Once Broken Faith

by Seanan McGuire

  What I wasn’t expecting was for Sylvester to whirl before anyone else had a chance to speak, and say, in a low, grating tone, “You have insulted the honor of my household, sir. I will see you on the dueling grounds at dawn.”

  Duke Michel stared. I stared. For one shining, bizarre moment, we were united. Then Michel turned to the stage, and the moment was over.

  “I’ve insulted no one,” he said. “Duke Torquill insults me by claiming insult when none was offered. I simply asked a question.”

  “A question you had already asked, if in a different form, that you posed without permission to a knight sworn into his service,” said High King Sollys. He sounded almost bored, like this sort of disruption was to be expected, but was still beneath his notice. “How was that not an insult? You continually call the honor of a member of his household into question, and now he wants recompense. His claim is supported. The insult is valid.”

  Duke Michel looked stunned. Sylvester looked smug. I gave serious thought to how much trouble I’d get in if I started knocking people’s heads together. I couldn’t tell whether Michel was so prejudiced that he didn’t realize what he was doing, or whether this was a calculated means of keeping the attention of the conclave focused on the wrong thing: me. The elf-shot cure was what mattered here, not my honor.

  “Sir Daye is a hero of the realm and a valued part of my court,” said Sylvester, tone turning deceptively mild. “Defending her honor is only a fraction of what I, as her liege, owe to her. Bring your second, Michel. Bring your sword. And prepare to learn the error of your ways.”

  “Now that this has been settled, please, Duke Torquill, if you would continue in your petition for understanding?” Maida settled deeper into her throne, posture reflecting disinterest that I had absolute faith she didn’t feel. No one could slouch that insouciantly without intent.

  “My apologies, Your Highness,” said Sylvester, switching his attention back to the stage and offering the High Queen a quick bow. He was bowing so often that he was starting to look like one of those ballpark bobblehead dolls. “I have given my wife’s pedigree so that you’ll understand what we have faced, what we have endured, and what we have risen above.”

  The Luidaeg, who had been standing throughout the discussion, sank back into her seat. Her eyes were clear and green and filled with shadows.

  “My sister, September, is dead. My brother, Simon, lies elf-shot and sleeping, and will stand trial for his crimes against me when he wakes—crimes which, once, would have carried the penalty of elf-shot.” Sylvester’s mouth twisted like he was trying not to smile. If he had, it wouldn’t have been a gentle expression. “Who knows what the penalty for kidnapping and treason will be now? My only child and heir, Rayseline, also lies sleeping. They’ll wake within a few years of each other if allowed to slumber out their spans. How is that fair, I ask you? When my brother the criminal and my daughter his victim must sleep through the same number of years, must miss the same portion of their lives? My counterparts from the Golden Shore make a true and valid point—that we endanger the weakest among us if we distribute this cure but do not also ask that the use of elf-shot be reduced. So why not take that additional step? Restrict the use of elf-shot to the field of war and to the punishment of those who must make reparation for what they have done.”

  “I would speak,” said Dianda.

  Several heads turned in her direction, Sylvester’s included. He looked briefly bemused. Then he bowed again, and said, “I yield the floor.”

  “Then speak,” said Arden.

  Dianda rose from her wheelchair, fins and scales melting into legs as her gown, previously bundled around her waist, fell to cover her to the ankle. It was a striking, elegant movement, and I wondered how often she’d practiced it before she’d managed to get it right.

  “I’m here to represent the Undersea,” she said. Her voice was level, calm; regal. She sounded like the reigning monarch she was, and it was more than a little jarring. Dianda was meant to be punching people and gleefully threatening everyone in range, not standing there giving her credentials. “We do things differently below the waves, as some of you may know. We’ve never stooped to the use of elf-shot. A sleeping prisoner must be housed, kept safe, protected; better to keep them awake and allow them to understand what they’ve done to earn their punishment. I have two questions for you, nobles of the land. First, if the Undersea can do without elf-shot, without a weapon that turns napping into imprisonment, why can’t you? And second . . . are you not regents? Are you not the rulers of your lands? How is it that this cure can’t be used as an opportunity to ban elf-shot entirely? Oberon’s Law allows for death on the battlefield. If you feel a war is so warranted that it can’t be avoided, carry real arrows. Pay for your convictions.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” snarled the King of Highmountain, jumping to his feet without being recognized or granted permission to speak. “The humans and their ilk aren’t banging on your door, stripping away your protections by the hour. We can’t afford to let our people die on the battlefield.”

  “Tell that to the coral reefs, to the whales on the brink of extinction,” said Dianda. “Tell that to the dead and dying places in the sea. The humans live alongside you. They shit on us.”

  “If you can’t afford the deaths you’d risk, perhaps you can’t afford to go to war,” said Patrick mildly. He didn’t rise. Technically, Dianda was the one with authority to speak here: he was just the consort. Still, no one cut him off as he continued, in that deceptively mild tone, “I was raised in the Westlands; I moved to the Undersea after I was married. It was a bit of a culture shock, going from a world where elf-shot allowed us to cut each other down while pretending our hands remained clean to one where every battle was paid for in blood, but I came to see the sense of it. When the Undersea goes to war, the seas bleed. It’s much less casual.”

  “May I speak?”

  I stiffened. The voice belonged to Tybalt.

  Dianda glanced in his direction, looking only faintly annoyed. She didn’t like many land-dwellers, and as a mermaid, she didn’t think much of cats. But she and Tybalt were reasonably well acquainted, and she liked me; this might have been one of the only times when our association put him in better social shape, not worse. “I yield,” she said.

  “Then speak,” said Aethlin.

  Tybalt rose, fluid and elegant, as Dianda sat. “The Cait Sidhe have never used elf-shot,” he said. “I’ve heard the Divided Courts refer to us as brutes and barbarians—I’m sure no one in this room would ever speak of the Court of Cats in such terms, of course, but I must speak as truly as you do, and I have heard these things—but to us, the helplessness elf-shot enforces upon its victims has always seemed the more barbarous thing. As the Duchess Lorden says, you must store them, protect them, shield them, and do it all for a century’s time, and for what? So you can say you are not killers? We go to war to kill. Admit that, and let the cure be shared.”

  He sat. Arden rose.

  “We have much to consider, and the night grows old,” she said. “Your rooms have been prepared. My guards will stand watch alongside your own, to prevent tragedy striking us a second time. If you have any needs, please, relay them to my staff, and they will be met. For now, we are grateful for your presence, and we say good morning to you.”

  The members of the audience began to rise and head for the exit. I stayed where I was, watching them go, studying their posture and expressions as well as I could without staring. Some of them looked annoyed; others looked frightened, or pleased, or even amused. No one was so obviously murderous that I felt like I could point a finger and say: “there, that’s the one who did it.”

  Duke Michel of Starfall attempted to approach the stage, and was stopped by two of Arden’s guards, who moved smoothly from the wings to stand in front of him. The spells that shared everyone’s words with the room must have been dispelled or put o
n hold by Arden’s farewell, because I couldn’t hear what he said, only see his frustration as he wasn’t allowed to get any closer to the people in charge. The rest of the delegation from his kingdom was leaving. Finally, frustrated, he turned and went after them.

  Of the four people seated on the stage, only Siwan rose and left with the rest. Arden’s guards closed the door after the last of the audience was out. Arden herself held her position for a count of five, shoulders locked, chin up, the picture of a queen. Then she collapsed onto her throne, curling her knees against her chest and putting her hands over her face. “I need a drink,” she said, voice muffled by her hands. “And then I’m going to need a drink for my drink, so the first one doesn’t get lonely. Fuck it, just give me the bottle and walk away.”

  “I think you’re doing very well,” said Maida, sounding amused. Her gaze went to me. She sobered, amusement fading. “Sir Daye. Would you come here, please?”

  I’d been waiting for this summons. That didn’t mean I was happy to hear it. I stood, brushing off my pants like that could take the smell of blood away, and walked toward the stage. Quentin followed. Technically, he hadn’t been invited, but as my squire, the lack of an explicit “come alone” meant he was allowed to accompany me anywhere I went. He was supposed to be learning by watching what I did. Hard to do that from a distance, no matter how much I might sometimes wish otherwise.

  Maida’s gaze flicked to Quentin. She wanted him here less than I did. I could understand that. She didn’t tell him to go. I could understand that, too, and I was grateful. Being his mother gave her no authority over him when he was acting as my squire. Being High Queen gave her plenty of authority—it just wouldn’t have been appropriate for her to exercise it.

  “Did you tell the assembly everything you knew of King Robinson’s death?” she asked.

  “Mostly,” I said.

  Aethlin raised an eyebrow. “It’s amazing how you can find a response other than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a question that shouldn’t be that complicated.”

  “Nothing about this is uncomplicated,” I replied. “I told the assembly everything in broad strokes; I left out the details. King Robinson didn’t smell the magic of whoever attacked him, but he heard a sound like tin foil being ripped, and he felt a small amount of disorientation. I’m wondering if we have a teleporter playing silly games.”

  “Tuatha de Dannan don’t make a sound when we open portals,” said Arden.

  “No, and he didn’t feel cold or shortness of breath, which means he wasn’t pulled through the Shadow Roads,” I said. “That rules out the Cait Sidhe. I’m pretty sure he’d have noticed if it had been another Candela messing with him. How many types of teleporter are there in Faerie? Roughly?”

  “No one knows,” said the Luidaeg. I glanced over my shoulder. She was still seated, slumped in her chair like the bored teenager she sometimes resembled. Her apparent age was as fluid as the rest of her. It was jarring how young she could look. “If all the descendant races were still out there, it would be dozens. But some of them have died out. Some have been slaughtered. I haven’t seen an actual Aarnivalkea in centuries. They were never that common to begin with. I think the Lampads are still around. Maybe. It’s hard to say.”

  “Did no one ever think to keep track?”

  The Luidaeg lifted her head and looked at me. Her face was young, but her eyes . . . those were very, very old. “We kept track of our own children, October. We did the best we could. Look how well that turned out for me.”

  There was a momentary, uncomfortable silence. The Luidaeg wasn’t widely associated with a single descendant race, because most of her children and grandchildren were dead, killed by merlins who’d been armed by her sister. The Roane were on the verge of extinction. The Luidaeg, in her grief, had been holding herself apart from them for centuries.

  Maybe keeping track wasn’t that easy after all.

  I turned back to the waiting monarchs, all three of whom looked concerned, in that “I am in a room with an unhappy Firstborn” way, but none of whom looked like they understood. The Luidaeg’s status as mother of the Roane wasn’t commonly known. For the first time, it occurred to me that Quentin would be carrying an awful lot of secrets when he took the crown. Whether that would make him a better king was yet to be determined.

  “So there are options for who could have been messing with him, if that was even what was happening,” I said. “How do you want me to proceed?”

  “We have a king-killer among us,” said High King Aethlin gravely. “You’re known as a king-breaker. If we don’t want people to assume that you’ve escalated—which we don’t—you’ll need to find out who did this, and avenge King Robinson.”

  “I already got that far on my own,” I said. My own voice was flat. This wasn’t what I’d been hoping would happen. “I can’t look for a killer and attend every minute of this conclave. I need three things from you.”

  “You may ask.”

  “I need permission to leave this room whenever I need to. I may not even enter it unless the evidence leads me here. I can leave Quentin to observe, if you like; he’s my squire, he’ll tell me everything that happens.” And that would nicely deal with both the issue of making sure the future High King understood what had been decided, and with my discomfort at the idea of stalking a killer through a half-familiar knowe with my teenage squire.

  “Um, what?” Quentin gave me a sidelong look. “Backup? You’re supposed to have it, or Tybalt looks at me like I’ve done something really wrong, and I hate that.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said the Luidaeg. “Unless another one of my siblings shows up, I’m staying and witnessing this whole shit show.”

  “Lowri,” I said. “Or Madden. Either of them has Arden’s trust, which means they can’t be questioned without questioning the queen. Or I can call May and have her come stand between me and whatever’s out there.” Having a completely indestructible roommate was occasionally useful.

  “Can’t do that,” said the Luidaeg, almost lazily. “A Fetch shows up now, all these people lose their shit. Never invite a death omen to a murder party.”

  May was not going to be happy to learn that she’d just been disinvited by the Luidaeg. I pressed on, saying, “I’ll figure something out. I’ll be careful. But I need your support in this.”

  “That was the first thing,” said Aethlin. “You said there were three.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The second is that I need to be able to remove people from the conclave to talk to them, with your authority, so no one can say, ‘No, I don’t talk to changelings.’ There’s a good chance our killer is here for the conclave. Before anyone takes offense, I’m also going to need to talk to the staff, and see whether anyone moved here from Angels, since our other option is that somebody with a grudge saw an opportunity and took it.”

  “You don’t think that’s what happened, though, do you?” asked Maida.

  I shook my head. “No, because if Arden had anyone on staff who could do what King Robinson described, I think I’d know about it. I could be wrong, which is why I still want to talk to them, but . . . it feels wrong. If I could ask for blood—”

  “No.” Aethlin’s voice was hard as he cut me off.

  I blinked at him. “But blood can’t lie. We’d know.”

  “And I would be the High King who’d betrayed all his subjects by requiring them to bleed for someone who did not hold their oaths. Blood can be used for more than just divination. It can be used to bind, to compel loyalty. I won’t order them to bleed for you.”

  I knew all too well how blood could be used to compel loyalty. That was Evening’s entire modus operandi. I still stared at him, fumbling for another way. “What if . . . what if they bled for you? You’re Daoine Sidhe.”

  “My blood magic is not as strong as it could be,” Aethlin admitted. “I would exhaust myself while learning nothing usefu
l. No blood. Not until you have cause to demand it.”

  Well, this was just swell. “Got it.”

  “What was the third thing?” asked Maida.

  “I sort of have a bad track record with kings and queens and accusing them of things and them getting pissed at me,” I said. “I need you to tell everyone here that they can’t leave until we find the killer, and make sure they know that I’m doing this because it’s my job, not because I think it’s fun to harass the monarchy.”

  “But you do think it’s fun to harass the monarchy,” said Quentin.

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “That’s not the point.”

  “Sir Daye,” said High King Aethlin, pulling my attention back to him. “Can you find the person who did this?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I can sure as hell try.”

  “Then you will have everything you’ve requested, and may the root and the branch grace us with the answers that we need,” he said.

  I nodded but didn’t speak. I was going to have to solve another murder.

  Goody.

  ELEVEN

  I SAT ON THE FLOOR of the quarters I was sharing with Quentin, my back to the door and my head in my hands. People were shouting in the hall outside. The process of telling the kings and queens that neither they nor their retinues would be allowed to leave the knowe until we found King Robinson’s killer was in full swing, and people were pissed. No one likes having their freedom restricted. As it turns out, fae monarchs like it even less than most. There would be privacy spells cast eventually, allowing everyone to have a little peace and quiet while they were in their rooms, but that was going to take time.

  At least Raj had already gotten out of here. At least May was at the house, and could feed the cats.

  At least.

  “They sure can yell,” said Quentin.