Saltmist is willing to stand down,” said Dianda. “Our sons have been returned. The land has shown good faith, and we believe that you were not involved in their abduction.”
“How kind of you,” said the Queen. “What if the Mists will not stand down?”
“Then I guess we go to war,” I said. “Do you really want to be the one that makes that happen, Your Majesty? Over a problem that one of your own courtiers started?”
The Queen hesitated.
I took advantage of the pause, jumping in to say, “I have a proposal. A way for both land and sea to show their willingness to maintain the peace.”
“And what is that, Countess Daye?” asked the Queen wearily. She sat on her throne, eyeing me with deep suspicion. “Would you take my throne for them?”
“No. Mine.”
The Queen clearly hadn’t been expecting that. She sat upright, demanding, “What?”
This was it: the big plan. I took a deep breath. “I never asked to join the nobility. It’s not something I’m prepared for. But the sons of Saltmist . . . they have been prepared. They’ve been trained. Patrick Lorden was a noble of the land before he left for the Undersea. I propose Goldengreen be granted to Dean Lorden, to bring unity to the land and sea. How can we be divided, when our children can move between the realms?”
The Queen hesitated, glancing around the Court. Every eye was on her. The purebloods and nobility, who’d always hated having a changeling Countess in their Kingdom. The guards, who would be the first to die if she pressed for the war to go forward. I was willing to wager that what she found in those gathered eyes was a lot of support for my plan, and none at all for her damned war.
“Is this acceptable to Saltmist?” she asked.
“It is,” said Dianda.
I smiled. We’d already discussed my requirements for giving Dean the county. Marcia had to stay on as his Seneschal, and none of Lily’s people could be turned away. The bargain with the pixies and bogeys had to stand, since it was really their knowe, not mine. He’d agreed to every one of them before we left for the Queen’s Court, leaving Dean and Peter to return to Saltmist with Anceline and the others.
“Then I suppose there are no objections,” said the Queen. “You win. Again.”
“It’s not about winning. It’s about doing the right thing.”
“Call it what you like. Goldengreen will pass from you, and you can return to the servitude you so clearly desire.” She turned her attention to Sylvester. “I apologize for returning her to your care.”
“I can manage her,” said Sylvester mildly. “I’ve had a measure of practice.”
“I’m tired.” The Queen stood. “Court is done. You may all go.” Then she was gone, leaving a haze of rowan-scented smoke floating around the dais.
I let out a breath. “Well. That wasn’t so bad. I mean, beyond the attempted regicide and the part where I just pissed the Queen off again. Let’s get out of here. I need coffee in the worst way.” I needed coffee, and to cry until my chest
stopped aching. Somehow, coffee seemed like the more achievable of those two goals.
“Why am I not surprised?” asked Sylvester. He clapped an arm around my shoulders, and we walked, all of us, out of the Queen’s Court and into the sweet embrace of the mortal night.
THIRTY-FIVE
THE NIGHTS TRICKLED BY, turning slowly but inevitably into weeks. After the first mad flurry of activity—explaining the situation to Marcia and the pixies, introducing them to Dean, whose awkward pleas for guidance did more to smooth over the situation than anything I could have said; waiting by the phone for Cliff to call and tell me Gillian was safely home, and the police were looking for her abductors—everything sort of went numb, fogging into an endless stream of people offering their condolences. They were so sorry. Everyone was so very, very sorry.
You know what “sorry” does? Sorry doesn’t do a damn thing. They called my phone and they showed up at my door, they sent pixies and rose goblins and a dozen other, stranger forms of messenger, they delivered casseroles and cakes—like calories were somehow the answer to the ills of mortality? Who the hell decided that made sense? And none of it did a thrice-cursed thing. Connor was still dead. Faerie could endure until the end of time. I could burn out enough of my mortality to watch the sun die. And Connor would still be dead.
I spent a week in my bedroom, emerging only to get more coffee and to clear another bevy of people out of my living room. To be fair, May handled most of the ones who decided they actually needed to show up rather than sending a pixie; my friends understood why she was screening my calls, and everybody else could go hang for all I cared.
Quentin stayed at the apartment the entire time, leaving only when he had lessons on fighting technique or magical theory to attend. On those occasions, Etienne picked him up and brought him back, and he didn’t try to talk to me. Shadowed Hills was sunk deep in its own strange form of mourning—Raysel wasn’t dead, just sleeping . . . for now. Dugan’s elf-shot recipe contained a slow poison nasty enough to be one of Oleander’s creations. All we could do was hope that Walther would be able to counter it before it killed her.
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