“Let me,” said Connor. He released my hand and reached for the door handle, turning it—or trying to, anyway. It remained firmly shut. Connor scowled. “That’s weird. It’s supposed to open for family.”
I put a hand on his arm. “Connor, with everything that’s happened . . . do you really think Raysel would leave the locks open?”
“I guess not.”
“Let me try.” I stepped forward, ignoring Manuel’s startled stare as I rested my forehead against the door. “Me again,” I murmured. “Sorry, but I need another favor.”
Manuel snorted. “Quiet,” I said, sharply, before turning my attention back to the knowe. “Sorry about the interruption. Your Duchess is in danger. I know I’ve been asking a lot lately. But please, let us in.” I stepped back.
“Was that a spell?” asked Manuel. “I didn’t feel any magic—”
“Hush,” I said. Then I repeated: “Please.”
The door swung open, revealing the garden on the other side.
I cast a smile at the ceiling before grabbing Connor’s hand and running through the open door. Manuel followed us, demanding, “How did you—”
“Just run!” I said, passing the fountain. There were two smaller, freestanding gates on the other side. One would take us to Luna’s room, and the other would take us somewhere else in the Ducal quarters. I just didn’t know which was which. “Connor?”
“This way.” He pulled me forward, taking the lead as we passed through the gateway on the left and into a small, round room filled with lights.
The vast bed where Luna slept still dominated the room, but the rose goblins covering every surface were new. They were on the bed, the floor, even twining their way between the lamps and candles. Spike was curled in the middle of Luna’s chest. It raised its head as we entered, chirping a greeting.
I smiled. “Hey, guy. Good to see you.”
Manuel stopped next to me, and frowned. “Toby, where’s Luna?”
“She’s right here.” I stepped closer to the bed, a strange mixture of love and regret catching in my throat. I could see her breathe when I stood this close. She wasn’t dead yet.
“No, it’s not,” objected Manuel.
“Yes. It is.” I leaned down to touch her cheek. She wasn’t burning up anymore, but she was still warmer than she should have been. I understood Manuel’s confusion, because the woman in the bed looked nothing like the Duchess of Shadowed Hills. She looked like Luna, Blodynbryd daughter of Acacia and Blind Michael.
She was taller than the Duchess we knew, thinner, and more fragile-looking. Her skin was the alien white of new marble, and her hair was a long tangle of pink and red. The fox ears and tails she’d worn so proudly were gone, her second, stolen heritage burned away by the resurgence of her first. We might save her life, but we couldn’t save the skin she’d worn.
“I don’t understand,” said Manuel.
“You don’t need to,” said Connor. “Where’s Rayseline?”
“I don’t know. She said she was coming here.”
I straightened, turning to face him. “What did she say, exactly?”
“That she was going to see her parents. To get to the root of things.”
“The root of things?” I stared. Connor had gone milk-pale. “Oh, oak and ash. Come on!” I ran back out the door, almost stumbling as my feet hit the cobblestone path, and charged straight through the other gate. Connor was close at my heels, and Manuel wasn’t far behind.
Every child in Faerie learns the sacred symbols of our world. It’s the fae equivalent of Sunday school, packed with useless knowledge and bits of history that humans take for fairy tales. We’re taught to swear by the sacred woods, by Titania’s rose, and Maeve’s tree, and by the root and the branch—Oberon and his children. Oberon is the root of Faerie. By that same archaic, undeniable interpretation, Sylvester is the root of Shadowed Hills.
The gate led to a terraced hall, laid out like the walkway of a Spanish villa. Arches branched off to the left and right, but I kept running, following the curve of the main hall. Connor was gasping. He was close to the end of his endurance, but we couldn’t afford the risk of slowing down.
Manuel shouted, “Wait! Where are you going?”
“To Sylvester!” We were chasing blind again, but there was no other option. These were the Duke’s private apartments; Connor and Manuel didn’t know them any better than I did. Quieter, I muttered, “Come on, come on. We need the Duke.” If Shadowed Hills had ever been my friend—if a hollow hill could have friends . . .
A door opened to the left. I spun and dove through it, moving so fast I nearly fell before I’d finished taking in the scene in front of me.
The walls were adobe with deep insets every five feet filled with plumed gray-and-purple ferns, turning the room into an indoor garden. Wicker chairs irregularly placed around the floor created an effective barrier to swift movement; trying to run through them would mean tripping over them. Sylvester sat in one of those chairs, hands tucked between his knees, talking earnestly to Raysel. Raysel reclined in her own chair, nodding in time with his words, looking every inch the dutiful daughter.
Raysel wasn’t the real problem. That honor was reserved for the woman standing between them, honeygold hair falling over her shoulders in careful disarray, holding a tray out toward Sylvester. He smiled, murmuring something, and reached for a cup.
“No!” I shouted, and charged forward, shoving chairs out of the way.
“Toby?” Sylvester’s head lifted. “What are you doing here?” He sounded surprised and delighted at the same time, joy clearing the exhaustion from his voice. Raysel snarled soundlessly, the action going unseen behind his back. I didn’t miss it. I was never turning my back on her again.
Nerium’s expression was more frightening than Raysel’s. The amiable servitude slid out of her eyes like a knife sliding out of a sheath, leaving her expressionless and cold. Standing her ground, she flung the tray toward me. It didn’t fly well, but it did fly, spraying liquid in all directions.
“Hey!” I yelped, dodging. I was too slow: a goblet caught me on the shoulder, splashing my jacket and the side of my neck in viscous green. The liquid burned when it touched my skin. Behind me, I heard Connor bark in pained surprise. I didn’t stop. There wasn’t time.
“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Sylvester. I looked up. He was facing Raysel, his back toward the door, and Oleander was between them with a knife in her hand. The blade glistened in the light. She still wore a Hob’s face, but she wasn’t making any attempt to look like anyone but herself. The masks were coming off.
“Sylvester, get back!” Manuel flashed past me, still running. “Manuel!”
He heard me. I know he heard me, and I know he knew his former compatriots well enough to know what would happen if he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. He just kept running.
I was ten feet away and gaining speed when Manuel shoved Sylvester aside; his expression was frighteningly like the one his sister wore when she threw herself at death to save my life. Oleander lunged forward, burying her knife between Manuel’s ribs. He fell, taking the knife with him, and she found herself staring down the blade of Sylvester’s sword.
“Explain yourself,” he snarled.
She turned and ran.
Sylvester looked toward his daughter. She stared back at him, golden eyes wide and frightened. Rayseline was no innocent, but she’d been used, just like Manuel. The only difference was that she’d known what she was getting into.
“Raysel—” I began.
She whirled and ran after Oleander, moving with desperate speed. Sylvester watched her go, sword still naked in his hand. “Rayseline?” he repeated, like he’d never heard the name before.
I pushed past Sylvester and dropped to my knees, trying to roll Manuel onto his back. He was heavier than he looked—most teenage boys are—but I managed to hook my hands under his shoulders and flip him over. “Manuel?”
His eyes were open and glazed;
he wasn’t looking at me. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” It was a stupid question: the answer was sticking out of his chest. There wasn’t much blood. The knife formed an almost perfect seal against his skin, keeping his life locked inside. My own skin was burning from the liquid that splashed me, but I ignored the pain. Manuel’s danger was a lot more immediate.
“I’m fine.” He smiled. His eyes were getting more and more distant. “I’m really, really good.”
“Toby, is he—” began Sylvester.
“Get help!” I snapped, resting Manuel’s head on my knee. “Don’t talk. We’re going to get Jin, and it’s going to be okay. Just breathe until she gets here.” Connor came puffing up behind Sylvester, one hand clapped over his left shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was wet there; he’d clearly taken the brunt of Oleander’s attack.
Manuel closed his eyes. “Was that the Duke?” he asked.
Sylvester was still standing there, seemingly rooted in the spot. “Yeah,” I said.
“Is he hurt?” Manuel’s voice was fading.
“He’s fine. You saved him.” I looked back down, biting my lip as I saw how pale he’d become. “We’re gonna get you some help. You’ll be fine.”
“Liar,” he said, and smiled again.
“Just hold on. Sylvester, why are you still here? Why aren’t you getting Jin?” I sniffled. “Please, hurry . . .”
Sylvester knelt beside me. “Look at him, Toby.”
I glanced at the knife again and winced. Thick, nearblack blood was starting to leak out around the blade. Blood isn’t supposed to be that color. “What’s happening?”
“Was that Oleander?” Biting my lip, I nodded. Sylvester sighed deeply, putting his hand on Manuel’s shoulder. “Manuel, can you hear me?”
“Of course, my liege.” Manuel opened his eyes, forcing another frail smile. “Can I be of service?” His voice was fading in and out, becoming weaker.
“No, son, you’re fine; rest,” said Sylvester. “I have something for you.”
“We need to help him.”
Sylvester raised his eyes, looking at me. “There’s no help for him now, October. You know that.”
“There must be something!” Connor put his hand on my shoulder. I fumbled to take it, clinging.
“Oleander does her work too well. Let go.” Sylvester looked at Connor’s hand and said nothing, turning back to Manuel. “You’re going to die, Manuel. I’m sorry.”
Manuel licked his lips, whispering, “I betrayed you.”
“I know,” said Sylvester. “I knew as soon as I saw Raysel’s face.”
“She betrayed you, too.”
“I know. Hush, now.” He closed his eyes. “By the root and the branch, the rose and the tree, by oak, ash, yarrow, and thorn, I say you’ve served me well; by the moon and stars, by ice and fire, by willow, rowan, elm, and pine, I name you a knight of my service, bound to Shadowed Hills until Faerie is no more. What say you of this?”
For a moment, I thought Manuel had already slipped past answering. Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, he asked, “Really, Your Grace?”
“Yes, Manuel. What do you say?”
“Of course. Thank you, Your . . . ” He closed his eyes, sighing. I waited for him to take another breath and finish the sentence.
He never did.
THIRTY-THREE
SYLVESTER OFFERED ME HIS HAND as he stood. I laced my fingers through his, letting him pull me to my feet. Then I pulled away, stepping back to lean against Connor. The fae don’t age: purebloods stop when they hit adulthood, holding onto the illusion of youth forever. Despite all that, at that moment, Sylvester looked very old.
“I didn’t know he’d run ahead,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“Yes, you did.” Sylvester smiled sadly. “He’s been waiting for that sort of cavalry charge ever since his sister died.”
“I guess so.” I glanced at Manuel. He looked more asleep than dead, if you ignored the knife sticking out of his chest. “The night-haunts . . . ”
“They’ll come.” He bent to pull the knife free, not flinching at the gush of black blood that came with it. “Follow me, both of you. We need to be away from here before the guards arrive.”
“The guards?” I asked numbly. Manuel was dead. Paradoxically, I wanted to wait for the night-haunts. I wanted to see Dare again; wanted to apologize for sending her brother to join her so soon.
“Yes. Rayseline knows you’re here. She must have called the guards by now, and told them you kidnapped Connor and attacked me—Connor, it’s good to see that you’re well. I was concerned.”
“Sir,” said Connor, sounding pained. I glanced back. He was still clutching his shoulder. “Sorry I didn’t call. I was busy.”
“I can see that,” said Sylvester. He touched the wall. A door swung open, revealing a narrow hall. “Raysel is doubtless going to say October killed Manuel and possibly kidnapped you, Connor. She’ll claim I don’t know my own mind.”
I stared at him. “Sylvester, she’s your daughter. How can you—”
“Simon was my brother. How can I not?”
I bit my lip before I could say anything more and followed Sylvester into the wall.
Sylvester closed the door once Connor was through. “They won’t find us here,” he said, dropping the poisoned knife. “Raysel thinks she knows my halls better than I do. Half the plans were drawn with me watching over the architect’s shoulders, and yet she thinks she can sneak around without my knowing. Can I have the other knife?”
“What—oh.” I offered the knife I’d taken from Manuel. He took it delicately, dropping it beside the first. Then he turned and pulled me into a tight hug, pressing my face to his chest.
“Stop dying on me,” he whispered fiercely.
“I don’t do it on purpose.” His betrayal still stung. I hugged him back anyway. Angry as I was, I’d loved him for too long to let that come between us. There’d be time to yell at him for lying to me later, when we weren’t all in danger.
“I know you don’t. It’s still becoming a habit.” He pushed me out to arm’s length, studying my face. “Are you hurt?”
“A little scorched, but okay. None of the poison got in my mouth. Connor is—”
“Connor is fine,” said Connor firmly. “Just go on.”
“Right.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, Sylvester. I didn’t know—”
“I know.” He reached out to tuck my hair behind one pointed ear, and sighed. “You look so much like your mother. I’m sorry. Now come on.” He stepped back and started down the hall.
I followed him, shivering slightly; Connor followed me. When the silence got to be too much, I said, “I wasn’t sure Raysel was involved.”
“Of course she was.” Sylvester sighed. “I hoped you’d find it was someone outside the knowe, even someone outside my fiefdom altogether, because if it was someone on the inside, Raysel was involved. It’s that simple.”
“But how did you—”
“I didn’t; not until Connor vanished, and she took it as calmly as if a vase had been broken. If I’d known for sure—if I’d known anything for sure—I’d have stopped her.” There was ice in his voice. “Being my daughter wouldn’t have protected her.”
I glanced at Connor. He was looking steadily forward, face an expressionless mask. Hearing that your wife didn’t care when you vanished had to hurt, even if the marriage was strictly political. There was nothing I could say to make it better, and so I turned my attention to Sylvester. “We left the knives.”
“We can’t carry them with us.”
“Why not?”
Sylvester looked at me blandly. “Do you really want to wander the knowe with a poisoned knife when my daughter’s telling people you’re trying to kill me?”
Sometimes it’s impossible to argue with him. “No,” I admitted, “but that doesn’t make me happy about being unarmed.”
“Unarmed?” He laughed. “Toby, the day you’re unarmed, I’m givi
ng you the Duchy.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Yeah, but it’s accurate,” said Connor. I wrinkled my nose at him, and he smiled. It was a small smile. It still made me feel better about how he was taking things, and how badly he might have been hurt in Oleander’s attack. If he was being snotty, he was going to be okay.
Sylvester stopped, opening a small door. I looked at him curiously. He motioned for Connor and me to go through. When Sylvester gives a direct order, it’s best to follow.
The room on the other side of the door was large but seemed small, since it was jammed past capacity with swords, spears, and other instruments for making people die. I stopped, staring. Connor did the same. Sylvester knocked him into me as he came through the door, nearly sending us both sprawling.
“We’re in the armory?” I said. “You just said I shouldn’t be armed!”
“No: I said you shouldn’t carry Oleander’s knives. I didn’t say anything about being unarmed.” Sylvester turned to select a sword from the wall. It was a delicate thing, with a hard, gleaming edge that promised sharpness. A trail of brambles and wild roses was etched near the hilt—the sort of ornamental touch Faerie has never been able to resist. The purebloods would carve pretty pictures in the sky if they could find a ladder long enough. “This should do. Not too heavy, but you have enough muscle in your shoulders that I don’t want to give you something too light, either.”
“I don’t know how to use a sword,” I protested.
Connor snorted, taking down a bow for himself. “If you can use it to break something, you’ll figure it out.” I shot him a look. He grinned.
“You did well enough with Blind Michael, and it’s time you learned,” Sylvester said implacably, pressing the hilt into my hand. “Hang on. I’ll find you a scabbard.”
I studied the sword, feeling the weight of it as Sylvester moved away. I’ve watched people fight with swords for most of my life, but I never got past the “swing it like a baseball bat and hope for the best” stage. Etienne gave me lessons. Three of them. Then he said I was a menace and refused to teach me anything more for fear that I’d slice his head off. Still, if Sylvester said it was my sword, it was my sword.
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